Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ROWAN

“Why are you being so weird?” Holly asks, giving me a searching look. We’re in our house, sitting on the couch across from the bare tree—a reminder, as if I need one, of everything that went down last weekend.

“I’m not being weird,” I snap at her. Weirdly.

It’s Wednesday, and I still haven’t told anyone what Jay told me. Well, anyone except for Kennedy Littlefield, and I threw that burden on her just before ghosting her.

Yup, I’m a real catch.

I’m guessing that Jay hasn’t told anyone either because none of my sisters have asked me any leading questions about my parentage.

“You’re being super-duper weird, actually,” Holly says, her eyes calculating. “Is this about Kennedy? Or lingering psychological damage from listening to our grandmother make out with a thirty-year-old.”

My mouth automatically twists with distaste. I did tell her that much, mostly because I wanted to take the heat off myself. My sister had plenty of questions about why I was half naked in the changing room with Kennedy when everyone in my family knows I’m trying to derail her TV show. Dammit. Holly even asked if I’d seduced Kennedy to fuck up the show, which made me feel like a real piece of shit, even though it wasn’t true.

Truth is, I didn’t put much thought into it at all. I touched her, tasted her, because I wanted to. Because I couldn’t, in those moments, think of anything else. And I can’t lie. Even though my life has been transformed by the events of the past several days, I’ve been thinking about her. My mind keeps going back to that empty pool, to the way she opened her legs to me. To the way she looked at me after I told her about Jay.

My sister’s still staring at me, though, waiting for an answer, and she’s not the patient type. “It’s not about Kennedy,” I tell her through my dry mouth. I’m not sure whether or not it’s a lie. “And I will always be disturbed by overhearing Nana making out with that asshole.”

“I don’t believe you,” she says, tapping me on the nose. I grimace at her. She rolls her eyes. “Oh, your grumpy expressions don’t faze me. If you insist you’re not acting weird, then how come you didn’t go visit Jay with us last night?”

They all went—Holly and Bryn; Willow, who drove up from Asheville and is staying with Bryn; and Ivy, who arrived from Charleston on Monday and is staying at Jay’s.

I told them I had work to do.

I hid in my room.

Willow was particularly pissed because she and I have always been so close. We’ve had the bond of knowing we had the same piece-of-shit dad, only now I know he isn’t my piece-of-shit dad. In some ways, I fear telling Willow most of all because maybe our special bond will disintegrate.

If I told Kennedy that, I bet she’d say that I wouldn’t treat Willow any differently if the situation were reversed, so I shouldn’t expect worse from my sister…and also that Ivy and me might get closer. Maybe she’d be right…if I could bring myself to tell either of them.

Coward.

Willow’s still in Highland Hills, but she’s leaving for Asheville later this evening. Ivy’s going to stay for a few weeks, maybe into the new year, depending on what the doctors say about Jay. After she arrived, she confirmed what I already knew from Kennedy—Kerry left, and she is not, in fact, a nice woman. I guess Jay didn’t tell anyone because he was trying to delude himself into believing she’d come back.

I can understand that. I’m all about believing unpleasant truths will go away if I avoid them well enough.

“Why don’t we talk about Oliver and Harry?” I suggest.

Holly skewers me with a suspicious look. “You never want to gossip.”

Shit, she’s right. “Well, our roommate and my best friend are going out on a date tonight. That’s a thing. It seems like the sort of thing women like to talk about.”

She snorts. “Are you asking for a matchmaking medal? Because I’m pretty sure Willow would make you one. She’s all about celebrating false accomplishments.”

“Hey,” I say, my tone turning harsh. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

She gives my shoulder a shove. “I wasn’t saying it’s a bad thing, dipstick. She’d do it because she’s way nicer than the rest of us, which most people would agree is a good thing.”

I give her a pointed look. “Most people, not including you.”

“Correct,” she agrees. “Being too nice is a definite failing, but it just makes her more loveable.” She gives me a sly look. “Cole and Jane are coming over in twenty minutes to decorate the tree. Are you going to stay and help? I made cookies.”

I can’t help but laugh at that. No one taught us how to cook or bake when we were kids, so only the motivated ones learned how. Holly and I did not. “You don’t know how to make cookies.”

She laughs with me. “Okay, fine. So Cole made them. What’s the point of dating someone if you can’t take credit for their hard work?”

“I will take a cookie, since you had nothing to do with making them, and then I’m going to clear out,” I tell her. “I acquired the tree, and it’s on you and your crew to make something of it.”

She gives me a naval salute, which seems particularly wrong since we’re in Western North Carolina, a good seven hours from the water, and says, “Aye-aye, Skipper.”

I’m about to complain about the whole naval thing, when my phone rings. My heart instantly starts racing in my chest, but a quick glance at the screen reveals it’s Harry’s number.

“Harry,” I say, lifting it. “You think he got lost?”

“Surely he has GPS on his phone.” She makes a face. “Unless he’s still in that thought spiral about people using it to track him.”

We’ve learned Harry takes dips into the toxic waters of conspiracy theories now and again, especially the ones related to possible misuses of technology. It seems to happen mostly when he’s stressed, and he’s understandably very stressed working with our grandmother. And living with us.

Nodding to my sister, I lift the phone and answer. “What’s up, man? You get to the restaurant okay?”

“It’s me,” a woman’s voice says, and it takes me only half a second to register that it’s Kennedy. She says her name, but it’s unnecessary.

“Shit, did Harry lose his phone?” I ask.

“No,” she says softly. “He lent it to me. I’ve been feeling a bit lonely, so he figured I might want to call someone.”

I hate the thought of her being lonely. She’s someone who exudes light. She’s a bit like Willow, actually—too sweet for a world that likes to throw people around just for fun. I shouldn’t like that about her, but I do. In fact, I’ve spent more time than I should admit searching for bulldog puppies in the county because (a) she doesn’t even live here, and (b) I’m not certain she’d be allowed to keep a dog in the Labelles’ house.

“You should have called Olive,” I say, like a dick. I can feel Holly watching me, so I get to my feet and pace into the kitchen. Sure enough, there’s a big tub of cookies that look much too good for a Mayberry to have made them. My only hope for avoiding uncomfortable questions after this call is that Holly might think I said Oliver, not Olive.

“Probably,” Kennedy says. “But I wanted to call you. Have you been avoiding me?”

There’s something so sad in her voice when she says it, and I instantly feel like the biggest jerk on the planet.

“Yes,” I admit, grabbing a paper towel. I take one cookie, pause, and take another. They’re decorated to look like Santas, which would normally make me roll my eyes, only it’s obvious that Jane, Cole’s daughter, must have done the decorating. “But to be fair, I’ve been avoiding everyone. I’ve made an art of it.” I head outside to the car, ignoring Holly’s searching gaze. I’m on call tonight, anyway, so I figure I’ll go hang out at the firehouse.

“That’s not the kind of thing you should brag about,” she says. “I take it you haven’t told anyone about Jay?”

I sigh as I slide behind the wheel of my truck. “No. I don’t really know what to say.”

“Maybe you don’t have to say anything,” she says, warming to the subject. “Maybe you just need to tell them and let them say what they want.”

Something inside me knows she’s right. It’ll come out at some point, especially if my mother has decided it might get her some of the attention she craves. It would be better for me to do the telling.

“We’ll see,” I tell her. “You throw Jonah out yet?”

“I don’t get to cut anyone else until Friday,” she says. “Are you going to come back?”

“Do you really want me to?” I ask, placing the cookies on the passenger seat.

“I really do,” she says. “I know it’s not a great situation that we’re in, but I want to get to know you better. I want to spend more time with you.”

My heartbeat kicks up, because I can’t deny that sounds fucking great. There are just two problems with her plan. One, if I have to watch those assholes romance her, I’ll lose my mind. Two, I felt on the verge of losing control with her, and I’ve seen what happens when people let themselves lose their minds for someone. I want no part of it.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” I tell her.

“Oh,” she says. It’s such a simple word. Not even a word, really, but it carries the weight of the world. And I feel like complete shit for having put it there.

“I want to see you, Princess,” I admit, because it’s true, and I can’t have her thinking otherwise. “But I don’t think I can sit back and watch—”

“ Oh ,” she says again, and this time, it’s an altogether different sound, almost breathy. My cock twitches. Shit.

“There’s something else,” she adds, and from the way she says it, it’s obvious this isn’t a good something else. “Your grandmother…she knew things she shouldn’t have known about last weekend. She made me play Truth or Dare with the guys today, and there was a list of suggested dares that included skinny dipping in the pool.”

I say “fuck” with feeling. I hate the thought of anyone witnessing any part of what we shared. It was private. It was perfect . And what if it’s one of the guys who’s spying and not my grandmother? What if some pervert is watching her while she undresses at night? While she touches herself?

“Did you search the room for a bug?” I growl.

“Harry looked, and he couldn’t find anything,” she says. “You know he’s really paranoid about stuff like that, but would you like to…”

I’ve already put the truck into drive. “I’m on my way.”

It’s not until I park outside the house that I realize I grabbed two cookies because I wanted to give one to her.

Kennedy’s eyes light up when I shove the cookie at her. “Here, it’s for you.”

“I love it,” she says as I shut the door behind me.

“Let’s not make a big deal out of it,” I say, even as my eyes catch on the Christmas tree she has displayed in front of the closed window. I like that she has it up, although she probably loves it because it makes her think of Christmas, not because it makes her think of the man who got it for her on an impulse he didn’t fully understand. “I didn’t bake them.”

Her lips twitch with amusement. “I didn’t assume you had. But I’m no less grateful. I love Christmas cookies.”

“I’m not surprised.”

She’s wearing that damn Christmas tree farm shirt again, which makes me remember, with a pulse of regret, that I lost mine. This time it’s paired with yoga pants, probably because there’s a cold bite in the air. Ray’s Weather Center says there’ll be snow this weekend, or early next week at the latest, and Ray knows his shit.

“Is that the only thing you have that’s not an overpriced gown?”

“One of the only things,” she says with a slight smile. “I also have a ridiculous equestrian outfit that I think you would have enjoyed very much.” Her nose wrinkles. “The horse smell was less enjoyable.”

She looks down at the cookie and then lifts it for a bite, her full lips closing around it. Santa’s one lucky man to be consumed by her. And there’s your proof that falling for a woman can make you lose your ever-loving mind.

“Where’d Harry look in your room?” I ask.

“Everywhere,” she says. “He was pretty thorough.”

“We’ll be more thorough.”

We start by the bedroom door and work inward from there. I can already tell it’s going to take a while with all the crap arranged around the room. The Labelles really have a thing for collecting dust in a variety of different ways. I move one piece of junk, then another. There are no listening devices or cameras, or at least none I can see. Kennedy trails me with the cookie.

“You’re good at this,” she says. “Look for bugs often?”

“No,” I say. “But it’s not the first time. I told you I’m a handyman. One time, this woman had me check her house for bugs because she thought her husband was trying to spy on her. They were going through a divorce.”

“Was he?” she asks.

She must be interested in the story, because she hasn’t taken another bite. It’s sort of…well, it’s cute.

“I didn’t find anything. So either he wasn’t as much of a shit as she thought, or I really suck at finding these things.” I smile at her. “Let’s hope it was the first.”

She laughs as she checks the area by the window where she’s set up the Christmas tree. Putting in front of the window is a bold choice, but the curtains are thick.

“Why do you like Christmas so much, anyway?” I ask, shooting a glance at her as I continue the search.

“It’s magical,” she says, taking another bite of the cookie, her teeth sinking into it in a way that shouldn’t feel sexual but does. Maybe it’s because my mind keeps going there with her, and I don’t know how to make it stop. “It’s a time where it feels like anything can happen.”

“If you have enough money to make it happen.”

Kennedy finishes the cookie and wipes her hands primly on the napkin before throwing it into the pumpkin-shaped trash bin. I swallow a scoff.

“The reasons I like it have nothing to do with money,” she says, meeting my eyes and holding them. I feel a weird stirring inside, like I missed her, and now that she’s here, I don’t want to step away from her. There’s a sudden, sharp awareness that we’re in a bedroom, and even though it looks like a kid’s room, there’s still a bed. A big bed. I’ll bet it’s soft.

I clear my throat and pick up a ceramic horse. The head falls off.

“Shit.” I say, dropping it. It shatters on the floor. “Fuck.”

Kennedy surprises me by laughing. “So you prefer Halloween and the headless horseman to Christmas?”

“What are the odds that was priceless?” I ask.

She waves to the little figurines all around the room. “What are the odds that they’ll notice?”

“Probably a lot lower if we hide the evidence,” I say, smirking at her.

“Put it in the dresser.” She smiles back at me.

I bring it over, and she comes with me. When I tug on the handle for the top drawer, she opens her mouth to say something, but she’s not quick enough. I’ve already slid it out, and it’s full of silky panties, green and gold and red, like her obsession with Christmas has slid into her underwear drawer. This woman obviously brings out something strange in me, because I want to bury my face in them. I want to stick a pair in my pocket. Instead, I look at her mutely.

“They won’t find it there,” she says.

“No, I guess not,” I tell her. Then I swallow and nestle the pieces of the horse inside, setting a few pairs of underwear on top.

She watches me do it, her pupils dilated, and I know without asking that we’re both thinking of the other night, of the way I pulled off her panties and made her come. I’d like to do it again. I’d like to throw her onto that princess bed and show her something truly magical.

Instead, I swallow and shut the drawer. “Why is it magical then, Princess?”

She takes a step toward me, then another. I feel my will crumbling like one of those cookies. “Remember what I told you about my parents’ Christmas Eve party? It’s a whole event. They spend a ton of money on caterers, gift bags, that kind of thing.”

“Yeah, sounds like a good time,” I say, my lips twitching. She takes another step toward me. I don’t think I’ve ever been so aware of someone’s presence…of the space they take up in a room.

“It’s terrible,” she says. “But one year, when I was six, I had a cold. My mother refused to share the same air as me because she wasn’t going to cancel her party for anything. My dad either. But they didn’t care about Nanny Rose or Olive getting sick, so they sent me home with them a few days before Christmas. And that’s when I realized what Christmas was supposed to be like. When I was feeling better, we went caroling with these big travel mugs of hot chocolate Nanny Rose made for us, and then we went to see Santa Claus at one of the big box stores.” She smiles in reminiscence. “My mother had never let me do that. She would have been scandalized. And we baked cookies together. We knew Santa came to visit us on Christmas Eve, because the next morning the cookies we’d set out were all gone.” She shrugs. “It was the best Christmas I ever had.”

“Your parents chose a party over you?” I ask, irrationally pissed. It wasn’t like my parents were any better, but I hated the thought of her being sent away so they could hold some stupid fucking party.

She smiles at me, but there’s plenty of sadness in it this time. “They always do, Rowan.” She takes another step toward me. “I have my brothers, though. Both of my brothers, but Phillip has always tried to follow in our father’s footsteps. Zach never fit into them.” She worries her lip in her teeth. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. I’d rather you heard it from him, but I think it might help you.”

“What?” I ask, interested in spite of myself. I’m spellbound to the bit of floor beneath me, like I can’t move away, but I also can’t move toward her.

“Our parents disowned Zach because he found out that our father wasn’t his biological dad. Our mother had an affair.”

A surprised “Oh shit” tears out of me.

Her mouth lifts slightly. “Exactly.”

“The fact that they disowned him isn’t exactly making me want to tell my sisters about all of this,” I say wryly.

“ I didn’t disown him,” she says fiercely. “In fact, we’ve become much closer since he told me. It changed our relationship and put us on equal footing.” She lifts her eyebrows. “Because you can’t be on equal footing with someone if you don’t trust them with your feelings.”

I laugh and adjust my weight, my feet still frozen. “Fuck, if that’s true, then I’m not on equal footing with anyone.”

That look of hers drills into me. “But you could be. They’re your sisters. They’ll want to go through this with you.”

I think again about Willow and how she’ll only be here for another few hours. “My sister Willow’s in town,” I say numbly. “And Ivy. They’re the ones I should tell first.”

“Why don’t you invite them out for coffee or a drink?” she suggests, just this side of bossy. It’s enough to make me scowl, because I grew up with a natural disinclination to do what I was told, but she blushes and slinks back a step, which I didn’t want.

“Okay,” I say.

“You’ll do it?” she asks, as excited as if I’d announced I wanted to go caroling in costume.

“Sure,” I say, one corner of my mouth hitching up. “Because you twisted my arm. But why do you care so much?”

“My mother would say that I care way too much about other people’s business and too little about my own.”

I’m close enough to touch her, and I don’t deny the desire any more. I tell myself I’m just doing it because she needs cheering up, but only a fool believes his own lies. Tipping up her chin slightly, I look into her big blue eyes. “And what would you say?”

She doesn’t flinch or look away, her gaze soaking into mine, her proximity making my skin feel like it’s buzzing. Her skin is warm and soft against mine, and I have a moment of self-consciousness. I know my hands are callused from building cars. From odd jobs. I try to pull away, but she lifts her other hand to mine, keeping it there.

“I’d say that I like you, even if I shouldn’t. I’ve been worried about you.”

“You don’t need to worry about me, Princess,” I say, but I don’t try moving my hand from her jaw. I find myself tracing the shape of it, the rest of my body inching closer. “I’m the last person you need to worry about.”

“I think you’re exactly the person I need to worry about,” she says. “If you don’t open up to anyone, who helps you carry the weight?”

I smile at her because I can’t help it.“Right now, I guess you are. Why go to that much trouble for someone you barely know, Kennedy?”

“Because I’d like to know you,” she says, as my fingers reach up to stroke her cheeks, to soak in a little more of her. “Truth. What’s your passion, Rowan?”

Right now, my passion is Kennedy Littlefield. But I know that’s not what she means. “Making model cars.” I curse as soon as the words come out, immediately feeling like an idiot. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not. You mentioned it to me the other day, but you didn’t tell me much. I’d like to know more.”

“They’re toys.”

“I didn’t know you liked kids,” she says with delight.

“I don’t,” I blurt, letting my hand drop. Then I instantly shrug. “Okay, I sort of do. I like the way kids see the world. I like that they haven’t been put into boxes yet, like the rest of us.”

She smiles. “I’d like to see some of your cars.”

I don’t plan on it. I just do it, which is maybe the story of my life. I lean in and kiss Kennedy, because even though I don’t want to need her, something inside of me does. She lets out a little gasp of surprise, and I swallow it, but it only takes her a second to wrap her arms around me and draw me closer. She’s sweet like that damn cookie, and I want her so much it physically pains me. I can’t remember ever wanting another woman this much.

It’s because of what happened while she was around , I tell myself. But I don’t really believe it. I deepen the kiss, because I want to forget the stupid voice in my head, and I really want to forget the six men competing to marry her. Hell, I want to make her forget it too, so I deepen our kiss, weaving a hand into her long hair so I can bring her closer—and because I have a bone-deep need to feel the silky strands wound between my fingers again.

Her breasts are pressed to my chest, the sweet sensation adding to my fire, making me want to strip that shirt off of her, because there’s no way in hell she’s wearing a bra. I feel like a fool for not doing that last time, when I had her splayed out before me. I could have had something else to think about at night.

She pulls away, her lips pink. “Is this a way to avoid showing me your cars? Because I still want to see them.”

“Maybe,” I say with a smirk. But to my surprise, I want to show her the damn cars.

I take out my phone, flinching when I see there are two missed calls from Oliver. “Shit,” I say, showing her the screen.

Her eyes go wide. “Harry.”

She checks the phone he left her with shaking hands, then shows me the screen.

Oliver: Hey, man, did you get held up?

Oliver: Where are you?

Oliver: Okay, Harry. I can take a hint. You could have just said no, you know.

“Rowan,” she says, her voice full of terror. “He was looking forward to this date. A lot. He never would have stood Oliver up.”