Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
HARMONY
Preston was heavy . Between his height and the corded muscles Harmony could feel as he leaned against her, it was like trying to haul an inebriated obelisk outside. Earlier, she’d considered suggesting he cool it on the drinks, but the man was clearly in desperate need of blowing off steam. Going from college kid straight to full-time parent of a small child? When was the last night he’d gone out and had some fun?
She had plenty of experience shepherding someone who’d had too much. And she’d insisted he come, so she would help him back, even if he was the opposite of every guy she’d ever left a bar with before and she was definitely not attracted to him or the way his voice had rumbled in her ear, beneath all the shrill singing, like a secret.
No one else in the bar seemed concerned about making sure a very drunk Preston got home safe. What the hell was wrong with this place? Weren’t small towns supposed to be oppressively helpful toward their neighbors? A few people their age slapped Preston on the back as they lurched out of the bar, leering at her. One added a suggestive whistle. “Nice going, Preston.” Really? They didn’t know her. She could be a criminal for all they knew. Well, like a bad criminal. A murderer. A librarian-kidnapping ringleader.
They made it to the parking lot behind the bar. “Almost there,” she told a swaying Preston. “Here’s my car.”
“Where’s the rest of it?” He drew up tall and judgmental as she opened the door. “Cars should have roofs .”
“You’ll offend Furiosa. Come on—” She nudged him into the seat. She’d certainly never had to work this hard to get a guy home from a bar before, either. “She’s a very nice car, she has plenty of room for your ridiculously tall head, you steeple.”
Normally she’d let whoever looked like the most fun and fewest questions buy her a drink and that was that. The biggest challenge occasionally was kicking him out once they were done. She didn’t do sleepovers.
Preston looked up at her, face shadowed from the yellow parking lot light at her back. “You shouldn’t drive either. You should be safe.” His words were edged with so much concern.
“I haven’t had a drink since that first godawful margarita.” She walked around to the driver’s side and slid in beside him. “I’m just naturally this fun. Now, unless you want to ride on the handlebars while I bike you home, let’s go.” He was fumbling with his seatbelt, so she leaned over him to pull it straight and click it into place beside his hip. He heaved a breath, face flushed, and let his head drop back against the leather seat as she pulled out of the lot.
The cool air on the drive seemed to do him some good. Perk him up. He stared at the sky, streetlights and shadows rippling over his slack expression a few minutes. She checked on him more often than her rearview mirror, to be sure he wasn’t about to vomit on Furiosa. Then he sat up and stared at her even more intently. Probably watching to call her out about going one mile over the speed limit. She stopped at the turn out of downtown and flicked on her signal. He was awfully aware of driving rules for a guy who biked everywhere. “So do you drive at all? Is that, like, an autism thing?” The sites she’d checked out had talked about executive function and spatial awareness, but she wasn’t sure she’d understood all of it.
“Yes. No. I can drive.” He traced his finger along the chrome edging his door. “It’s a someone ran my mom off the road thing.”
Oh, shit. Watching her dad fade away had been a nightmare. But to lose someone in a blink like that? She wasn’t sure which was worse. “I’m sorry.” She hated this part. The apologies for something no one had control over—barring Travis Weaver or the driver at fault—and then the forced thank you or it was a long time ago , as if that made the pain any smaller.
Preston blew out a long breath. “Me too.”
“And you were in the car?” She was prying, and it was unfair. “Never mind.”
“No. Lacey was. She worries. So we bike when we can.” He shrugged. “It’s better for the environment. And I like biking. Slower pace. Time to think. And cheaper.”
Of course he was trying to save the planet too. Obnoxiously good. Harmony felt a little better remembering she was helping him with his problem at work and not just using his land for her con. Her grift would probably leave Preston better off in the end, she told herself. Taking out Travis would surely knock Cheryl down a peg or two, if she didn’t flee town entirely.
If Preston didn’t get fired months before the con finished playing out.
But justice for her dad—for those years he spent sliding into despair, for his stolen dreams—it was all worth it. Nothing was more important. Before he died, while he was sick, Harmony had sworn to him she’d get it all back, all the big-time money and what it would show the world. She was going to help Preston to help herself, and otherwise leave him the hell alone. Because all she wanted from him was the chance to ruin Weaver’s life the way he’d ruined her dad’s.
Time to get this plan back on track. She told Preston, “Assuming you don’t die from the hangover coming for you, we’ll get a real social media campaign started for the library, more than those scattershot posts someone’s been doing. And you.” She’d already posted from a bunch of those fake accounts that afternoon, building positive public sentiment toward the library’s programming. But they could make sure the town knew everything the library was doing for its kids and that it was Preston behind it. Get him some accounts to tag, give him some armor against anything Cheryl tried to bring. Their roaring success at girls’ night would come at her from the other direction. Harmony and Preston would squish her like a Botoxed grape.
She pulled up outside his house. Preston didn’t move. His hands were splayed over the leather seat and door. “Did we stop?”
She sighed. “You’re not going to remember anything I’ve been saying in the morning, are you?”
“Huh?”
Eloquent. “You’ll be fine. Good thing you have brain cells to burn.” She was going to have to help him inside. She tugged him by the hands and let him lean on her again. Getting to the porch only involved one near-disastrous tumble over a wobbly paving stone. “Where are your keys?”
He slumped a shoulder next to the door and dug those long fingers into the pocket of his jeans. They’d hypnotized her a bit when he’d played, quick and capable over the piano. Now they nearly dropped the keys they drew free. Harmony caught them and unlocked the door.
They made it as far as the couch. That seemed as good a place as any to deposit Preston safely. He sprawled, limbs stretched wide. A book balanced on the couch’s armrest thudded to the ground. “Water,” she told him. “You’ll thank me later.”
She found the kitchen around the corner from a dining nook past the living room. The counters gleamed when she flicked on the lights, and she saw everything was tucked neatly away in the deep-navy painted cabinets as she hunted for a glass.
She waited for it to fill at the tap, taking in all the little details making evident the life lived here: the artwork of constellations stuck onto the fridge, the ingredients for meals lined along shelves, worn cooking utensils standing in a crock beside the stove. The kind of life that huddled like a kicked dog at the rough edge of Harmony’s memory, that she’d caught glimpses of at friends’ houses or on cons. That she’d stolen for a little while, before moving on.
She shut off the faucet. Moving on was what she should be doing now. She’d greased the wheels of more than a few cons with alcohol, but for some reason couldn’t seem to make herself try that tonight, to get the lease from the folio in her trunk and stick it in front of Preston’s unfocused eyes. Proving her helpfulness to Preston would get him to sign without worse tricks. The last thing she needed was him raising a stink about it afterward to Travis or the council, she told herself.
Preston only grimaced when she brought him the water, so she set it on the side table right near him. “When you can—”
He grabbed her arm as she leaned over him. “Stop making everything spin.” In the dim his glasses caught no glare to hide his eyes, big and blue and distressed, seeming to accuse her of more than the alcohol’s effect. The glow from the kitchen pooled in the curls that had fallen over his brow. She brushed them gently back. He reached out with his free hand and stroked his fingers through her own hair spilling over her shoulder, sending tingles whispering across her scalp and down her spine.
She did still need that lease signed. She’d set out to charm Preston and now she’d wormed her way into his life, his house. It’d be foolish to throw that away, to not pursue what she wanted until she got it. That was what she did. That was what was tempting her.
His large hand was locked around her wrist. His arm was heavy. It would be so easy to let it drag her forward. Let this tip into something else. Grease those wheels one way or another. “I should say good night.”
His eyes didn’t stray from her face as she straightened, swelling black pupils drowning their blue. His thumb swept back and forth across the inside of her forearm, more languid than her pulse. His voice was gravelly with alcohol and shout-talking and singing and exhaustion, the next word he managed almost lodging in his throat. “Stay.”
Worked for her.
That was all the invitation Harmony needed to settle on the couch beside him, one cushion over but still tethered by his grip on her arm. Not to take advantage. Not any more than she already had. Just to stay one night in this house with its strange sense of familiarity and safety. Just to follow through on her efforts. Just to make sure Preston was okay.