10. Rachel
10
RACHEL
I scraped the last of the poison ivy vines off a healthy, green shrub, tugging them loose with a heavy-duty metal rake. I dragged them out, then shook them from the tines. They’d been flourishing in the bushes without me realizing it. In a way, it was a good thing Mom had called in the inspector. It would’ve sucked if some kid had found the hazard instead. Still, I wouldn’t be sending her a thank-you note any time soon.
I took a moment to breathe and mop sweat off my face. The heat index had hit ninety-two, and still Harris and I were outside working. Three o’clock on a hot Sunday afternoon should’ve meant napping under an umbrella on the beach or relaxing on the porch with ice-cold sweet teas. But, no. Harris was apparently a glutton for punishment. I myself had an entire house to contend with—beds to change, bathrooms to clean, laundry to do, and the groceries to tackle—but I’d come outside just to be close to Harris.
The past two days, the B&B had been filled to capacity. Some were families visiting Marines stationed on Parris Island. One couple was celebrating their tenth wedding anniversary with a romantic beach getaway. A man on a business trip had chosen my B&B over a chain hotel. His glowing Yelp review had swelled my chest with pride and made my weekend. Thankfully, though, they’d all left by noon. I was exhausted and needed the break—not that I was taking one.
While I was grateful for the business, the downside was that I had barely gotten to spend any time with Harris. He had opted to continue working on our to-do list while I took care of the guests and saw to the business.
One big thing had happened, though—Harris had moved out of the spare room and into my bed. It had happened without discussion, by mutual consent: I’d pulled him in by his belt and we’d fallen on the bed. After the lovemaking was done, he’d stayed. And he kept on staying.
Waking up with a man in my bed had been disconcerting…until the first time I saw him peacefully asleep, all the worry and care smoothed out from his face. God, he was gorgeous, and I loved having him all to myself in those moments.
My fierce fairy, he’d called me. On anyone else’s lips, it would’ve sounded goofy. Coming from Harris, it made me feel…seen. It made me feel beautiful and wanted and cherished. I loved how it sounded in our most intimate moments. Loved how he accepted everything about me…but my mind kept going back to that possessive my . Had he meant I was his and not anyone else’s? Or had he just been caught up in the moment? It felt like he’d claimed me, but was I reading too much into it? Gah! These pregnancy hormones were going to be the death of me.
I used a spray to keep the poison ivy from growing back. It had come packaged with a long plastic hose, and I appreciated how it allowed me to keep the distance. I already had on old sweatpants, a long-sleeve shirt, and gloves just in case I touched the vines or leaves, and this canister allowed me to stay clear. Of course, all my precautions just made me sweat.
I peeled off my gloves and trudged around the house, whipping my long-sleeve T-shirt off to reveal a tank top beneath. Harris had opted to re-stain the front porch today so the new step would match, and I stopped well short of chemical-smelling range. He’d freaked out when I’d offered to help, citing some study about the solvents in the stain causing birth defects. I’d whipped out my own phone to check it out for myself and had discovered the study involved women who worked around stains for a living. But Harris’s jaw had jutted out at a stubborn angle that let me know he wouldn’t budge.
I guessed he’d been right—with him on the porch and me on the garden, we’d crossed two items, not one, off our to-do list. Still, I’d missed him, and I waved for his attention.
“Hey! Do you think DIY is an inherited gene?” I raised my voice to be heard over the sprayer.
Harris cocked his head, puzzled, and shut the hose off. “What was that, now?”
“DIY,” I repeated, all but melting in the heat. “I want Ava to be as self-sufficient as possible.”
“Ava?” Harris asked, working the freshly sprayed stain into the wood with a long-handled brush. “Who’s Ava?”
“Our child, maybe?” I rubbed my stomach.
He jerked straight up and faced me. “We’re having a girl?”
“ Maybe ,” I said. “It’s too early to say.”
“But if we are, you’ve decided on Ava?” A deep crease had formed between his eyes. “Without talking to me? Don’t I get a say?”
“I didn’t know you wanted one.” I smiled, slightly tense. “I like Ava,” I said. “It sounds sort of regal, like a name for a queen. Why? Did you have something else in mind?”
“Yeah. I did.” His jaw jutted out again. “If it’s a girl, I like Isabella, but if it’s a boy, I want Logan.”
“Wait, Logan, really?” I didn’t know whether to laugh or to smack him. He had to be joking— Logan? No way. “Logan? Like Wolverine? Uh-uh. Not happening.”
Harris vaulted over the porch’s railing and thumped to the ground. He marched down to meet me. “Emily.”
“Aiden.”
“Jacob.”
“Scarlet.”
“Scarlet?” he sputtered, his skin a vivid shade of red. “Like Miss Scarlet? From Clue ? You made fun of Logan, but you want to name our child Scarlet?”
“Yes, I do.” I leaned up on my toes and poked him in the chest. “C’mon, this is silly. There are middle names, right? Ava Emily could be nice.”
“So, yours comes first.”
“Well, I’m doing the heavy lifting.” I gestured at my belly, but Harris wasn’t laughing. A cold feeling settled deep in my stomach. The smile died on my lips, and I took a step back. “I’m sorry—what’s happening here? Are we having a fight?”
“I’m the father,” Harris said. “And you’re cutting me out.” His tone was dry, flat. “Be honest: do you see me as the father or just as your sperm donor?”
I gaped, stunned. My head felt hot, like I might blow my top, steam pouring out like in a cartoon. I saw red, actual red , creeping into my vision. Sperm donor—was he kidding? Sperm donors didn’t sleep in my bed.
“And I guess you’ve decided on your own ,” he hammered, “whose last name our child should have.” His eyes had gone cold, and his gaze bored right through me.
“ My name,” I said. I realized I was shaking—not with fear, but with rage. I pushed at his chest to get him to back off, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. “She’ll have my name, and what’s wrong with that? You have a problem with Winchester?”
“Fuck, yeah,” he thundered. “This baby’s half mine. That makes her a McCallister. Or him. Whichever. Either way, they should never have to doubt that I claim them as mine.”
I clamped my mouth shut at the last second, cutting off my comeback: what good is your claim if you’ll be thousands of miles away doing God knows what? Maybe getting yourself killed?
I spun on my heel and stormed away.
“Where are you going?”
I kept marching toward my car. If I didn’t get out of here, I’d say something I’d regret. Part of me wanted to turn on him and let my fears all spill out. Part of me feared what he’d say in response. Did I want him to tell me he was retiring from the Marines? Or was I terrified he’d tell me he was retiring from the Marines? What was wrong with Winchester? Did he think I was trash?
Harris chased after me, boots crunching on gravel. “Rachel, stop.”
I broke into a jog, heading for my car. I dove for the passenger side door just as I hit the button on my fob. Wrenching the driver’s side door open, I threw myself in. Harris jumped in, too, and I shot him a glare.
“Get out,” I demanded, slamming my door closed. “I need to be alone.”
“Tough shit.” He slammed his door so hard it rocked the four-door sedan. “You’re not driving alone when you’re this upset. Frankly, you shouldn’t be behind the wheel at all, but far be it from me to have an opinion. You’ll just ignore it since I don’t matter in your world.”
“And you think sitting there and pissing me off is going to help the little lady drive better?” I jerked my seatbelt on and cranked the engine before roaring out of the driveway, churning up gravel.
Harris latched onto the panic bar above his window and braced his other hand on the center console. “I think I’ll do whatever I need to, to keep you from wrapping this car around a tree or killing someone.”
The tires squealed as I swerved onto a two-lane road, barely in use since the cannery closed ten years ago. I had no desire to hurt anyone, I just needed to cool off.
“Slow down.”
“Stop telling me what to do.” On a long straight stretch, I pressed the gas pedal further. The Elantra shot forward, its four-cylinder engine screaming to keep up.
“Slow the fuck down,” Harris growled, knuckles whitening on the console.
I waited another five seconds, wanting to slow down only when I was good and ready, not because Harris demanded it. Then I squeezed the brake pedal, frowning when it felt mushy. I stomped down harder, and my foot hit the floor—but the brakes didn’t engage. My fury drained out of me, replaced with panic, and I kept jabbing at the useless pedal.
“SLOW DOWN!”
“I CAN’T!”
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I’m flooring the brake, and nothing’s happening! ”
“Christ.” He lunged across the car and seized the wheel. “Don’t touch the gas and grab your headrest with both hands.”
I grabbed for the headrest and accidentally elbowed him in the face. “Sorry,” I gasped. “I’m not touching the gas.”
“Just hold tight, okay? I’ve got you. You’re fine.”
But I didn’t feel fine. My guts had turned to liquid. My breath wouldn’t catch. I’d never been this scared, not once in my life. A turn was looming, a sharp right. At the posted speed limit, it’d be perfectly safe. Doing seventy-five, we’d flip like a pancake. My heart slammed against my rib cage and my stomach turned pinwheels. I choked back a scream, dizzy with terror.
Harris clutched the emergency brake and pulled it up slowly. At the same time, he kept a tight grip on the steering wheel. The Elantra protested, shimmying as it began to slow.
But not soon enough.
We were out of time.
The turn was on us, and Harris bared his teeth. He yanked the emergency brake up all the way and muscled the car into the curve. My arm bashed into the window as inertia worked against us. Squealing tires wailed, and I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the impact of flipping side over side.
The car shook and drifted, then the pressure keeping me against the window eased. I opened my eyes, stunned to see that we’d made it, the Elantra slowing with every passing second.
Then it stopped. We were safe, idling on the shoulder.
Harris turned the car off, and I burst into tears, too many emotions assaulting me at once. He unclicked my seatbelt and dragged me over the console with clammy palms. The position was awkward and uncomfortable, but I burrowed into his warmth.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I offered over and over into his shoulder. “Thank you. Thank God for you.”
He shifted beneath me, and I lifted my head to find a cellphone in his hand.
“Nine, one, one,” came a voice through the speaker. “What’s your emergency and location?”
“Someone tampered with the brakes on our car,” Harris said, his voice cool and steady. He tilted my head up. “Hey. Where are we?”
“Daniels Pond Road,” I answered, then peered out the window. “About two miles south of the old cannery.”
He repeated the information and asked for the operator to send the police. Then he hung up. “This was overt.”
This , meaning someone was trying to kill me.