Chapter 27

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

KENNEDY

“Wait,” I say, “are you talking in character?” But I already know the answer. Everything in me is hot and gooey, like the middle of a barely done chocolate chip cookie. I want nothing more than to fold into this man and this moment because this is as close to perfect as real life gets.

“No, Kennedy,” he says, lifting my hand to his lips and kissing it. “I’m not. I’m an idiot, and I don’t know what I’m doing at least three quarters of the time, but I love you. These past weeks…the only reason I haven’t fallen apart is because of you. Because I want to be the kind of man who’s good enough for you.”

“You don’t need to try to be that man,” I say, my heart pounding, a ball of raw emotion lodged in my throat. “You are him.” I’m suddenly not nearly close enough to him, and I get up from my side of the booth and move over to his, sliding in next to him, and his arm slips around me, cocooning me in his warmth. “You gave me the best day I’ve ever had, Rowan. The best…and playing Santa Claus for those kids tonight…” I feel tears pushing at my eyes. I know he did it for me, but he enjoyed it too. I could see the goodness in him tonight, from handing the pony to that little girl’s mother to giving out those gifts to passersby. I lean in, taking in his woodsy scent, and kiss the rasp of his bearded cheek. “I love you too.”

His eyes glint with warmth, with love , and he leans in and kisses me, soft and sweet. “Thank God for that,” he says, cupping my cheek. But his hand falls too soon. “Kennedy, would you ever consider…would you consider staying in Highland Hills?”

I think of Gayle, of my job at Leto’s Hands, of Olive and Nanny Rose. I don’t want to leave all of them, but I don’t have to, do I? I’m pretty sure I can work something out with Gayle, and I have the resources to visit Olive and Nanny Rose or fly them out here whenever I want. Plus, there’s an idea I’ve been working on in my head, something Rowan and I could work on together if he has a mind to. A project we could both pour ourselves into.

I’d also be with Zach and Tina, with Harry. I want that. I want this little town that I’ve experienced tonight, with the caroling, and Christmas all year, and people working together even though they don’t always like each other.

“I think so,” I tell him, and the joy in his face is so real, so potent, I almost weep. “But, Rowan,” I say. “We need to talk about the show.” I start telling him about Harry’s idea, about how we can hijack the narrative of the show and make it our own, but his lips set in a hard line, and the softness that was there moments ago is fading. Panic grips me.

He’s going to say no.

What will I do if he turns me down?

This is the only way I can finish the show without pretending to get engaged to Jonah or Marcus or Jeff. (Let’s be honest, Colton’s poetry and obsession with stomach conditions sealed his doom.) It’s the only way we can be together now, on our own terms.

It’s the only way I can still help Leto’s Hands and Harry.

“Kennedy,” Rowan says, his voice sad, resigned. “I can’t do that.”

Panic weeds through my arms and legs, my head. When he shrugs his arm off me so he can scrub his beard with both hands, I feel the loss of his touch, and my panic grows.

“It’s the only way,” I tell him. “It’s the only way we can be together now, without me pretending—”

“Don’t you see?” he asks, his tone beseeching. “The thing I hate most about this town is the way people talk, the way they’ve always looked at me—like they know everything about me because they know about my past. If we did this, they’d never let it go. I’d always be that guy. Worse, people across the country would be looking into our business, our lives. You think my mother would let this go? She’d see it as her chance for the spotlight, and she’d find someone to interview her about it.”

“So you want me to choose one of the guys?” I ask, horrified. “If I did that, I’d have to pretend—”

“No,” he says emphatically. “No. Can’t we just…”

“What?” I ask, pushing away on the bench, suddenly pissed. Partly at him, and partly at this situation we’ve backed ourselves into. “What? You want me to shut down the show so we can be together? Don’t you see what a big F-U that would be to Leto’s Hands? To Harry? To all the people who have poured themselves into this production? You wouldn’t only be screwing your grandmother, Rowan. You realize that, right?”

“I—”

But I’ll never know what he was going to say, because there’s an epic crash close to us, followed by a slew of swearing. I look over and see a tray full of food has fallen to the ground, creating an enormous mess, and Ivy and a guy at the table closest to us, who had a sheaf of papers in front of him, are standing in the middle of it. His crisp white shirt has ketchup and some liquid splashed over it, and several of the papers have scattered across the floor. He’s handsome, I realize, the kind of good looks that are hard to miss—dark eyes and tousled dark hair—but I didn’t even notice earlier because my attention was so thoroughly fixed on Rowan. I’m unmoved by this stranger, just as I am by Marcus’s beauty.

Ivy looks apologetic, until the man turns on her, his full lips pursed. He removes his glasses and sets them on the table. “You screwed up my manuscript.”

“Excuse me,” she says, putting a hand on her hip. “You tripped me. Who puts a bag out in the middle of the floor?”

“It was next to my chair,” he says wryly. “I figured I was allowed to set things down next to my chair.”

Rowan gives me a slight nudge and, taking the hint, I get up and let him out. He approaches the guy like a bear who’s been poked. “Don’t talk to my sister like that,” he grumbles. Then, “I don’t like the way you were looking at her earlier and watching me and my girl.”

My heart does a stupid little flip…because he called me his girl.

I’m not sure how much longer I’ll get to keep that title.

He asked me to move to Highland Hills with him, but he won’t do any of the things that will make that happen. He wants me to change my life for him—without him changing anything for me.

The guy lifts his hands to indicate he’s no threat. “I heard you saying your last name, is all. I wondered if you were related to someone I know.”

Rowan shoots me a look as if to say this is what’ll happen, Kennedy, don’t you see? But the guy continues, “Willow.”

So it’s not Rowan’s grandmother or mother this guy knows about. He’s not here because of the show.

Rowan flinches. “You know our sister?”

“I’m Lou,” the man tells him, his gaze shooting from Ivy back to Rowan. “You’re her brother and sister.”

“Yeah, but your name doesn’t clarify who you are,” Rowan says. “She’s never mentioned a Lou.”

“You and I have crossed paths before,” the guy insists. “I’m a friend of her fiancé’s. I was there when he proposed to Willow back in the spring. They told me about this place, you know. Highland Hills, I mean. Not the brewery. They said small town folk are nicer.” There’s a dryness to the remark.

“Why didn’t Willow say anything?” Rowan asks suspiciously.

“She doesn’t know,” Lou says. “I’ve been trying to keep a low profile. Keep to myself. It’s just…I heard your name, and I wondered if you knew her.”

“Well, let’s pick up this food,” Ivy says, giving Lou a dirty look that suggests he’s at fault for the whole thing. To be fair, his bag is jutting into the aisle between the tables, and something tells me she was watching the fight between Rowan and me more than she was the ground at her feet.

“I’m going to go back to the inn to change my shirt,” Lou says, his mouth in an expression of distaste. He starts stacking his papers, even grabbing the few saturated ones on the floor. There’s something a little jumpy about his movements, like he doesn’t want anyone to take too close of a look at those pages.

“It would be the gentleman-like thing to help,” Ivy tells him.

“Good thing I’m not a gentleman,” he says. “Plus, as far as I can tell, you’re the one who works here.”

Rowan glowers at him. “You say you’re a friend of Willow’s. Willow would stay and help.”

“Yeah,” Lou says with an almost wistful expression. “She would.” And then he takes out his wallet, slaps down some cash on the table, grabs his things, and leaves in his ketchup-smeared shirt.

I slide out of the booth, clutching the bag that holds my pony. It’s time for me to go too.

“What are you doing?” Rowan asks, looking at me with wide eyes when he sees me take a step away from the booth. I’m suddenly aware that everyone is staring at us. Everyone.

Part of me recognizes that this is what Rowan doesn’t want—to be watched, to be studied, to be interpreted by people who don’t know him. And I can understand that. Even so, I’m crushed by the knowledge that he won’t do it for me when it’s the only way we can be together without any pretense.

“I’m going to help Ivy,” I say. “And then I’m going back to Labelle Manor.”

“It’s okay,” Ivy says. “That jackwad was right. I do technically work here, and I did technically create this mess. I’ll clean it up.” But she gives Rowan a censuring look that suggests he should clean up his own messes.

Too bad I’m starting to think there’s no cleaning this one up.

“I’m going to take you back to the house,” he says. “Of course I’m going to take you.”

But then his phone rings. His brow furrows, his whole body going to attention, and he pulls it out. “Shit. Fuck,” he says after checking the number.

“I hope you don’t say that when I call,” Ivy quips.

He looks up at us. “It’s the firehouse. I’m on call.”

Ivy, who’s been borrowing her dad’s car while she’s in town, gives me a ride back to Labelle Manor. Apparently, Cole, the owner of brewery, was happy to give her a break, possibly because the tray of food she spilled all over the ground wasn’t her first mishap for the night. I hope she’s better at writing than she is at serving.

Before he left us, Rowan looked me in the eye, his expression pleading, and said, “We’re not done talking about this.” Except it feels like we are done. He still doesn’t want to be on the show, and I don’t know where that leaves us. I’m also worried, in spite of myself, about the fire. I know the majority of his calls aren’t even about fires—most are from people who’ve locked themselves out, or can’t get their cat or dog or child down from a tree, or have started a kitchen fire. But I still hate thinking of him walking into a blaze with little protection besides his suit. He’s such a big man, seemingly unbreakable, but we’re all breakable in the end.

“So, men are stupid at least ninety percent of the time,” Ivy says after a stretch of silence. Her mouth twists. “Maybe more like ninety-five. They need a lot of help realizing what they actually think and feel. Like it would be great if each of them had a pocket therapist, you know?”

“Are we talking about your brother?” I ask, feeling a smile surface.

“Yes,” she says. “He’s possibly the most stubborn man alive, but don’t let that put you off. Because he’s also loyal…and sweet…and very, very talented. You should see those little cars he makes. I’m not even into cars, but I can tell they’re special. He’s just…he’s a quiet guy, and he thinks he wants a quiet life.”

“I think he really does want that,” I say thoughtfully, hugging my pony through the bag. “And being with me would really mess things up for him.”

“So what?” Ivy says flippantly. “So, things will be a little louder than he’d like for a while. People will pay him more attention than he cares to receive. So what? They’ll stop caring. People always stop caring after a while. They’ll move on to someone else, and he can go back to being a hermit crab.”

“I don’t think he sees things that way,” I tell her.

“That’s okay, Kennedy, because he has several pocket therapists. We’re called sisters, and we’re gonna screw his head on straight for you. We’ll try to get him down to being stupid only ninety percent of the time.”

I laugh, but there are still tears behind my eyes, because I don’t really believe it. I don’t believe anyone could convince him to be on the show—and even if he did, I think he’d regret it.

I don’t think I’m enough.

“Tell me more about the book you’re writing,” I say. I just…I can’t talk about Rowan right now. I can’t think about him.

She gives me a quick sidelong look as she steers the car, then tells me that she doesn’t know what’s going to happen yet because she’s a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants kind of girl, and she knows as much about what will happen in it right now as I do.

Talking to her, I think of Rowan and the maybe-fire.

“You don’t think it’s a real fire, do you?” I ask worriedly.

She reaches over and taps my hand. “If it is, he’ll help put it out. It’s emotions he struggles with. He’s never had any trouble being brave.”

She probably meant for that to make me feel better, but it doesn’t.

When we get closer to Labelle Manor, I hear sirens behind us, and I glance at her in surprise. Her eyes leave the road for a fraction of a second to meet mine.

“You don’t think—” I start.

But they’re already getting louder. It’s obvious they are going in the same direction, maybe even to the same place.

“Ivy…Harry’s in that house. And my dog Jester…and everyone else.”

“Fuck,” she says with feeling. “I really like dogs.”

Nervous laughter pours out of me as she steps on the gas. I’m not sure why she’s speeding up when the fire truck is behind us. What the heck are we going to do if we get there first? But I don’t tell her to slow down. Those vines of worry are squeezing me.

It doesn’t take long for the truck to catch up, and Ivy pulls out of the way for it to pass us. I watch it, my heart in my throat, looking for some sign of Rowan, but of course there isn’t one.

“I don’t like this,” I tell Ivy.

“Me either,” she says, following them like a speed demon.

There’s another alarm, another truck.

Then a third.

If there had only been one truck, I’d think maybe it was a false alarm. But three? This means Rowan’s with them, definitely, and there’s almost certainly a fire or some other sort of emergency.

It occurs to me that I’m not supposed to be out of the house, and now I’ll definitely be caught, but what does it matter if there’s a fire at the house?

Some things are more important than the rules.

Those vines of worry grow tighter. What if no one remembers Jester’s in there? What if they leave him to get hurt by the fire? What if Rowan is hurt in the fire?

“They’re going to be okay,” Ivy says, but from the way she’s saying it, it’s as if she thinks she can will it to be true. I know that’s not the case. I remember seeing Olive’s grandmother collapse as if it were yesterday. Nanny Rose told us it would be okay too, and it wasn’t.

But I don’t say any of that. Rowan might be…well, I love him, but he’s her brother.

Both of us are tense as she zooms up the long driveway. The sirens are no longer blaring, signaling that the trucks have reached their destination, but now that we’re closer, smoke is drifting in through the car’s air system. I don’t think I’ve ever been this afraid before in my whole life.

When we reach the point where the driveway widens, Ivy pulls to the side, out of the way, and parks. We’re at a distance but more than close enough to see the house is smoking like a burning birthday cake, and several uniformed firefighters are hustling about, spraying it with water. A window on the second floor breaks, and flames lick out of it. A frightened gasp escapes my lips. No, no, no.

There’s a group of people gathered to the right of Ivy’s car. A fireman stands with them, in uniform except for the helmet. I can make out Harry, thank God, rubbing his head as if he has lice and a good brushing with his hand might chase them out. There’s Jonah, dressed in red flannel pajamas, and Colton, wearing a reindeer pullover that must have been sent by his mother. Jeff. Marcus. There’s no sign of Nana Mayberry, but then she’s usually not at the house this late. I do make out all of the production assistants, plus the cameramen. They’re okay. They’re okay. Their faces are pale and full of panic, but they’re unharmed.

There’s no sign of Jester.

If Rowan’s one of the firemen who’s bustling around, I can’t tell. The uniforms they wear cover their entire bodies and faces.

Ivy leaves the car with purpose, and I stumble out after her. She grabs my arm and marches up to the group of people. The fireman instantly steps forward to intercept her, even as Harry breathes out, “Oh, thank God, you’re okay,” and wraps me into a smoky hug. I’m trembling, I realize, and so is he.

“Harry, what happened?” I ask him.

Jonah says, “Who are you?” looking straight at me, and I realize he hasn’t caught on to the wig. I tug it off. Then the glasses. I left my pony bag in the car, so I shove them into the pocket of my coat. He reacts with as much shock as someone in one of those makeover montage movies. “It’s you.”

A couple of the other guys address me too, but I don’t process what they’re saying. My gaze is on Harry.

He opens his mouth to speak. Then both of us divert our attention to Ivy as the fireman sidesteps to stay in her path.

“You can’t go any further, ma’am,” he says gruffly.

She scowls at him. “Don’t call me ma’am. I’ll have you know we were in Algebra II together, and we’re very much the same age. I’m looking for my brother.”

The guy swears under his breath, studying her, then says, “Shit. I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Where’s Rowan?” she insists, clearly not in the mood for questions. Neither am I, come to that. I need to know Rowan is safe. I need it more than I’ve ever needed anything in my whole life.

“He’s in the house,” the fireman says. “Says there’s a dog in there.”

Worry tightens around me to the point where I can barely breathe. What if I lose them both? What if Rowan dies but Jester survives, and I know it’s all my fault?

“Damn it, Rowan. Damn it,” Ivy says, and I can tell she’s jumping in her skin, same as me. Neither of us are wearing coats. We took them off in the car and didn’t think of it when we got out, but I can barely feel the deep chill. I’m numb. I’m full of excruciating pain. I’m terrified.

“This is all my fault!” Harry bellows.

“What happened?” I ask, vaguely remembering that he’d promised Rowan to provide a distraction so no one would go looking for us. If it’s his fault, I guess it’s partially ours as well.

“It’s not his fault,” Marcus says calmly. “We were all worried about you, obviously”—he eyes me curiously, probably wondering about the wig and glasses disguise—“and Harry suggested a cookie baking competition to keep our mind off things. But Jonah here…” His mouth firms. “Misread the recipe and set the oven to 523 instead of 325 and then forgot to set the alarm. We’re guessing the fire started in the kitchen.”

“It could have happened to anyone,” Jonah says in a sulky tone, watching as more flames lick through the broken window.

Rowan is in there. He’s in there.

Ivy eyes that window too before saying woodenly, “I doubt that could have caused a fire like this. Are you sure nothing else happened?”

“I’ll never make a cookie again,” Harry says. “I’ll never eat one again as penance!”

Colton gives Jonah a lingering look. “You were gone for a long time before we started the cookie thing. You never explained where you went.”

“The pool room,” he says, sounding annoyed. “Don’t the rest of you get bored and wander around?”

Jeff shrugs in agreement. “The rooster room’s my favorite,” he offers.

“That’s because you’re a dick,” Jonah says, snickering.

“Can you stop it?!” I shout, my voice louder than intended. “Rowan is in danger. Doesn’t anyone care?”

“Who’s Rowan?” Marcus asks, his brow wrinkled. Something flashes in his eyes, a connection being made, and then he says, “Is he the guy who said you were already out of the house?”

I can feel myself breaking because I’m not supposed to act like Rowan is important to me. I’m not supposed to act like my heart is in there, in danger. To them, he’s no one, someone who tinkered around on set for a few days before leaving—the relative of a woman they don’t much care for. To me, though, to me…

A figure bursts through the door in a cloud of smoke, and tears instantly fall from my eyes, because it’s him . It’s him. He’s okay . And there’s a little bundle cradled in his hands that can only be Jester.

My heart beating hard in my chest, I take a step toward him, then another. The fireman who was blocking Ivy tries to sidestep in front of me, but I can’t let him. I can’t. Other people shout at me, and I hear Harry, in particular, but I don’t pay them any attention. I run to Rowan as he steps away from the burning building, Jester in his arms. I run to him.

Someone stops me before I get very far, but I don’t even look to see who it is. Because I’m crying too hard, my arms are extended toward them.

I need to know they’re okay. I need to see Jester breathing. I need to see Rowan’s face.

The next thing I know, Ivy is taking me from whoever stopped me. She’s hugging me hard.

“They say the building’s going to go, Kennedy,” she says into my ear. “We need to get Jester and get out of here.”

“But…Rowan,” I say through sobs.

“He’s okay,” she tells me softly, running a soothing hand through my hair. “He’s going to be okay. We’re going to get Jester from him so we can bring him to the emergency vet, and then we’ll let him do his thing. He’s not in any more danger.”

She says something to the man who was holding me back, and he signals to someone, who signals to someone else, and we’re led over to the back of one of the fire trucks. Rowan’s sitting there with his helmet and mask off, his face red and streaked with soot. He’s drinking water from a straw someone gave him, and there’s a medic next to him, taking his blood pressure.

Jester is in his lap. He looks groggy, but he’s awake.

Rowan saved him.

I want to race across the distance between us. I want to cover him in kisses. I want to take him back to his house and make love to him for hours.

But he takes a look at us, emotion washing over his face, his eyes brimming with it, then says, “I think he’ll be all right, ma’am, but you’ll need to take him to an emergency vet for smoke inhalation. No one else was harmed in the fire.”

The blood in my veins turns to ice. He’s pretending he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t want any of these people to know we mean something to each other. Part of my mind recognizes why he’s doing it—I don’t want the show to end and he doesn’t want to be on it—but I figured that this situation—an emergency—would supersede all that. I figured that he, like me, couldn’t give two shits about the show right now. I guess I was wrong.

I stiffen my back, wipe my cheeks, and pretend right back.

“Thank you, sir ,” I say, looking into his eyes. “I was really worried about him, but I can see that he’s doing just fine without me.”

Then I scoop up my dog and turn my back on Rowan.