Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
WARREN
Three weeks have passed since New Year’s Day, and I’ve over-obsessed about every detail ever since I woke up with a soft body pressed into me and long, blonde hair tickling my nose.
A tsunami of emotions came rushing toward me. Wave after wave of shame attacked me from all angles, forcing me to get away from her, and my parent’s house.
A five-mile run burned away some of the humiliation, leaving me to question one thing.
Why did she stay?
In my line of work, there isn’t room for error.
Watching your crewmate’s back. Checking your equipment is satisfactory. Paying attention to your surroundings.
One slip, and everything can change.
Over the years, the theory has crept into my personal life too.
And that night was a monumental fuck up.
Had I been fully aware of what was happening, I would’ve told her to leave, not stay and comfort me.
She should’ve walked away, leaving me to my demise.
The simplest but my least favorite, because despite all the vitriol over my moment of weakness, having her beside me, delicate fingers intertwined with my rough ones… I liked it.
Her calm to my storm.
Years ago, before my PTSD diagnosis, intense, vivid nightmares were a nightly occurrence, to the point they left me too exhausted and shaken to attend work or carry out daily tasks. These days, they pop up every few months but are still as intense.
To Harriet’s credit, she didn’t utter a word when she appeared for breakfast. Once we said goodbye to my family and I drove her back to Iris Meadows, our conversation was brief and light, as if she knew instinctively what I needed.
Since then, we’ve spoken almost every day. It’s been nice, and while the idea of seeing her again leaves me on edge, I miss her, which isn’t an emotion I’ve felt toward another person in a while. Even my family can be a lot sometimes.
Today, I had another session with Kevin. Harriet wasn’t mentioned, but we discussed my recent night terror and the potential triggers. Sixty minutes later, my brain was fried, and I was emotionally drained, wanting nothing but to collapse on my sofa and sleep for an eternity.
Unfortunately, my calendar is booked, and I’m meeting with Harriet—and her friends—at the Smokey Barrel. It’s only fair, considering she’s met my family and hers are in New England, but I can’t imagine her friends are too ecstatic to meet me.
I pull up in the parking lot of the distillery, where Harriet and her friend Parker work—“the firecracker,” as I’m told—whom I should expect a grilling from.
Talia, “the lawyer,” and Margot, “the florist,” will also be there.
I remember how protective they were of her at the haunted house, knowing full well they won’t take it easy on me this evening.
Talia is the only one I’ve officially met, which was not during my finest moments.
Fuck, they’re going to grind my balls to dust.
Turning off the ignition, I climb out of my truck and walk toward the large red-brick building.
Aged whiskey barrels line either side of the front entrance, and a distinct, sweet, malty smell hits me the moment I enter.
I walk through a small corridor until it opens in to a large warehouse-looking space, lined either side with more barrels and banquet-style seating in the middle.
The ma?tre d’ greets me with a smile, but I’m distracted by something across the room. Or someone.
Harriet stands with her friends by the bar, chatting away, wearing a pale blue fitted dress and boots. After weeks of not seeing her, this single glimpse arrests my central nervous system. What really falters my heart and turns my legs to lead is her laugh, floating through the busy space.
She catches me staring, and her mouth stretches even wider. Then, I see it. Still slightly hidden, but there, underneath the cashmere of her dress, is a small bump.
I suck in a sharp breath, dragging my eyes away from the swell of her stomach and the delectable width of her hips, forcing what I hope passes as a smile. She drifts my way, carefree and graceful, while the coils wound around my body vibrate and tighten.
“Hey.” She squeezes my wrist. “Are you ready for this? I told them to play nice, but they’re women on a mission, so if you need to fake an emergency, you have my permission.”
I’m left cold when her hand falls away. “I’m wearing my old college cup to protect the goods in case they get violent.”
Her gaze falls to my groin before darting up. “Noted. FYI, Parker goes straight for the jugular. You’ve been warned.”
Our easy banter shoos away the unease, and by the time we make it over to the three women, I’m ready for the inquisition.
We take a seat at the end of a table, order some drinks, and after some quick intros, the interrogation begins.
“So, Warren-Not-In-Marketing, what are your intentions with Blondie?” Parker dives right in, flicking her lavender hair over her shoulder and pinning me with a sharp stare.
“Tone it down.” Harriet jabs her in the rib.
Parker raises her hands, feigning innocence. Jokes aside, I’m here to win them over, not sit with my tail between my legs, spouting excuses.
Clearing my throat, I cast my gaze over them all.
“I intend to be there for Harriet and the baby in whatever capacity they need me. I fucked up, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there to support her during the first couple of months, but I’m here now.
We’re a team, and I’m grateful she’s given me a second chance.
If I fuck up again, the three of you have permission to punish me however you see fit. ”
Talia taps a finger to her lips. “I’m going to need that in writing.”
“You got it.” I nod firmly.
They’re all silent, sizing me up. It’s only Harriet who appears happy.
Margot, who wears her intimidation like an ill-fitting suit, cracks first. “I think he passed the test. Nice to officially meet you, Warren.”
“You’d make a terrible fucking interrogator.” Parker huffs. “It’ll do for now, but you’re still on probation.”
While Harriet’s tattooed friend is the most vocal, it’s Talia who studies me under X-ray vision, obviously not completely convinced. I can handle her. All that matters is Harriet’s trust.
“Okay then.” Harriet slaps her palms together. “Now that’s over with, let’s order some food before I gnaw my arm off.”
They yield their weapons, and thirty minutes later, we’re sharing hearty portions of dirty fries, stuffed jalapenos, and honey-whiskey chicken wings.
Parker gives me a history lesson on the distillery, Margot gushes proudly about her ten-year-old daughter, and Talia talks about her time as a medical malpractice lawyer.
Feedback crackles through the speakers, hushing the low chatter in the room.
“Evenin’, lady folk and gentle fellas. Thanks for joining us tonight at the Smokey Barrel.” A portly man, with bright red cheeks and a bolo tie close to cutting off his circulation, stands on the small stage.
“That’s Jimmy, the owner,” Harriet whispers, leaning into me. “Kindest soul you’ll ever meet.”
“We’ve got a special treat for ya’ll this evenin’,” Jimmy continues. “She’s sweet as pie, with a voice smooth as our finest whiskey. Give your biggest round of applause for Harriet Thomas.”
My head jerks to the left. Harriet stands from the table, accepts a guitar from a bartender, and loops the strap over her head.
“Forgot to mention I’m on the clock tonight.” She winks awkwardly, cute and endearing. “Any requests?”
Yeah. Quit being so goddamn perfect. “Surprise me.”
Eyes glued to Harriet, I follow her as she takes to the stage. Jimmy wraps her in a hug, staring at her proudly before she settles on a stool.
“How are we doing tonight?” She gives her attention to the crowd, who cheer and holler. “That’s good to hear. This is going to be a short set tonight, but our resident DJ will look after you until midnight.”
A tripod materializes by Parker, who props up her phone, ready to record.
I found Harriet’s social media page shortly after the wedding and spent hours watching, then rewatching, her videos.
Some were covers, but most were originals.
The number of followers increased every time I checked on her page, and I even sent it to the firehouse group chat, encouraging them all to follow “my friend.” Her determination to not put her career on hold during the pregnancy is admirable, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.
With the warm glow of the spotlight highlighting every flawless inch of her, her movements practiced to a fine art, she adjusts the guitar clamp and plucks at the strings.
Any other person, and I’d be uninterested.
With her, I’m captivated, under her spell, with total disregard for an antidote.
This is before we’ve gotten a taste of the sweet, sultry lyrics I’m growing restless for.
Then, she opens her mouth, and the world falls away.
This differs from the few minutes I heard her sing at the wedding or online videos. This time, I fully appreciate her beauty. The cadence of her voice washes over me like a calm breeze. The opening chords match the steady thrumming in my chest.
She sings about dewy fall mornings. Waking up beside a man with midnight eyes. Coffee on the porch while the hummingbirds zip through the air. Limbs tangled in bedsheets and kisses built for eternity.
“Isn’t she amazing?” Margot or Talia asks; I’m not really sure, because my attention is zoned in on the stage. I couldn’t look away if I tried.
Amazing is an understatement. This is a gift.
I ignore her friends, her coworkers, the strangers in the room—everyone in the universe. A starved part of me likes to believe she’s singing for me and only me.
Nothing compares to those three minutes and thirty-seven seconds.
A second longer, and my meticulously built walls would come tumbling down.
How wrong I would be.