Chapter 6 - Norah
CHAPTER SIX
Norah
The roads are slick with new snow when I drive out to The Drunken Fish, a cozy pub near the edge of town. It used to be a quiet bar, but lately it’s turned into a haven for locals wanting a little music, a little whiskey, and maybe a little trouble.
Warm air and laughter spill out the moment I step inside. The place glows with amber light—string bulbs over the dance floor, brass fixtures shining above the bar. There’s a small band in the corner playing a bluesy cover, couples swaying near the hearth.
“Norah Knightly,” the bartender says when I slide onto a stool. “Haven’t seen you in forever.”
“Hey, Tom.” I grin. “Still making the best old-fashioned in town?”
“Only for you.” He winks and starts mixing.
I glance around. The crowd’s lively but familiar. I catch snippets of gossip, see a few faces from the farmer’s market. For once, I’m not Norah-the-florist or Norah-who-used-to-date-Dorian. I’m just Norah.
Tom slides the drink my way. “To surviving another Fox Hollow winter.”
I clink his glass and take a sip. The bourbon’s warm, smoky, sweet with a hint of orange peel. It seeps through me like slow fire.
Maybe this is what I needed—to remember there’s life outside work, outside the ache of what-ifs.
Some people dance near the jukebox, spinning and laughing. Someone calls out a request. My phone buzzes—a message from Wren.
Where are you hiding tonight?
I send back a picture of the glowing bar, the reflection of lights in my glass. The Drunken Fish. You should come with me next time. After the baby.
Her reply comes fast. You’re brave. Just keep your location on. And drink water, okay?
I roll my eyes but smile. Yes, Mom.
Then I let myself move. Not on the dance floor, not yet, but with the rhythm. My body sways in my seat, shoulders loosening, pulse syncing with the bassline.
The second drink goes down easier than it should. I laugh with Tom, flirt lightly when someone compliments my smile. It feels good. It feels human.
By the time I stand to stretch my legs, I’ve almost forgotten why I came. I just know I needed this. I needed to stop thinking about Dorian, or Margaret, or the way Fox Hollow sometimes feels too small for all my memories.
I wander toward the pool table, drawn by the clack of billiard balls and easy laughter. And that’s when I see them.
Jude and Ryker.
For a second, I think I’m imagining it. But no, there they are, standing near the far end of the bar.
Ryker in his usual dark jacket, shoulders broad and watchful. Jude grinning, his cap pushed back, a pool cue in hand.
Jude spots me first. His expression flickers from surprise to warmth. “Well, look who it is,” he says, setting the cue aside. “Twice in one day.”
“Small town, Carter,” I say, trying not to sound too flustered. “You following me?”
“Please,” Ryker mutters, half-smiling. “We came here for karaoke. The Smokehouse was packed.”
“You sing?” I tease.
“Only after three drinks,” Jude says, his cheeks flushed from laughter.
They’re already a few shots in, relaxed in a way I rarely see. I’ve seen them in here just a couple of times. Everyone knows that the two friends keep to themselves, especially after they lost their mate.
It was so tragic, the talk of the town for at least six months, but it seems a lot of people moved on from the news.
I don’t think I’ve ever even talked to them about that, though. About her. I had seen her around town once or twice. She was a gorgeous woman.
Jude gestures to the bartender. “Join us?”
I hesitate for half a heartbeat. Then I nod. “Why not?”
Shots appear—something cinnamon-sweet that burns pleasantly on the way down. We play darts. I lose spectacularly, and Jude cheers like I just won the state fair. Ryker barely says a word, but his quiet grin gives him away. The man’s softer than he wants people to think.
The music changes to something fast and pulsing. A few locals take over the small dance floor. Jude nudges me.
“Come on. You can’t tell me you don’t dance.”
“I can,” I say. “But I won’t.”
He laughs. “Then prove it.”
Before I can protest, he takes my hand and pulls me into the crowd. The lights blur gold and red as we move, my laughter catching somewhere between nerves and delight.
He’s surprisingly good, sure-footed. When he spins me, my hair brushes his shoulder, and for a breath, I forget everything else.
I needed this. The music. The warmth. The way Jude looks at me like I’m not someone carrying all the pieces of a broken past.
Ryker joins us later for darts again, shaking his head at Jude’s terrible aim. We talk about work, about the snowfall coming in heavy by morning, about the town festival, and how Wren’s café has been doing so well since they completely renovated the place.
It’s easy. It’s fun. It’s normal.
When the clock behind the bar hits midnight, Jude checks his phone and groans. “We should go. Ryker’s got an early morning.”
“Meeting with the mayor,” Ryker says dryly, setting down his drink. “Jude told me all about the plans for the black flowers. That’s sick. I can’t wait to see your presentation, although I’m sure it will be a hit.”
“Thanks,” I say. My cheeks feel warm. Am I blushing? It has to be the alcohol.
Ryker stands, grinning. “See you around, flower girl.”
We say our goodnights in the parking lot, breath fogging the air, snow still falling slow and quiet. Jude waves as he climbs into Ryker’s truck. I stand there a moment, watching their taillights disappear down the road.
When I head back inside for my bag, the bartender nods toward the chair. “Your friend forgot this.”
Jude’s leather jacket.
I run my hand over it. It’s soft, worn, faintly smelling of vanilla and cedar and the woods. Something about it makes my chest ache. Maybe I’ll drop it off at their office tomorrow.
No. Nope. Haven’t I learned my lesson about barging into people’s lives?
I’ll just keep it, and then he can get it from the flower shop whenever he comes around.
Outside, the snow’s thickened, falling in lazy spirals under the streetlights. I pull my scarf tighter, slide into my car, and glance once at the jacket on the passenger seat. It looks out of place there, but it feels right.
As I drive home through the sleeping town, I don’t think about how meeting the two men completely ruined my plan for a very casual hookup.
In fact, I don’t think about anything else but how fun the night was.
I wake up in a slick, sweaty haze, my skin sticking to the sheets like I’ve been running a fever.
The room is dim, early morning light filtering through the curtains, but my body feels heavy, overheated from the inside out. My thighs are damp, a telltale slickness between them that makes my cheeks burn even as I shift under the covers.
What the hell was that? I’m way too fucking keyed up from the remnants of that sex dream.
Of all things going on in my life, a freaking sex dream? C’mon!
I climb out of bed, the cool air hitting my bare legs and sending a shiver up my spine. I grab my phone from the nightstand.
The screen lights up, and I scroll straight to my calendar app, where I meticulously mark every check-up, every cycle, every warning sign for my heat.
It’s not due. Not for weeks.
The suppressants have been working like clockwork, keeping everything locked down. But that doesn’t explain the ache low in my belly, the way my core throbs just from the remnants of sleep.
Jude. Yesterday’s dream crashes back in full force. Him in that worn leather jacket, dancing close in some crowded bar. His hands on my hips, pulling me against him, the scent of leather and something darker wrapping around us. The rest of it is a blur of heat I still feel in my bones.
I’m not even sure what’s memory and what’s fueled by the dream, but all of it makes me throb harder. A pulse echoes through my pussy, leaving me wet and needy. I squeeze my thighs together, but that only makes it worse.
I can’t deal with this right now.
My fingers fumble for the bottle on the nightstand—the suppressants, the small white pills that promise control. I pop one into my mouth, swallowing it dry, and head for the bathroom.
A cold shower. That’s what I need. Something to shock the heat out of my system, to rinse away the fog.
I peel off my sleep T-shirt and walk in.
The water starts cold, blasting from the showerhead like icy needles against my skin as I step under it. I gasp, arms wrapping around my torso, but I force myself to stay.
The chill bites into my nipples, hardening them to peaks, and goosebumps race over my arms and legs. It’s supposed to help, to numb the slickness still leaking from me, but as the water cascades down, my mind wanders back to him.
Jude, dancing with me—his body pressed to mine, hips grinding in time with the music. His leather jacket brushing my arms, rough and warm from his heat.
My hand drifts down without thinking, fingers sliding over my stomach, lower, to the slick folds between my legs. I’m so wet, the cold water mixing with my arousal, making everything slippery.
I really need to get laid. Last night was innocent. It was a fun night. Why the hell is my body misconstruing everything?
Where is all this need coming from?
I lean against the tiled wall, the spray hitting my clit in rhythmic pulses from the adjustable jet. It feels good, too good, and I adjust the setting, directing the stream right there, a steady pressure that makes my knees buckle.
In my head, it’s Jude’s hands on me, not mine. He’s dancing closer, his mouth at my ear, whispering something filthy as he grinds his cock against my ass. And then Dorian watching from the shadows, his eyes dark and hungry.
Would he be jealous? Would he just watch? See Jude’s hands roaming my body, stripping off my clothes while I arch into it?
The thought sends a jolt through me, and I circle my clit with my fingers, massaging in tight, firm strokes. The jet pounds against me, relentless, and I moan, the sound echoing off the tiles.
Pressed between them. Jude in front, his leather-clad chest against my breasts, Dorian behind, his hands gripping my hips.
They’d move together, sandwiching me, cocks hard and teasing through our clothes. Jude’s mouth on mine, rough kisses that taste like whiskey, while Dorian nips at my neck, his breath hot despite the cold water.
My fingers dip inside now, two sliding in easily, pumping as I imagine them taking turns, filling me up. The slickness coats my hand, and I add a third finger, stretching, the burn mixing with the chill until I’m panting.
But then Ryker slips into the fantasy. Always the broody one, reserved and silent in the corner. Would he watch? See me being fucked, my body writhing, pussy clenching around them?
Or would he join, that quiet intensity breaking as he steps forward, his hands rough from whatever manual work he does, claiming a piece of me?
What is wrong with me?
The thought twists in my gut, shame and heat warring as I rub my clit harder, the jet’s pressure building that coil tighter.
I come undone like that—fingers buried deep, massaging my g-spot while the water assaults my clit.
My orgasm crashes over me, walls fluttering around my fingers, slick gushing out to mix with the spray. I cry out, legs shaking, bracing against the wall as waves pull me under, leaving me breathless and spent.
The water runs cold for a few more minutes, shocking me back to reality, before I shut it off. I towel dry, skin pink and sensitive, and slip into a loose T-shirt and panties.
Back in bed, the sheets still rumpled from my restless night, I spot it—Jude’s leather jacket, draped over the chair.
Without thinking, I grab it, pulling it close. I bury my face in the collar, inhaling deep. Warm vanilla. It’s everywhere—subtle, soothing, wrapping around me like a hug.
Why does it calm me?
My heart slows, the throb fading to a gentle hum, and I curl up with it, letting the scent lull me back to sleep.