Page 7

“Take as long as you need,” he says.

I take them. He leans in and gives my forehead a brief, gentle kiss. My chest tightens as he steps back into the hall.

“I’ll be out here if you need anything.”

I manage a nod, slip inside, and shut the door. I turn the lock under my fingers because it feels safer that way, even though I know he won’t come in. The bathroom is cool. I turn on the water, and steam rises almost at once. I set the glass on the tub's wide rim, take a long drink, and leave the bottle within easy reach. Clothes hit the floor. I sink in up to my collarbone and let the heat work at tension I didn’t realize I was carrying.

The wine is a perfect red. One glass becomes a second and third while I watch the trees shift outside the window and try, without much success, to stop thinking about Caleb and how it felt to be in his arms. The weight of his hand. The sound he made when I touched him. How natural it felt to be in his lap, until I remembered I don’t actually know what any of this is. My face is hot. The water is hot. The wine is starting to feel like a decision I might regret when I have to look at those folders with a clear head.

I’m about to give in and drink the rest of the bottle I don’t need when a soft knock comes at the bedroom door. It opens a second later.

“Harlow?” His voice is careful through the bathroom door. “You’ve been in there a while. Just making sure you’re all right.”

I sink lower until the water touches my chin, glass still in my hand. The joke slips out before I can weigh it. “Do you need to see my actual body to confirm, or is hearing me enough?”

A beat of silence. Then a low, rough groan on the other side of the door. “If you only knew how badly I want to join you in that tub, sweetheart.”

The word lands low and hot. My face floods. I nearly tip the glass into the bathwater. “I’ll be out in a few minutes,” I say, getting out. “I promise.”

“Soup’s on the stove,” he says, voice thicker than before. “I’ll have dinner ready when you are.”

The outer door clicks shut. I sit there, my pulse loud in my ears, the wine suddenly too sweet. Stupid. He’s here because Marin asked him to be. My publisher got nervous, and Equinox needed someone who already lived on the ridge.

He’s so kind. Of course he kissed me back when I pulled him in. That doesn’t mean he wants this the way I do. I write people who connect. I just can’t usually manage to do it myself. Too many years of leaving early, of preferring the quiet of my own apartment, of never quite figuring out the part that comes after someone interesting notices me.

I finish the bottle anyway, then stand. The water runs off my skin in sheets. I towel off, pull on a new sweatshirt-and-leggings combo, and don’t bother with anything underneath. My hair is damp at the ends when I finally unlock the door and walk down the hall in my fuzzy socks.

The main room is warmer now thanks to a roaring fire. The coffee table has been dragged closer to the hearth. Two bowls of soup sit on it, with thick slices of bread beside them and water glasses already filled. Pillows and a folded blanket sit on the floor, creating a comfortable seating area between the couch and table.

Two heavy folders and the tablet sit on the table, stacked with the same neat edges he uses for everything else. I know what they hold before he speaks.

Caleb is at the stove, lid in one hand. He looks over when he hears me. Something in his expression eases.

“Thought we’d do a picnic,” he says. “Eat first. Then whenever you’re ready, we can get to those.” He tips his head toward the folders.

I nod because my voice still isn’t steady, then cross the room to sit on the blankets. The soup smells like roasted chicken and rosemary. He sets the lid aside and sits on the floor across from me, close enough that our knees nearly brush, far enough that I can still take a full breath.

“Okay,” I say, quietly. “Let’s eat first.”

He smiles, small and genuine, and passes me a spoon. The wood pops in the fireplace, and I can hear the wind moving through the trees outside. An ominous feeling sits in my stomach: after this meal, everything will change, and I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad.

Chapter six

Caleb

The soup still steams as she sits across from me on the blankets. She grabs a piece of bread, dips it in the soup, and takes a slow first bite, her eyes lowering. The fire has burned down to a steady glow behind her shoulder, casting an almost unearthly light around her.

Outside, the wind moves through the maples in long, uneven pulls that make the porch boards shift. I tear off a thick piece of bread for myself and do the same. A moan escapes my lips, and Harlow laughs.

“This is better than I thought it would be,” she says after a minute. “You cook like you actually like doing it.”

“Mostly habit.” I take a spoonful of my own, so I have somewhere to look that isn’t the line of her mouth. “Grew up making sure my sister got something to eat. Didn’t leave a lot of room for much else.”

She glances up, curious. “You have a sister.”

“One, younger.” I tip my head toward the hallway. “She’s the reason the towels are pink, and the tub is big enough to disappear in. Our home life wasn’t great. After I started school, both parents stopped showing up for anything that mattered. I left for the service the morning I turned eighteen and sent money when I could. She handled the rest herself. Turned out better than I did.”

Harlow nods, as if the story is familiar. She dips the bread and watches the broth darken the crust. “I’ve got three brothers and one sister. I’m right in the middle with one older brother and sister, and then the other two brothers are younger. Nobody really kept track of whether I managed my own things, so I just did. It made me independent. It also made me bad at letting anyone else carry some of the weight—physically and emotionally.”