31. Ozzy
Ozzy
“ A re you excited?” Niamh’s voice floats into my room, bright and laced with her soft lilt that somehow makes everything she says sound like it should be written in calligraphy.
I’m hunched over my dresser, pulling out shirts with frayed hems and black lace bras that look like they’ve survived a bar fight.
Nothing feels right. Not for… whatever this night is supposed to be.
Jackson’s been vague—intentionally, maddeningly vague.
All he told me was to be ready by six and to “wear layers,” which could mean we’re going ice fishing or climbing a damn mountain.
“I would be excited if I knew where the hell we were going,” I mutter, tugging a tank top from the pile and immediately discarding it. “How am I supposed to dress for a mystery?”
“You’ll look class no matter what,” Niamh quips as she hops up onto my bed like she’s lived here for years.
She’s grinning, long legs crossed and red curls still damp from the shower she took after riding the horses with Theo.
“But if you’re really that stressed, we could nip over to the boutique on Main.
They’ve loads of cute stuff. Real pretty things. ”
I blink at her. “You mean clothes that don’t look like they were stolen from a vampire groupie in 2006?”
Niamh laughs, tossing a pillow at me. “I mean proper date stuff. Something soft. Maybe a bit flirty.”
“Jesus.” I fall back onto the mattress, arms spread out dramatically. “This might be the first time I’ve ever wished I owned something actually… pretty. ”
My wardrobe is many things—torn, black, sarcastic—but “pretty” isn’t even on the list. I’m built for eyeliner, not eyelet lace.
Still, there’s something about tonight that makes me want to try.
Jackson doesn’t ask much of me. Never pressures.
But the way he’s been looking at me lately, like I’m worth building a whole future around, makes me want to show up for him in a way I never have for anyone else.
“Alright,” I sigh, lifting my head. “But only if you come with me. I’m not walking into that pink nightmare alone.”
Niamh beams. “Deal. I just want to say goodbye to Jensen first. He’s still out in the barn.”
“Good luck with that. He reverted to growls and snarls as way of communication.” Sighing, I grab my phone, open the camera app, and take a quick selfie before sending it to Jackson.
Me: Due to you being secretive, you are forcing me to go shopping for this date. I should be asking you for your credit card.
Jackson doesn’t take long to reply.
Jackson: Jesus Christ. How is it possible you look THIS fucking hot just taking a selfie?
Jackson: I’m by the horses. Come get my card.
Jackson: Carter saw your picture. He just said it’s “spank bank” material. How badly do I need to beat him?
I snort, warmth blooming low in my belly. The fact that Jackson doesn’t even hesitate—just hands me his card and threatens murder in the same breath—makes my chest ache in that slow, quiet way it’s started doing around him more and more lately.
Me: I mean… he’s technically saying it’s jerk-off material.
Jackson: brb, I have to drown my brother.
Me: Wait—before the felony—what do I actually wear?
Jackson: Layers.
Me: Realllly
Jackson: Yeah. We’ll be outside for most of it. Just trust me.
I stare at the screen, chewing the inside of my cheek.
Me: …It’s not the woods, right?
Jackson: No woods Tink. Promise.
“I still don’t get why they have to be such absolute bitches in this town,” Niamh mutters, shaking her head as she gently parts my hair and clips it up with quick, practiced fingers.
“I mean, the way that cow behind the counter looked at you—Christ almighty. She should be lucky she still has teeth.”
We’re at her place, a cozy little rental she’s somehow managed to make feel like a vintage pub had a baby with a mood board. There’s twinkle lights hung over her bar cart, mismatched chairs with throw pillows, and a stuffed toy cat that glares at me from atop the fridge like I owe it money.
I shrug where I’m sitting, a towel around my shoulders and a smear of color developing along my hairline. “It’s alright. I’m used to it.” It comes out too easy—too rehearsed—but I don’t want her feeling worse than she already does.
She snorts. “You shouldn’t have to be. And none of this is your fault, by the way.
Those women are just miserable because you waltzed in and—pardon my bluntness—snagged one of the Rowe boys.
That’s like snatching up a damn unicorn around here.
The lot of them are probably still doing fertility spells and putting moon water on their windowsills hoping for one. ”
I laugh, relaxing more in her kitchen chair as she grumbles and mixes toner like it’s personally offended her. “I didn’t snag anybody . He just… saw me. And didn’t run screaming.”
“Well, good on him,” she mutters. “Because you’re a goddamn smoke show, and if I had a dick, I’d be down on one knee already.”
“That’s the bleach fumes talking,” I tease, and she flips me off affectionately as she grabs my arm and pulls me toward the kitchen sink.
“C’mon. Let’s rinse you out before your scalp becomes tender.”
As she tilts my head back and runs the water, I close my eyes and let her fuss over me. There’s something calming about it. About her. Niamh’s got this… grounding magic to her. She’s fierce and funny, sure, but also soft in ways most people never earn the right to see.
And I’ve been seeing it more lately. Especially when Jensen’s name comes up.
We head back to the kitchen, and I settle back into the chair while she wraps my head in a towel, then begins the blow-dry process.
“Anyway,” she continues, smoothing a bit of serum through the ends of my damp hair, “they’re bitter because they’ve spent their lives trying to land a Rowe. Then you show up with your tattoos and your black eyeliner and your haunted eyes, and suddenly he’s the one chasing you. ”
“That doesn’t mean they should treat me like I’m stealing from the register.”
“Well,” she groans with a shrug and a grin, “technically, that one cashier did imply you were the type to have a declined card.”
I wince. “Yeah, that was charming. Honestly, I’m just impressed she said it to my face.”
“But joke’s on her,” Niamh continues, her tone warming as she fluffs my hair, “because you walked out of there with the prettiest damn outfit I’ve ever seen you wear.”
It is pretty. Against all odds, I found a deep red maxi skirt with little white and blue flowers that somehow made me feel soft instead of exposed.
Paired it with an oversized cream cable-knit sweater, the sleeves long enough to cover my hands.
And Niamh, being the goddess she is, is letting me borrow a pair of black booties with just the right heel.
I feel… not beautiful, exactly. But maybe like someone worth looking at.
I tilt my head to peek at her. “They seem to like you, and you have Jensen.”
The hair dryer clicks off.
“Oh!” she says, waving a dismissive hand and doing a terrible job hiding the flush creeping up her cheeks. “I don’t have him. Jensen doesn’t—he’s not—it’s not like that.”
“Ohhh,” I sing, drawing the word out like a taunt. “Still secretive, huh?”
She huffs as she runs a round brush through a section of my hair.
“He’s not interested in me, alright? I’m just some silly girl with a crush.
I’m supposed to be meeting that guy again tonight anyway.
” She shrugs, but it’s a sad, reluctant little motion.
“He’s nice enough and well off. Might as well give it a real shot. ”
I watch her face carefully in the mirror. It’s all too easy to see through the indifference she’s trying to fake. “Do you want to give it a shot?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Finally, she quietly offers, “I want someone who wants me back. Someone who sees me.”
My heart squeezes for her. Because if she knew—if she had any idea how Jensen looks at her when she’s not watching…
how he’s practically built a religion out of her social media posts, how he takes Jackson’s truck just to drive past the bar to see if she’s working.
If she knew any of this, she might stop thinking she’s invisible.
My phone buzzes in my lap. I glance down and swipe it open when Niamh turns to grab a curling iron.
Jackson: Photo
I click it open and nearly choke.
He’s shirtless, standing in front of his bathroom mirror, jeans half-undone, showcasing a V-line so sinful it probably deserves its own prayer group.
Jackson: Spank bank?
I bite down on a grin so wide it physically hurts.
Me: My god. I’m making this a poster, hanging it on my wall, and licking it every night before I go to sleep.
Jackson: OR… hear me out. You could lick the real thing.
“Ohhhh , you dirty little feckin’ bitch,” Niamh sing-songs behind me, catching sight of my phone over my shoulder.
I shriek and flip it over like she just caught me mid-crime. “Oh my god , Niamh!”
She’s cackling now, practically doubled over with laughter. “The look on your face!”
“Okay, okay, I know. I’m a pervert,” I mutter, cheeks on fire.
“But have you seen him? He should come with a damn warning label.” I swat her away with a pillow, laughing so hard I nearly fall out of the chair.
And for a minute, in the warmth of her kitchen, with laughter in our lungs and love lives in chaos, it feels like maybe we’re both going to be okay.
Even if the rest of the town doesn’t see us, we see each other.
And that might be enough.
“Ozzy!” Niamh’s voice rings out from the living room. “ Spank Bank Daddy is walking up!”
I snort, nearly choking on the curl of breath I’m holding while fluffing the loose ringlets around my shoulders. The nickname is ridiculous. But accurate.
I glance at myself in the mirror again. And for once… I pause.