Chapter 14
Fourteen
SOREN
The ride into Salem is a kaleidoscope of color and nerves, and, in my case, a mental battlefield of horniness and restraint.
I’ve spent the past three hours with ear buds in, flipping between different porn sites and Passionflix adaptations—thanks to Ava—and I’m taking notes for the spice scenes in my current WIP like a diligent scholar of smut.
The research has been solid—cinematic thrusts, poetic moans, a truly inspirational use of whipped cream—but every time I manage to get Captain Pembry to stand down, I glance up and see Ava in the front seat, then he perks right back up.
Looking beautiful, she’s riding shotgun, haloed in sunlight.
She’s the freakin’ goddess of romantic tension.
Neck exposed. Lip caught between her teeth.
Fingers tapping on her thigh. I’ve caught myself staring at her several times.
She’s seen me doing it several times, too.
Each time, our eyes connect. Those eyes of hers don’t know the power they hold.
I’m a weak man when it comes to Ava Bell.
The rental SUV buzzes beneath us as Fisher drums along to Mr. Brightside blaring from the speakers.
It might be his personal anthem. He’s at the wheel, sunglasses on, belting out every word with the confidence of a man born for the stage, or a karaoke bar.
Does Salem have one? That would be interesting.
Once we enter Salem, I take my earbuds out, close out the porn, and watch the town unfurl like a storybook—white picket fences, amber-leafed trees, and porches dressed for fall with garlands and gourds.
Ava leans forward, arms resting against the dash, posture relaxed in a way that tells me this place lives in her bones.
I gaze out the window. I don’t have to roll it down to know the air is different here. Cleaner. Even in the confines of the car, I taste it—coastal sea salt, rustling leaves, life unburdened. Obviously, it’s never been forced to carry the weight of pretending.
We pull into a gravel drive flanked by towering oaks and a front porch that’s been lovingly decorated for a Thanksgiving special. Wind chimes jingle, and two pumpkins perch beside a welcome mat that says: HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS.
The phrase feels less like a cute farmhouse quip and more like a multigenerational warning label, dipped in nostalgia and marinated in family history.
It might as well say, YOU DON’T BELONG HERE, PEMbrY. The thought flits through my mind before I can smother it to death, unwelcome and jagged—but true. I can’t help it. My past has a way of hitching a ride, even when I’m sure I’ve left it behind in a different zip code.
“Here we go,” Ava says with a tight smile.
The three of us pile out of the car, and the second my boots hit the gravel, the chill hits me too—crisp, edged with spice. It smells like November should.
I’m grabbing the last suitcase from the back when the front door swings open.
Before Ava even makes it up the porch steps, a woman who could easily be her older sister rushes out, arms wide. “My babies!”
Ava groans. “Mom, please.”
Too late. The woman has already engulfed her daughter in a hug, then whirls to face Fisher, who lifts her off the ground and spins her in a circle.
Then it’s my turn.
“Ava, introduce me to this strapping piece of literary meat,” her mom commands.
Ava pinches the bridge of her nose. “Mom, stop.”
Her mother waves her off.
“Mom, Soren Pembry.” Ava gestures to me. “Soren, my mother, Mandy.
Momma Mandy yanks me in for a hug. A mix of apple pie and Chanel No. 5 swirls up my nose.
“I’ve read all your books,” she supplies. “The pirate one drained my battery supply.”
“Mom!” Ava barks in horror. “What the hell?”
Her mother releases me. “I’m sorry. I’m just so excited to meet you.”
I flash her an appreciative grin even though I should probably feel a little awkward here. I’m used to women saying outrageous things about my books. And me.
Still, hearing it from the mother of the woman I’ve got a very real thing for? That’s a little different.
Accepting my praise with a gracious nod, I say, “Thank you, ma’am. I’m honored.”
“Oh, no, call me Mandy.” She smiles, swaying side-to-side.
The screen door creaks open again, and a tall man with a head of silver-streaked hair and warm, watchful eyes emerges. His jeans are total Dad jeans, and he’s wearing a quarter-zip that reads ‘Salem Innkeepers Association.’
“I figured I’d better come meet the man causing all the commotion.”
Ava brightens. “Dad, hi!” She launches into his arms, and the way she tucks against his shoulder shows years of safety.
He hugs her back just as tightly, his hand patting her hair in a rhythm that says mine, always mine.
“This is Soren Pembry.” Ava pulls back but keeps a hand on his arm. “Soren, my father.”
The introduction barely lands because I’m still watching them—how their smiles mirror each other.
Her whole face softens in his presence. Their connection doesn’t need words.
It’s an unshakable tether that’s held her together through every storm.
And it makes my chest ache with respect.
And maybe a bit of jealousy. I want to be that tether for her.
I wipe my palms on my jeans before reaching out. “Mr. Bell. It’s a pleasure.”
His grip is firm, eyes locked on mine the entire time. “Call me Tom. And welcome to our home. You got tossed into the deep end with this crew, huh?”
I chuckle. “It’s been a ride. Honestly, one of the best.”
Tom strikes me as a man who means what he says and listens twice as hard.
I take to him immediately, probably because he reminds me of the father I never had…
or the kind I always wished for. The one who didn’t vanish without looking back.
The one who didn’t trade blood for distance.
The one who didn’t leave a son wondering why he was never enough.
He claps my shoulder, then lifts the gravy boat slightly. “Hope you’re hungry. You’ll need your strength around here.”
“Come inside before your good looks freeze off,” Mandy says.
We roll our suitcases into the house. Fisher and her father shove them into a hallway to the left while Ava takes a right, and we’re met with a full-blown sensory ambush.
The living room wraps around me in plaid throws and soft armchairs, twinkling lights woven through garland that climbs the banister like ivy.
Every wall bursts with framed memories—smiling faces, graduation caps, baby feet, decades of haircuts—and the entire place is enveloped with holiday essentials, gravy, cinnamon, and something fried and life-affirming simmering in the air. My stomach lets out an actual growl.
Fisher comes up behind us and mutters, “Martha Stewart and Betty Crocker had a baby and let her redecorate with Ina Garten’s credit card.”
We’re barely two steps inside before the chaos swallows me whole, cousins coming in hot with loud hugs and perfume clouds, aunts who reek of spicy cloves, one named Aunt Hilda who is doused in eye-watering perfume.
They throw out unsolicited opinions, along with a rapid-fire of names that I immediately forget.
After only two minutes inside, my brain hurts. And I absolutely love it.
A rogue neighbor named June–who swears she’s a psychic and calls me “a brooding Capricorn with a restless third eye”–introduces herself.
And then there’s Brinley.
Ava points to a woman with a toddler fused to her hip. Two blur-speed boys circle her like caffeinated satellites.
The woman turns her head and yells across the room, “Do you need to go potty? You’re holding your penis!”
“That’s my cousin, Brinley.”
I choke on absolutely nothing.
Ava smiles sheepishly beside me. “Welcome to my family.”
Off in the distance, another small boy screams about poop and sprints down the hallway with a glowstick.
Bouncing the toddler, Brinley approaches, offering me a one-handed wave. “Hi! Sorry, we’re...a lot.”
I raise my hands in surrender. “I’m adaptable.”
Ava starts popping her knuckles. That’s the first time she’s done that, that I’ve noticed.
To help ease the commotion, I whisper something funny in her ear. “Might want to fashion those tinfoil hats, Bells. This is the kind of battlefield training no one’s prepared for.”
She smiles, then suddenly straightens. “Oh God.”
“What?” I brace myself for her answer.
“Uncle Marty’s mixing a fall cocktail.”
“I call it the Gallows Gulp,” Uncle Marty calls out, hearing her. He waves us over to the side bar that resembles more of an apothecary than a drink station.
“What’s in them?” Ava asks, skeptical.
“It’s pumpkin-spiced tequila with a splash of ghost pepper vodka and a floating eyeball candy,” he says proudly.
Ava narrows her eyes at the swirling orange concoction. “Halloween is over.”
“It’s never over in Salem.” Eyes twinkling, Uncle Marty grins. He adds a cinnamon stick with theatrical flair, then holds it out for me to take. “Witches don’t hang up their hats because the calendar flips. We marinate in spooky around here.”
I accept the glass, admiring how smoke billows out of the top. Ava snatches it out of my hand before I can take a sip.
“Absolutely not,” she says, shaking her head and placing the drink back on the countertop of the bar. “Learned my lesson last year when Marty’s drink made Fisher believe he could summon ravens.”
In that same moment, Fisher gets whisked away by the neighbor, June, for a tarot reading. He goes willingly, appearing mildly concerned yet intrigued.
And then the real showstopper arrives.
Who I can only assume is Ava’s grandmother struts into the room, wearing leopard-print leggings, has two rings on every finger, and wears a confidence that suggests she’s outlived at least three scandals and enjoyed every second of them, probably even started them.
She’s holding a wine glass in one hand and her sweatshirt proudly proclaims in sparkly letters: GRANDMA KNOWS BEST, DON’T TEST.