Chapter Thirty Harriet
Chapter Thirty
Harriet
We’re greeted by a torrential downpour as we step onto Ana’s porch. By the time we get to the car, I’m soaked to the bone, hair matted to the side of my head, goose bumps rising in waves along my arms. It’s dropped at least twenty degrees in the past twenty minutes.
“I’m soaked,” I say, shivering. “And cold.”
“Here.” Nic grabs the hoodie he discarded earlier from the floor and hands it to me. “Put this on. It’s dry.”
“Thanks.” I start wiggling out of my wet T-shirt.
“What are you doing?”
I look over and find Nic staring at me with horror.
“I’m cold!” I say, my shirt halfway over my head. “Haven’t you ever seen someone in a bikini? There’s literally no difference.”
“You could have at least given me a warning,” he mutters, turning his face toward the window.
I pull on the hoodie and toss my soaked shirt into the back seat. “I’m done. You can stop being such a prude now.”
He glances back over, cheeks flushed red, pupils dilated.
Oh. Warmth floods my lower belly; a throbbing starts between my thighs.
I recognize that look from our two weeks together. He wants me. And fuck if I don’t want him too. If I leaned into him, I wonder what would happen. I wonder—
A loud thump against the windshield makes me jump.
“What the hell?” Another thump. “Holy shit. It’s hailing golf balls. Traffic is going to be insane.”
Nic’s already looking at his phone. “Google Maps says it’s going to take us five hours to get back.”
“Five hours?” It’s after 5:00 p.m. Dusk is settling in—my least favorite time to drive. And now it’s hailing? This is going to be a disaster.
He nods. “There’s a big accident where 95 meets the Parkway. People drive like shit in the rain.”
“Not to sound like an old lady, but any chance you could handle driving back?”
Nic grimaces. “Normally, yes, but I didn’t bring my glasses, and I need them to drive.”
Rain and hail are pounding against the windshield. I watch the drops land and spread on the glass as I try to figure out what to do. “I guess we could—”
“Should we—” he says at the same time.
We both fall quiet.
“You first,” he says.
“We could see if we can crash somewhere for the night? Maybe Matthew would let us?”
“Yeah. It could be a little awkward to ask him for a place to crash, given we just accused him of murder.”
“Fair point. I guess a hotel then?” My heart’s pounding harder than it should be. It’s an innocent suggestion, one I’m making because we have no other options. It’s not because I want to spend the night under the same roof as Nic.
Right. Absolutely.
Nic licks his lips. “A hotel is probably our best bet.”
By the time we find a hotel with vacancy, it’s after six. Night has fallen, the rain coming down in sheets. If I was driving on the highway in this, there’s a solid chance we’d end up in a ditch.
Which would be much worse than finding out the hotel only has one room available.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
“Are you sure you don’t have anything else?” I ask for the third time, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “A room with two double beds even.”
The woman behind the computer sighs. “Ma’am—”
I bristle as she ma’ams me.
“—as I told you before, we are almost fully sold out tonight. There’s a convention in town. We have exactly one room left. A king room on the second floor. Take it or—” She gestures toward the glass windows of the building. “Roll the dice out there.”
“Fine,” I say, voice tight. I can’t bring myself to look at Nic. “We’ll take it.”
“Great,” she says, like she mostly thinks it’s great that she won’t have to deal with me for much longer. “One key card or two?”
“Two!” Nic says quickly. The woman slides two key cards across the counter to us, and we take them and head to the elevator.
The ride upstairs is quiet. I can’t read Nic; I’m trying to figure out how we got here. There’s only one bed? The universe is clearly conspiring against me.
“This is it,” I say, stopping outside the room. We both stare at the door. God, this is awkward. We’re acting like strangers, not two people who have spent the better part of the last week together. Two people who, once upon a time, spent weeks secretly hooking up.
“I guess we should go in?” he says. He doesn’t move.
“Right.” I insert my key card in the slot, and it beeps green.
The room is fine. Standard, nothing to write home about. And sure enough, it has exactly one (1) bed.
“Beats sleeping in the car.” I force a laugh and toss my purse onto the small round desk in the corner.
“Yeah,” Nic says, lingering awkwardly in the entryway. “I’m gonna—” He disappears into the bathroom without finishing his sentence, and the shower turns on a moment later.
The shower.
He’s in there taking a shower.
Which means he’s naked.
Naked.
Nic is naked.
I realize I’m standing in the center of the room not breathing.
If I’m going to survive the night, I’m going to have to pull it together. It’s not like I haven’t seen him naked.
Immediately, an image of Nic naked snakes into my brain.
Okay, no. That wasn’t helpful. I need to back up. We’re partners. Business partners. Not sex partners.
Sex.
Oh my god.
I grab my purse. “I’m going to go down to the bar!” I call, not waiting to see if he heard me or not.
I slide into a seat at the hotel bar. It’s shabby, with strong chain-hotel vibes, but at least it’s not that fucking room with one bed.
I order a drink, then open the Notes app on my phone and start jotting down everything we learned today before it slips away.
George might have been an arsonist. He might have set a fire in NYC that killed someone. Adrian.
The name nudges at me. Where have I heard it before?
Shit. I swipe over to my photos, and there it is: Adrian Pruner. The obit I found in George’s desk. He must have kept it—out of guilt? Or because he was proud of the whole thing? At this point, nothing would surprise me.
The ensuing investigation into the fire claimed it was caused by faulty wiring—which, coincidentally, was also the official cause of the Windswept Motel fire. George had struggled to buy both pieces of land until the buildings burned. After that, the owners changed their minds and sold.
Side by side, the parallels are glaring.
If George really was bribing or colluding with cops or fire inspectors, it would prove our theory about police corruption. Except I have no hard facts to back it up.
If I publish without proof, could someone sue me?
I text Maggie.
Yes, someone could sue you for defamation!!! You’re a journalist, Harriet. Didn’t you learn that in college?
Well, yes. I did learn that in college, but I was hoping maybe the law had changed in the last four years.
We need proof. Cold, hard proof that George was twisted up in all sorts of awful things. Arson, bribery, murder.
But how?
Ten minutes and one bourbon later, I’ve recorded the rest of what Matthew and his mom told us and written two new lines for my article.
Murder in Paradise
Except beneath that sophisticated facade, George George was, by some accounts, a terrible man. A man who impregnated a woman, then paid her off to deal with it alone. A man who allegedly conducted his business in ways that were less than ethical—or even legal.
A familiar figure appears at the entrance to the room as I’m finishing my drink. His still-damp hair is tousled, and as I watch, he runs a hand through it, his eyes landing on me. He smiles, dimples appearing on either side of his mouth.
I am in serious trouble.
“Hey.” He slips into the seat next to mine.
I’m suddenly shy. “Hey. What’s up?”
“What are you doing? I didn’t know where you’d taken off to when I got out of the shower.”
“Yeah, sorry. I said I was leaving, but I didn’t know if you’d heard me. I came down here to write.”
He tilts his chin at my empty glass. “What are you drinking?”
“Bourbon.”
“Nice.” He signals for the bartender, ordering himself one. “Want another?”
I should not have another drink. That would be a very, very, very bad idea.
“Sure.”
One more drink. One more drink, and I will keep my hands to myself and not have three drinks because three drinks might lead to… My eyes run down the sharp edge of his jaw, his neck, the bicep muscle peeking out from his T-shirt.
His skin was always so soft.
I should absolutely not have another drink.
I’m about to say as much when Nic clears his throat. “This weather is wild, huh? End of the summer storms are crazy.”
Before I can respond, someone squeezes in on his other side, and he’s forced to tug his chair toward mine.
“Sorry,” he says as our legs bump. My breath catches. This is pure torture, I swear to god.
I clear my throat. “It’s okay.”
The bartender slides our drinks over, and I take a long sip. I need to pull it together. Be normal.
Cheers from the TV overhead distract us. “Are you a baseball fan?” Nic asks.
“Eh, not really a sports fan, actually. You?”
He shrugs. “Sort of? Not really. I mean, I like the Giants, the Yankees well enough, but I’m not spending my weekends watching it. I’d rather watch The Great British Bake Off or try out a new recipe in my spare time.”
Well, I am officially dead. That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.
“It’s my passion, I guess you could say. Like you with your writing.” He hesitates. “Speaking of, how is the article coming? That was some crazy stuff we learned earlier.”
“Yeah. I mean, I always knew George was a creep. Just not that he was that much of one. I can’t believe my mom married that bastard. It’s sickening.”
I take a long sip of my drink as Nic fiddles with the edge of a paper napkin. “Are you okay?” he asks finally.
“No. Yes. I don’t know. I can’t believe my mom sometimes.
She’s been married four times, and I wonder sometimes if she has any standards at all.
First it was my dad, who, let’s be honest, she only married because she got pregnant with me, then this dickhead hedge fund guy—that marriage only lasted for a hot minute, thankfully—and then she married her third husband… ”