Chapter 23 Janie #2
"We have big fans and tie sheets around them so they get really big," Tyler answers excitedly.
I meet Warren's eyes across the table. "Sure, buddy. That sounds like a perfect end to a perfect Thanksgiving."
Slowly, the rhythm of the day shifts. Plates get scraped and carried off, the kids thunder back upstairs, Dad and Blake settle into their thrones in front of the TV, and Mom retreats to the kitchen with her wine glass.
Football commentary hums in the background. This is my favorite part of Thanksgiving: the aftermath. The meal always ends before the day gets rushed, and then everyone drifts to their corners. It’s the quiet proof that we belong to each other, even when we’re not in the same room.
Maybe that’s why I love it so much. It’s the one day of the year when togetherness is simple, unforced. Safe.
I stack plates, balancing them carefully in my arms. The kitchen comes alive again when Warren follows me in, sleeves already rolled to his elbows.
“Let me help with those.” He reaches for a serving dish, and our fingers brush.
My heart stutters. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
We fall into our jobs without discussion. They work out naturally. Warren rinses, and I load the dishwasher. Mom smiles at us before slipping out to join Dad, leaving us alone with the gentle clatter of dishes and running water.
I watch him from the corner of my eye. The muscles in his forearms flex as he scrubs cranberry sauce from a platter. Water beads on his wrists, rolling down to disappear into his pushed-up sleeves. I've forgotten how to breathe normally.
"Thanks for having me. Dinner was amazing."
“Well, I can’t take credit for that. You’ll have to thank Margaret.” My voice comes out almost husky. “But I’m certainly glad you’re here.”
His hands pause under the stream of water. “Are you?”
The question punches straight through me. It isn’t casual. It’s five years of silence, a secret child, and the ache that still lives under my skin. It's a question of what we are doing.
I step closer, so close my shoulder brushes his. The innocent touch burns hot, sending sparks racing through me.
“You should come by later.” The words slip out before I can think better of them, my voice barely a whisper. “Sit by my fire with me.”
His hand stills on the dish towel. Slowly, he turns. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen, intense and searching, pinning me in place.
I don't look away. This is my choice. My pulse pounds in my throat, every nerve screaming with the risk I’ve just taken.
He nods once. A deliberate, silent promise that makes my stomach flip and my thighs press together under the tablecloth of pretense we’ve been hiding beneath all night.
The air between us hums, charged, the running water nothing compared to the current crackling in the space we’re not crossing.
“Anyone want coffee?” Mom’s voice cuts in from the hallway, breaking the spell.
I jolt back, fumbling a plate into the rack. We move apart, both suddenly too busy with dishes. But the promise lingers, heavy and electric, a fuse already lit.
Hours later, I arrange logs in my backyard fire pit, hands trembling slightly despite the warm evening. Beckett is at Blake's, tucked safely into his fort with his cousins, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and a bottle of cabernet.
The fire catches quickly, flames licking upward into the darkness. I pour two glasses of wine and settle into my deck chair, trying to look more relaxed than I am.
The soft crunch of footsteps on gravel makes me turn. Warren emerges from the shadows, moonlight catching on his profile. He's changed into a fresh t-shirt, hair slightly damp like he showered before coming.
My heart pounds so hard I wonder if he can hear it above the crackling fire.
He stands at the edge of the firelight, his hands tucked into his pockets. The flames dance across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. My mouth goes dry.
"I didn't expect you to walk around to the back." My voice sounds breathier than I intended.
"Backdoor guests are best," he says, smiling. He's smiling. He came.
A steady drum beat hammers between my legs. He steps onto the porch, lowering himself into the chair beside mine. Our knees almost touch, separated by mere inches that seem like miles.
I hand him a glass of wine. Our fingers brush, and I swear it ripples through my entire body.
"It's a beautiful night." I gesture vaguely toward the black sky scattered with stars.
Warren takes a sip, his eyes never leaving mine. "That's not why I'm here."
The directness startles me. No pretense. No small talk.
"Why are you here, then?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
He sets his glass down, leaning forward. His knee presses against mine, and neither of us moves away.
“Because I’ve spent weeks trying to forget the way you taste.” His voice is gravel now, low and rough. “And I’m done lying to myself.”
The fire snaps, sparks shooting skyward. Heat licks up my throat, spreading everywhere.
“I tried to stay away,” he grinds out. “Because I was angry. For your family. Because I wanted to hate you.” His knee presses harder into mine, his body leaning closer.
My pulse pounds so hard I can barely breathe. “And now?”
His hand twitches, close enough to brush mine. His eyes burn into me, dark and unyielding.
“Now all I can think about is you.”