Chapter 8
eight
ZEKE
Fuuuuuuck.
I can’t believe that just happened. What am I, in middle school?
I haven’t had an accidental public boner since Tiffany Turnquist showed up at that house party in pasties.
Okay, wait. There was also the time with Bailey Beck at the concessions stand, when she—you know what, never mind. It doesn’t matter.
What matters is that I just let my dick get hard for Autumn Carroway while her hands were right there. I mean, that was the entire problem—that her hands were right there—but come on, Zeke. You are not this amateur.
I’m striding briskly, trying not to let my mind wander to the deft way Autumn handled that tape measure and the expert way she might handle other things.
Coming to a stop in front of Brewed Awakening, I take a few deep breaths, taking in the breezy summer vibes of Hawthorne Bay’s main street.
The sun’s at peak height in the sky, and although it’s humid out, the warmth of the blazing June day is strangely comforting.
Maybe I’ll go for a run later once it cools down, get some of this energy out.
God, she turned me down. I mean, it’s not like I expected her to drag me into the fitting rooms right then and there, but she didn’t even show interest—and I don’t know what to do with that.
I’m still confident I can turn on the charm and win her over—it’s just a matter of time, of course—but damn.
That kinda stings. She really saw that dick get hard and gave me the back of her hand. Ouch.
But then again, she’s gun shy. I can understand that. From the sounds of it, that ex-husband of hers was a real prick. His family, too. And how they could shit on the clothes she designs, I have no clue. Like I told her, I’m no fashion expert, but I know art when I see it, and her stuff—it’s art.
Fuck, she is art. That red hair. Those freckles.
The way her bottom lip pouts out when she’s trying not to laugh.
The question isn’t how I could let that boner happen.
The question is how this woman’s got men walking by her every day without boners.
They must be freaking blind. And Patrick Carroway—or whatever his name is—must be a real loser to have had a bombshell wife like that and be sleeping around on her.
I mean, get the fuck out with that shit.
I may have only agreed to do this fashion show in order to film my pilot in Autumn’s house, but I’m starting to feel kind of invested in it.
Like, I want this thing to go well for her.
God knows she deserves it—putting up with that kind of crap from her ex, having her designs shit on and her talent belittled by the former in-laws she still has to pay rent to.
I don’t even know her that well, but she’s been a life saver for me—giving me a place to stay and all while I figure shit out—and I hate that she’s getting trampled on. It’s not fair.
Nah, this show needs to be fire.
Pulling out my phone, I open the TikTok app and rake a hand backwards through my hair.
I’ll mention the show in my podcast intro this week—the fans always want to know what I’m up to—but right now, I’m fired up and want to give Autumn’s store some love.
I hold the selfie cam up at arm's length and hit record.
“Yo. It’s me, Zeke Holloway, coming at you from downtown Hawthorne Bay. Just wanted to take a sec and clue you in on this dank little shop here—owned by my sister-in-law’s bestie—called Velvet Noir.”
I jerk my thumb backwards in the direction of Autumn’s shop, flipping the camera around to focus on the storefront. Then I flip back to my face. This pretty mug is what gets the views, let’s not get it twisted.
“This chick is unreal,” I continue. “Like, she understood the damn assignment. Her name’s Autumn Carroway, and she creates all her own designs—she fucking sews, man.
And it’s all sustainable. Like, none of that fast fashion crap.
This is vintage and one of a kind. And I’m walking in her fashion show in a couple weeks, so be sure to keep a look out for that.
This place is gonna be seriously blowing up soon—so if you’re in the area, get ahead of the curve and stop in.
You might even get a glimpse of little ol’ me. ”
I flash my most devastating grin at the camera, then click off the recording and hit post. I’m about to switch the screen off when a LinkedIn notification pops up on the screen, telling me I’ve got a new message from Carter Langley. God, I really need to get rid of that app.
I can only see the preview of the message, but from the way he starts out with “Hey Zeke, just wanted to circle back,” I already know I’m never gonna read the rest. Carter’s always saying things like “circle back” and “move the needle”, and god, I just…
I’m not cut out for that stuff. I tried—when I first moved to Hawthorne Bay after my Boston roommates kicked me out—to get a “real job”, as Will would say, but nothing panned out.
Lydia even helped me with my resume, but nobody took the bait.
Those hiring departments can probably smell a screw-up with a DUI on his record a mile away.
But whatever. I’m glad for it now. While someone like Carter Langley’s living life as a corporate sellout, I get to go around eating face with ghosts on camera—and people sponsor me.
Okay, two people sponsor me. But it’s a start.
I’ll get there. And regardless, I’ve got fans. Carter’s a nice guy and all, but…
Suck on that.
Which reminds me. I’ve got to get home to edit the podcast episode I recorded about that used bookstore in Hadley.
Since I don’t want to walk directly past Autumn’s boutique again—awkward—I cross the street at the corner and make my way down the street to where I parked my car.
As I pass the bookstore, the hot blond college chick who works there waves at me through the window.
I smirk back at her, remembering I’ve been meaning to tap that ass at some point, but keep on walking.
Booty can wait, the podcast cannot. Not if I want to get back to Boston.
Digging my keys out of my jeans pocket, I head around the front of the car and stick the key in the driver’s side door—because yeah, my car’s kind of a trash wagon, and I don’t have one of those fancy key fobs that unlocks the thing from two states away.
Once again: I’ll get there. As I’m about to duck inside the car, I happen to glance up.
I’m parked in front of the thrift store, and there’s a whole load of tarnished, tacky knick-knacks littering the front window.
But there’s one thing that catches my eye.
In between the creepy-ass dolls and the gaudy, glittering costume jewelry that no one but somebody’s grandma is going to ever walk out of there with, there’s a simple ruby pendant.
I’m sure it’s not a real ruby, but it’s a deep, rich red and doesn’t look as obviously made of glass as the others surrounding it.
I walk closer to the window to get a better look.
The pendant is set within a backing of dark, latticed iron, with twisty talons that reach around the sides and grab hold of the gem like some mysterious lover. Looped through the top of the pendant is a delicate chain of the same dark metal.
This thing? It makes me shiver. It makes my spine prickle and the hair on my arms stand straight on end.
Because the longer I stand there looking at it, the louder I can hear it whispering.
I don’t know what it’s saying—the dead always sound like some kind of sacred, unknowable language to me—but there’s something special about that pendant.
And it immediately makes me think of Autumn.
I walk into the store and buy it, not even sure what to do with it yet, just knowing I couldn’t leave it there.
Hell, it was calling me. As I slip it into my pocket and get into the car, I notice the whispering’s gotten quieter—like the thing got what it wanted and is now biding its time.
Which is good. If I’m going to give it to Autumn like I’m tempted to do—and that’s a big if, I’m not big on coming across as thoughtful and tender—it’s probably a good thing that whatever’s attached to the pendant has calmed down.
But as soon as I turn down the driveway of Autumn’s lake house, it starts in again. This time louder. Like a beautiful, swirling hiss. And I don’t know what to make of that, except to shove the thing in the silverware drawer inside the cabin and forget about it.
Which is exactly what I do.