Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
WARREN
God. Damn. Fucking. Flowers.
Which type, I don’t know, but I’ve spent way too much time trying to work out the scent of Harriet’s perfume. Maybe it’s all her.
Not daisies.
Definitely not lilies.
Peonies, perhaps? Or roses?
I was teasing myself when I pressed my lips to her forehead.
The last time I was that close to her was in my dreams, only there, my mouth doesn’t meet her forehead.
They find her lips, eager and delicious.
Little moans and whimpers. A floral scent, tantalizingly feminine and seductive. Sweet apple and mint on her tongue.
I throw my bag onto the bed and inhale slowly, willing the real and imaginary versions of her away.
Overall, the night went brilliantly. Everyone adores Harriet.
How could they not? She complimented my mom on her cooking while joking about how terrible she is herself.
She listened to my dad drawl on about the biggest catch of the season without looking bored once.
She even sat on the rug with Freddie, both of their heads lowered as they colored together.
To put it simply, the night was perfect—she was perfect. Then, she had to ask questions I didn’t want to answer. Completely reasonable questions. It wasn’t the first time, either. The other week, she asked if I’d be working any late shifts over the holidays.
No would be the most straightforward response, but it could lead to why, and Harriet doesn’t know about my suspension or the terms surrounding it. Shame, disgrace, whatever you want to call it; telling her the truth is a bitter pill I’m not ready to swallow.
Glancing around my old bedroom, a wave of nostalgia hits me.
My parents have had an empty nest for years, yet they still refuse to redecorate our rooms. Nashville Knights memorabilia lines all four walls and the freshly made bed.
I was football crazy growing up, even got a full scholarship playing at the University of Tennessee. It was never the dream to go pro.
Saving lives was.
I stretch out my spine, ready to call it a day. Harriet’s room is next door, and at the sound of light footsteps outside, now might be my only chance to catch her alone.
Instead, the irritating face of my brother greets me.
“Whoa.” He raises his hands to stop me barreling into him. “What’s the rush?”
I shove him away.
“Sooo…” he drawls. “Harriet’s a lovely girl. Mom’s really taken to her. And Dad.”
“Yeah, yeah, she’s great.” His tone is far from tactical, and I see right through his act. “What’s your point?”
He shrugs casually. “Nothing.”
“Good. Keep it that way.” I take two steps past him before his next words stop me.
“Only you seem really taken by her too.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “She’s…a friend. The mother of my unborn child. We’re trying to build a good foundation as co-parents before the baby arrives. That’s all there is.” I lower my voice. “Do not start looking into this too closely.”
Doing a pathetic job of looking aghast, he points at his chest mouthing, Me?
“Yes. You. The same person who’s tried setting me up on dates with random women for the last two years. I’m not interested in anything romantic with her or anyone, so if you could quit getting into cahoots with our sister and mother, that’d be much appreciated.”
Ben’s typical argument hangs in the air, ready to make itself known.
It’s been years.
Do you really want to spend your life alone?
What have you got to lose?
Everything.
It’s the same old shit, and I’m bored senseless. Before he can verbalize whatever nonsense he’s concocting behind his skull, the doorhandle to Harriet’s room rattles.
I shove Ben toward the stairs. “If we’re done here, kindly fuck off.”
“Smooth, brother. Very smooth.” His cackle descends with him downstairs.
The door opens, and Harriet creeps into the hallway. My heart fucking stops, reboots, then falters all over again.
She slaps a hand to her chest once she spots me. “Jesus, Warren! I almost peed my pants.”
Only, she isn’t wearing any pants from what I can see. A loose white T-shirt hangs off her shoulder, stopping mid-thigh. Rolled up to her shins are a pair of thick wooly socks. Cozy and sexy.
My gaze darts to her flushed face, and I realize I’ve been staring for way too long.
“I didn’t say good night. Or thank you,” I rush out.
Her eyebrows jump. “Thank you?”
“Yeah, for spending time with my family.” I drag my fingers through my beard. “I think they like you more than me.”
Her eyes go glassy. “They like me?”
I frown. “Isn’t that obvious?”
“No. I was worried about trying too hard or them thinking I’d tricked you into bed with me to steal the family inheritance because I birthed your heir.”
“That’s quite the imagination you’ve got. I’ll reassure everyone the family jewels are safe from your sticky, gold-digging hands.”
She slaps my bicep. “Shut up.” Then, a yawn takes over her face.
“I’ll let you get some sleep. Can I get you anything? Water? Blanket? Combination to the safe?”
My joke falls flat when her expression grows cautious. She fiddles with the hem of her T-shirt, looking up at me with doe eyes. “Can I hug you?”
The air gets sucked from my lungs, seizing my muscles.
Say no. Boundaries. Lines. Big fucking walls.
My vocal chords betray me.
“Yeah, Harriet, you can hug me.”
I’ve barely finished my sentence when her soft body crashes into mine. Instinctively, my arms wrap around her shoulders, tucking her in close, and because I’m glutton for punishment, I lower my nose to the top of her head and inhale.
Roses, definitely roses.
She burrows into my chest, as if starved of human touch. “This is nice.”
It’s fucking torture.
“Your family is wonderful, Warren.” She goes on, unaware of the war raging inside of me. “Today reminded me of my family. It made being away from them this year a lot easier. I can’t believe your mom got me a Christmas gift too.”
I stiffen, and Harriet notices the change in my body language. “What happened?”
Reluctantly, I pry her off me. “Wait here.”
I double time it to my room, snatch the poorly wrapped gift off the dresser, and return to where Harriet waits patiently. Not wanting to overthink it, I thrust it toward her. “Merry Christmas. Sorry it’s late.”
Her smile is reserved at first as she tears into the paper.
When the contents reveal themselves, her expression shifts.
Blooming bright like a winter sunrise over the smoky mountains, she beams at the small journal in her hands.
When she looks at me, the pure, unfiltered joy and beauty hit me square in the chest. Bullseye.
All I can think is, I did that. That smile belongs to me.
“A pregnancy journal?” Her fingers trace the foiled gold lettering.
Clearing my throat, I bob my head. “My sister had one. Never put it down. You can stick the ultrasounds in there. It’s for after the baby arrives too. First smile. First sneeze. First blowout.” I tap the cream, leather-bound book. “There’s even a section about baby’s favorite lullaby.”
She chews on her bottom lip. At first, I think she doesn’t like it—until I notice it wobbling.
“Ah, shit. I made you cry.”
“Well, yeah. If you keep doing sweet stuff like this, of course I’m going to cry.” She pokes my cheek, forcing me to look at her. “I love it, Warren. So much. I feel bad I didn’t get you anything.”
I snatch her wrist, wanting to remove her hand, and instead rest it against my jaw. “Nah. I don’t need anything. Seeing that pretty smile of yours is the best gift.”
A deep blush disappears behind the collar of her T-shirt, and my eyes catch on her pebbled nipples.
My cue to leave before I say or do something I’ll really regret.
Bending down, I press a chaste kiss to her cheek, taking one last hit the rosy scent. “Sweet dreams, Harriet.”
Twice in a day, I’ve had my lips on her.
Two times too many.