Chapter 19
AVA - PITCHFORKS
The dress was red. Low at the back and fitted. A little too nice for a fundraiser at a local community hall, but I wasn’t in the mood to blend in.
Remi had insisted I wear it.
“It’s just a dress,” she’d said when I’d scowled at my reflection. “Not an agreement to a ceasefire.”
Now, standing just outside the event doors with her, I was starting to think she was wrong.
Because the moment I stepped into the hall, it felt like every pair of eyes turned our way.
The air smelled faintly of starch and floor polish, the kind that clung to every small-town gathering place. Laughter rose in uneven pockets, the kind of laughter that stretched a little too wide when politics or grief were in the room.
Remi wore a deep green wrap dress, heels that made her look three inches taller, and a quiet confidence that didn’t come from vanity—it came from survival. From grit. From learning how to take up space without apology.
We walked in side by side, the familiar hum of polite conversation and cheap wine filling the air. A local band strummed something soft near the corner. Decorations were minimal but tasteful… someone had tried. Probably Remi.
I had wondered more and more lately if she worked so hard, if she never stopped, because she was desperately trying to live enough, do enough for her and Jenny both. Like filling both pairs of shoes was the only way Remi knew how to get out of bed in the morning.
She leaned over and whispered, “See? No pitchforks. No torches. Just overcooked meatballs and watered-down drinks.”
“Maybe they’re hiding the pitchforks behind the coat rack.”
She rolled her eyes. “Try not to bite anyone.”
I bit at the air and replied with a wink. “No promises.”
I scanned the crowd, my mood already fraying, until I saw him.
And I froze.
Harlan stood near the podium, deep in conversation with a councilwoman, a whiskey glass in one hand. His suit was dark and pressed, his tie neat, his jaw clean-shaven.
And on his head?
A goddamn cowboy hat.
Remi leaned in. “Okay, I see it now.”
“See what?” I asked.
She gave me a look, saying you are not fooling anyone and hit me with: “He asked about you yesterday.”
“Shut up.”
“What did I say?” She laughed.
“Something that means nothing.”
She grinned.
And I hated her a little for it.
Because Harlan Gray had no right to clean up like that. He had no right to look like he belonged here, like he was the kind of man who remembered to bring flowers and hold doors open, even though I knew damn well he was also the kind who could pin someone to a wall with nothing but his stare.
He caught sight of us and excused himself from the conversation.
Remi nudged me. “Be nice.”
“I’ll try.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I elbowed her and she laughed... again. Like I was suddenly her personal source of amusement.
He walked up slowly, hat tipped slightly, lips twitching like he knew exactly what he was doing to my blood pressure.
“Evening, Ms. Sinclair,” he said.
“Harlan,” I replied sharply.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.
I tilted my head. “You invited us.”
“Still. I figured you’d show up late. Maybe stage a protest.”
“Still on the table.”
His grin widened. Then, to Remi: “You look sharp, Carter.”
She smiled. “I always do, Chief.”
“You going to say the same to me?” I asked.
He turned his eyes back to me, lingering a second too long.
“You look…” He cleared his throat. “Formidable.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Careful, Chief. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Maybe it was.”
Around us, conversations dipped. Not stopped entirely, but faltered, like people were paying attention without wanting to look like they were. I could feel the weight of it. The unspoken curiosity. The unhidden judgment.
Remi slipped away then, off to greet someone from the housing board, leaving me standing there with a man who made my blood boil and my knees weak in equal measure.
He held out his hand.
I looked at it.
Then at him.
“I don’t dance.”
“Sure, you do,” he said. “You just don’t like being led.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What makes you think I’ll let you?”
He didn’t answer. Just waited. Like he had all night to wait for me.
And like a goddamn idiot, I put my hand in his.
The band shifted into something slower. He pulled me gently to the floor, one hand on my back, the other steady around mine.
He didn’t try to pull me close. He didn’t try to talk. He just… moved with me. Like it was easy. Like he knew the rhythm and had no intention of rushing it.
It infuriated me.
“You’re trying to change my mind about you,” I said quietly.
“No,” he said. “I’m trying to show you who I actually am.”
“That sounds like something a liar would say.”
“Maybe.” His voice was low. Honest. “But I’m not asking you to trust me. Just… dance.”
I looked at him then, at the quiet weight he carried, at the way he didn’t pull away from my anger or my fire. I felt small in his large hands, fragile but not in a way that I was afraid he’d break me... but in the way that felt it was okay to be fragile in this man’s hands… in his care.
And that terrified me.
“You’re gonna start rumours dancing with the enemy,” I said.
“Let ’em talk.”
The music played on, and he pulled me a little closer. My pulse tripped, furious with myself for letting him.
Across the room, I saw Jack arrive. He smiled when he caught my eye, but it didn’t quite reach.
People turned with him, a ripple of recognition.
A few whispered. Remi walked over to greet him.
They hugged, but it didn’t look right—her body stiff, his arms loose, like both were playing roles they didn’t quite believe.
I looked back at Harlan and saw his grey eyes watching me. Watching everything.
“You don’t give up easily, do you?” I asked.
He shook his head once, eyes steady. “Not on things that matter.”
The words dug under my ribs. They didn’t sound like flirtation. They sounded like a promise.
I hated that he said that. Hated how much I wanted to believe him.
But tonight wasn’t about belief.
It was about showing up.
And we both had.