Chapter 25 Janie
TWENTY-FIVE
Janie
Warmth. That's my first sensation. Sunlight spills through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the tangled sheets.
Warren's arm lies heavily across my waist, his steady breathing brushing the back of my neck in a rhythm that makes me want to sink deeper into the mattress.
I don't move. Not yet. This moment is too fragile, like it might shatter if I disturb it.
I press my body into his, savoring the warm skin on skin, the smell of him in my bed. Without waking him, I study and catalog.
His body curls around mine, protective even in sleep. My mind drifts back to last night, the fire crackling, his hands gripping my hips, the way he pressed me against the rug without caring that we might burn.
I remember how he whispered into my ear while he washed my hair afterward, and the low reassurances as his fingers traced patterns on my skin until I drifted off.
My body aches in the best way. The tender spots where the rug burned my back only make the memory sweeter.
This is exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.
The thought slices through my contentment. We're playing with fire, and not just the kind in my fireplace. Blake. My parents. The damage I did by keeping his son from him.
But what if it could? What if this isn't just stolen moments and secret touches? What if—
The distinct crunch of tires over gravel cuts through my thoughts.
My heart lurches into my throat. "Shit!"
I bolt upright, nearly falling as I scramble out of bed. Warren stirs, but doesn't wake.
I rush to the front of the house and peek out of the window, pushing the curtain aside just enough. My stomach drops as I spot Blake's SUV in the driveway. He's not out, but he's in my fucking yard.
I run to the laundry room, grab the first clothes my hands find, which are inside-out leggings from yesterday's hamper and wrinkled T-shirt I wore to Beckett's soccer playdate. It smells ripe as I inspect it, but I don't have the luxury to go clothes shopping at the moment.
The doorbell chimes. Fuck.
The fabric stretches painfully across my raw back as I yank it over my head.
The doorbell chimes again. Three times in rapid succession.
"Beckett's signature ring," I mutter, fumbling with my wild hair, twisting it into a knot that won't stay. "Shit, shit, shit."
I glance in the hallway mirror. I look like I've been electrocuted. Or thoroughly fucked. Both true.
"Coming!" I call, my voice too high.
I pull my bedroom door shut, closing Warren in. He's completely oblivious to the Spanish Inquisition I'm about to face.
The moment I unlock the front door, Beckett crashes into my legs like a tiny cannonball.
"Mommy! I rang the doorbell seven times! Uncle Blake said I could!"
"It was three times, buddy," Blake laughs, following behind more slowly. His eyes do that thing, the big brother scan, taking in my disheveled appearance, sweeping the entryway.
"It was actually four," I say as I muss his bed head. He bends down and starts to riffle through his backpack. My mind races, wondering how I'm going to navigate this minefield with my brother.
"Aunt Cile made me pancakes with chocolate chips!" Beckett announces, spinning through the hallway. "And we built a fort and—"
Blake's gaze drops to the floor where Warren's boots sit neatly beside the welcome mat.
"Warren's here?" His tone is casual. Too casual.
My heart slams against my ribs. "He, um—he parked here last night." The lie is clumsy, but it's all I've got to offer. "Must've gotten a ride somewhere. I didn't ask."
Blake's eyebrow quirks upward as he nudges Warren's boots with his foot. "And left his shoes?"
"He mentioned needing to switch out." I force a smile, waving dismissively. "He must've forgotten them. Or he'll get them when he picks up his truck."
I'm rambling. Stop talking, Janie.
Blake studies me for a beat too long. I can practically hear his thoughts assembling the pieces.
"We had fun, didn't we, buddy?" He ruffles Beckett's hair, mercifully changing the subject. "Blanket forts, popcorn, probably way too much sugar. Sorry about that."
"Not sorry!" Beckett giggles, running toward the kitchen.
"Cile and I are heading out to get our Christmas tree with the kids." Blake pulls me into a quick hug. "You good?"
I wince when he pats my back right on a raw spot and nod against his shoulder. I say a silent prayer that he can't feel my thundering pulse.
Only after his car disappears down the drive do I realize my shirt is not just backwards but inside out, the tag sticking up beneath my chin like a flag of guilt.
I close the door and lean against it, exhaling for the first time in minutes.
"Mommy! Can I go swing?" Beckett bounces, his energy radiating from his small frame.
"Sure, baby. Let me just..." I gesture vaguely at my inside-out shirt, still trying to process that my brother nearly walked in on Warren and me.
The backyard swing set still has morning dew on the chains as Beckett climbs aboard, kicking his legs with practiced determination.
"Higher, Mommy! Push me higher!"
I comply automatically, my mind racing through scenarios of what could have happened if the front door had been unlocked, which happens more often than I care to admit. Especially when I've got my legs in the air, being fucked by my brother's best friend on the floor.
"Uncle Blake let me stay up until—" he scrunches his face, calculating, "—nine-thirty! We made a fort with all the blankets, and Emma kept falling asleep, but Tyler and me stayed awake making faces in the flashlight."
"Did you?" My hands push against his small back, sending him soaring.
He giggles, his head thrown back with pure joy. "And we had popcorn with M&Ms in it!"
No wonder he's vibrating with energy. "Have you eaten anything besides sugar today?"
"Uncle Blake made eggs, too." Beckett's attention shifts as quickly as his legs pump. "Can I watch Dinosaur Squad?"
"For a little while."
He leaps mid-swing, landing with the fearlessness of childhood, and races toward the sliding door.
I follow slower, my entire nervous system still trying to calm down. Inside, Beckett settles on the couch, already lost in colorful animation.
When I slip into my bedroom, Warren stands by the bed, a towel wrapped dangerously low around his hips. Water beads across his shoulders, trailing down the planes of his chest.
"Blake brought Beckett back," I blurt out. "He saw your truck. Your boots. He almost caught us."
Warren steps toward me, drops of water falling from his dark hair. "I heard commotion, so I figured I'd better stay in here. What did you tell him?"
"That you parked here and got a ride somewhere. But he didn't buy it. I could see it in his face."
Warren's hand finds my hip, steady against my panic. "Blake's too wrapped up in his own life to connect the dots. Especially on a Friday morning after Thanksgiving."
He pulls me against him, my clothes soaking up the dampness from his skin as his mouth lowers to mine.
I place my hand on his chest, creating distance. "You need to sneak out. I don't want Beckett seeing you come out of my shower, out of my bedroom."
"Janie—"
"Circle back. Knock on the door. Make it seem like you just arrived."
Frustration flashes across his face, his jaw flexing. "This is ridiculous. We're adults. He's four."
"We have to be careful. If everyone finds out like this, it won't be right. We need to decide what we're doing, and we have to share it on our terms. Please, Warren."
Warren’s eyes hold mine for a long moment before he nods, reaching for his clothes. A few minutes later, Beckett barrels into the foyer as the doorbell chimes, and Warren is standing there as if our morning together never happened.
"Can we decorate our house with fake snow?" Beckett tugs on my sleeve, eyes wide with anticipation. He's been begging for decorations since we saw the Christmas display at Walmart last month.
"We'll talk about it, B. It's still early."
The phone buzzes across the counter, Caleb Vance's headshot and hot pink bow tie fill the screen. My stomach sinks. Nothing good comes from a hospital call on a holiday weekend.
“Good morning, Caleb.”
His voice crackles down the line, tight with stress.
“We’ve got a situation with the Bransons.
Their son’s in pediatrics. He came in with an asthma flare.
Short staff today, he’s been waiting almost two hours.
Mrs. Branson is furious. She’s already threatening to move him to Miami Children’s and pull their membership and endowment. ”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. The Bransons’ name is plastered across half of our outreach materials. If they walk, it guts the program.
“Where’s Pope?”
“He and his family are in Denver. He won't be back on the East Coast until Sunday. Janie, they’re demanding someone from leadership right now. You’re the only one in town. I need you to get over there.”
I glance at Beckett, who’s halfway up a chair, tugging at the closet door for the Christmas boxes. Warren leans against the doorframe, his arms folded, watching me.
“Now?” My voice is sharper than I intend.
“It’s bad,” Caleb insists. “They’re saying if a doctor doesn’t see him in the next fifteen minutes, they’re done with CHG. You know how much they give us. We can’t lose this.”
I close my eyes for one beat, already grabbing my coat. “I’m on my way. Keep them in a private room if you can. Tell Mrs. Branson I’ll meet her myself. She knows me. I'll call Dr. Matthews on my way in.”
I end the call and find Warren’s gaze still locked on me.
“Crisis?” His tone is steady, but his eyes narrow slightly.
“Donor family. Their son’s having an asthma attack in peds, and they’ve been waiting too long. If they bolt, our entire outreach budget goes with them.” I shove my arms into my coat. “I have to go.”
Warren steps forward, his voice steady. "Go. I've got him."
"I'm sorry—"