Chapter Twenty-Seven
Harriet
smooth another strand of hair into place and trap it with a bobby pin,I flinching when it pulls at my scalp. I hate my hair like this. I hate the bobby pins and I hate the hairspray, but I need to keep my curls restrained.
I let my hands drop by my sides, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My makeup is perfect. My hair is straightened into submission. I’m wearing the pearls I dug out of my nightstand drawer and my shawl is waiting, draped over the edge of the bed. I look exactly as I should, ready to settle into my appointed role as the accommodating daughter.
The one that defied all expectations and became an even bigger disappointment than anyone could have anticipated.
After that dinner confrontation, my mother didn’t speak to me for months.
Then the holiday season rolled around, and my formal invitation to the York Family Christmas Gala arrived in my mailbox. I still remember the icy feeling that settled in my gut when I opened that letter. I knew it wasn’t an olive branch. It was a smoke screen.
My mother has always valued her image above all else. Of course she’d want me to continue to play my part.
And I wanted the connection, even if it is a hollow one. I’ve been just as guilty of enjoying the show. I’ve taken her scraps and thanked her for them.
My hot flush of embarrassment is familiar, but this time it’s chased with a new and foreign feeling. Anger. I’ve turned that memory over a thousand times. It’s been reserved for dead-of-night ruminations. Early-morning examination. Every unanswered text message from my sister or unacknowledged milestone from my parents, I’ve stared down at the blank screen of my phone and thought about that night.
Get out of my house. This is a family dinner.
I did that. I made my mother react that way. I shoved my fist through the delicate web of cracks littered across the foundation of our relationship. I knew what it would do to her when I decided I no longer wanted to work in law, and I knew how she’d feel about my aunt Matilda’s role in the decision.
I knew she’d see it as a betrayal, but I did it anyway.
I’ve shouldered the consequences without complaint because I felt like I
deserved them.
But now my perspective is shifting.
What did I do that was so horrible? I changed my career path, I didn’t … set an azalea bush on fire. I didn’t fling a fork across the room and accidentally take out someone’s eye.
I made an informed decision about my own future. I stood up for myself.
I know who you are, Harriet.
I pass my hands over the silky plum material of my skirt and turn halfway in the mirror, looking at the bare expanse of my back. It’s the only thing about me tonight that doesn’t cater to my mother’s expectations. It felt like a sign last night when I saw it waiting in the window of the shop on my walk home from the Crow’s Nest.
Now I’m not so sure I’m ready to boldly defy the dress code.
I could still change. I have time. I could put this dress in the back of my closet for another day and pull on the navy dress that’s waiting for me on the bathroom door. I could wear this one another time. Maybe when I’m feeling a little braver.
I reach for the hanger. My fingers brush against the material just as a knock sounds at my door. I freeze.
“Harriet.” Nolan’s voice drifts through my glass windowpane and up the staircase. “I know you’re in there. You can’t keep avoiding me.”
I abandon the blue dress and fist my hand in my silky skirt, turning and stepping carefully down the wooden steps.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” I mutter to myself, wood creaking under my bare feet. “Mr. Disappear-from-the-Supply-Closet-Without-a-Word.”
Despite the hasty departure I made from the closet, I thought Nolan would eventually join me at the front. I thought, maybe, he’d go back to his cozy armchair in the corner and I could sneak back for a glimpse of him whenever I needed it. Like a hit of dopamine, or one of my blueberry Danishes. We could look through inventory together or we could just sit in the quiet. I wanted to chase more of that light, buzzy feeling that Nolan gives me until my past was exactly that—my past.
But he left. He left without saying goodbye and I shouldn’t be upset about that. I asked him for space, and he gave it to me.
I don’t know why I’m holding on to my disappointment.
Because you wanted him, and he left. Because you waited behind that desk, hoping, and he never showed.
Maybe his opinion of me did change after seeing that memory, just as I feared. Maybe now that he’s seen the broken-up parts of me I’ve been doing my best to hide, he doesn’t want to keep doing … whatever it is we’ve been doing.
I’m an odd combination of overwhelmed, heartbroken, and … tired, I think. I’m so tired of trying so hard to make everyone around me happy, only to fall miserably short. Time and time again.
Nolan bangs his fist against the door again, impatient as always. “I’m coming!” I shout, sharper than I mean to. I swing the door open mid-knock and he pauses with his fist still raised, eyes widening slightly. They flick down quickly then back up, taking in the dress.
I cross my arms over my chest.
I wish I had changed. I feel stupid. Like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not. Like I’m a kid in a costume that’s one size too small. “Fucking hell.” He shakes his head slightly, eyes fixed somewhere around my middle, his hand scrubbing roughly against the back of his head. “You went back for the
dress.”
I fidget. “Yeah. Last night.”
“You look—” He pauses. “You look nice,” he finally says, the barest hint of his accent sneaking through.
“Nice,” I repeat. Disappointment curls its fingers in the middle of my chest and squeezes. It’s worse than the feeling I had when I was waiting for him yesterday.
He used to think I’m boundless and now he thinks I’m nice.
“Aye. Very nice.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. I look down at my feet.
“Thank you,” I whisper. There’s a crack at the bottom of my door, right at the hinge. Did it strain under all the pressure? Did it buckle from the weight?
“If you’re here to travel,” I say slowly. “I’m going to need a rain check.”
“What do you mean?”
I rearrange my skirt, easing out wrinkles that aren’t there with my fingers.
“I have somewhere to be tonight. I’m not available.” I spare his face only a brief look. His jaw is clenched tight. “Maybe you could come back tomorrow? Or we could set up a time—”
His eyes snap to mine. That stubborn little line appears between his brows.
“Set up a time,” he says.
I nod. “Yeah. If you wanted.”
One of his hands finds the door frame, curled around the wood. I let my
attention settle there.
“You think I’m here out of duty?”
“Why else would you be here?”
“Why else.” A short huff of a laugh puffs out of him. “Are we back to this,
then?”
“This?”
“This,” he says, closing the space between us so quickly I stumble back.
He doesn’t relent, towering over me. The door slams shut behind him, and his chest rises and falls with a frustrated breath. “This, Harriet. This dance where you and I pretend we’re not what we are.”
“And what are we?” I manage in a voice that feels too tight.
“Is there a word for what this is?” he says. His eyes hold mine. “Because if there is, I’m not familiar with it. I think about you all day long. I fall into a sleep I don’t need and I dream of you. Of your smile, and your laugh, and the way your mouth tastes. The sounds you make. I wake up wondering where you are, how you’re feeling, and I hope—” His eyes search mine. “I hope you’re thinking of me. You make me hope, Harriet. You make me want. I am haunted by you.” He slips his hand around my neck, his palm squeezing at my nape. “Do not mistake me for a good man. I am not here out of some misplaced sense of honor or duty. I demand your attention and I desire your affection.”
A breath rattles out of me. “Last night, you left without a word.”
“I did.” He holds my gaze with his, unwavering. “I was too angry to stay.”
My stomach twists. “With me?”
“No, not with you,” he says simply. “With the universe, perhaps, and its
dreadful sense of timing.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s not important.” A shadow flickers behind his eyes, but it’s gone just as fast as it appeared. “I’m sorry for leaving the way I did,” he rasps.
I tip my chin up. “Don’t do it again.”
His thumb inches up the side of my neck, tracing over my pulse point. “I won’t.”
I trace my palms over his shoulders. That’s a fine promise to make, but we both know it’s a hollow one. He could very well leave tomorrow, without a
goodbye or an explanation. Our time together does not belong to us.
“I’m always apologizing to you,” he says softly. “I don’t mind apologies.”
“No?”
I shake my head. “Apologies mean you want to try again.” I relax in his grip, staring up at him. “I do, however, have a suggestion. A way you can really put a stamp on this apology, if you’re interested.”
His gaze trails down to my mouth and holds. “I’m interested.”
“You could kiss me,” I tell him, trying to stay stern but failing miserably.
Nolan sways closer, one dark eyebrow arching high. “I certainly could.”
I tip my head back, letting go of all the complications that twist knots between us. I chase the good feelings, instead. My favorite silver lining.
“Make it a good one,” I whisper. “And you’re forgiven.” He laughs. “I’ll do my best.”
Nolan certainly kisses me like he’s apologizing for something. He’s slow and steady and deliciously thorough, his mouth working over mine while his hand squeezes at the back of my neck. But then I make a small, bitten-off sound, whisper his name, and he loses his grip on the tether of his control.
He stops kissing me like an apology and kisses me like a demand instead.
Like the exclamation point at the end of a sentence. He marches me across the foyer until my back hits the wall at the bottom of the stairs, a sharp exhale that he immediately licks from my mouth. The hand on my neck holds me still, his other hand finding the slit in my dress, rucking up the skirt, his palm against the bare expanse of my thigh.
I shiver and let my knee fall open for him.
“You went back for the dress,” he says against my mouth.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He grunts, and his teeth find my collarbone just as his fingers brush the line of my thin, delicate underwear.
I let my head drop against the wall, giving him more room, staring at the golden paper stars strewn across my ceiling. Wallpaper scratches across my bare back and Nolan’s scruff brushes against my neck. I’m nothing but sensation, pressed between him and the wall, my knee at his hip, his fingers teasing between my legs. He brushes his knuckles against the front of my underwear and I sift my fingers through his hair.
“You look like a dream,” he murmurs.
“You don’t dream.” I laugh.
“I do. I dream of you.” His voice is low. “Every time I close my eyes, it’s
you I see. You I want.”
I want to pause time right here. No past or future or foreboding consequences hanging over our heads. Just now. Just this.
Just us.
“I want you, too,” I whisper.
Nolan makes a shaky, pleased sound and presses his thumb to my chin, guiding my mouth back to his.
“I want to make a mess out of you.” His teeth catch and pull at my bottom lip. “Want to twist this dress up around your hips and get on my knees.”
I laugh breathlessly, my belly clenching tight. “And undo all my hard work?”
He nods. He gives me one more gentle press of his fingers between my legs and then withdraws his hand to safer territory at my hip. The heat and frenzy of the moment passes us by, my nose buried in his neck, smelling the salt that’s somehow always on his skin. I close my eyes and try to memorize everything about this moment. The way I fit against him. The way his fingers tap-tap-tap across the curve of my hip, palm squeezing. The way he holds me
like he doesn’t want to let go.
I want to remember this. All of it.
I hope I remember.
“You make me want impossible things, Harriet.” I know the feeling.
“Yeah.” I sigh. “You, too.”
I scratch my nails against his neck and he shivers. Somewhere on the other side of the room, the ornaments on my tree rattle. I peek over his shoulder and watch the lights twisted across the mantel of my fireplace. They glow intermittently, gaining strength before dimming again. I shift my hand against Nolan’s neck so I can feel the heavy pound of his pulse. I realize with a small burst of pride that the lights dim and fade in time with his heartbeat.
I grin.
I wish I had magic, too. I bet the whole room would be dancing in the glow of my refurbished C9 bulbs.
Nolan leans back, brushing a quick kiss to the bridge of my nose. “You have your gala tonight.”
I sway in place. “I do. I should have let you know yesterday, but I was—”
Frustrated. Irritated. Confused about my irritation and why some of the guilt I’ve carried for the better part of a decade has started melting into anger instead. “I was distracted.”
“It’s your mother’s gala, yes?”
“My family’s, technically, but it’s always been the crown jewel in her social calendar. She likes to make a big deal of it.”
“I’m sure she does,” he says. He studies my face. I let him, telling myself not to hide. His eyes crinkle at the corners, but the smile never reaches his
mouth. “Let’s talk about last night.”
“What about it?”
He pulls his hand from beneath my skirt and presses his palm flat to the wall at my side instead, leaning heavily into my space. It’s like I have a Nolan-shaped clove-and-flannel-scented blanket.
“Your past,” he says. “That memory and your subsequent belief that you’ve somehow orchestrated a great betrayal worthy of the behavior you’ve
received.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Nolan’s stern expression eases into something fond. He fingers a lock of hair that must have slipped free during our furious make-out and tucks it behind my ear. I close my eyes and drop my forehead against his chin, letting myself have this single moment, wishing I could stretch it out like taffy.
“I don’t want you to say anything,” he tells me, his voice rough. Like pebbles on a beach. “Not if you don’t want to. I, however, have a few things
I’d like to say.”
I snort. “Of course you do.”
He taps me lightly on the curve of my ass in admonishment and my breath leaves me in a soft whoosh.
“The first time I met you,” he says slowly, his mouth moving against my forehead, “I thought you were insufferable.”
A surprised laugh tumbles out of me. “Is this a motivational speech or—”
“Hush. I’m not done.”
“Oh, good. Can’t wait to hear the rest.”
“I thought you were naive, petulant, and far too cheery.”
I drop my face against his shoulder and rock my forehead back and forth with a laugh. Only Nolan could deliver that sentence with enough fond exasperation to light a firecracker in the middle of my chest. His big palm settles at the base of my spine.
“Then I started spending more time with you— “Haunting me,” I correct.
“—and I realized that you choose to be those things.”
I push myself away from him so I can see his face. I grin. “This might be the worst pep talk I’ve ever had.”
His eyes soften, twinkle lights reflected in the deep blue. Stars in the ocean. It’s the most ethereal he’s ever looked.
“You make the choice, Harriet. Every morning. You wake up and you pull on one of your colorful sweaters and you wander down a crooked street, smiling at everyone you see. You choose to be in a place where you can honor your aunt’s memory. Where you’re doing work that feels important and good. You made that choice. And despite the disappointments life has handed you—” The back of his hand brushes over the thin strap at my shoulder. Down over the dip of my collarbones. Across the slight valley between my breasts. He knocks lightly against the center of my chest.
“Despite the disappointment and the hurt and the heartbreak, you choose to be these whimsical, colorful things.”
I release a slow, shuddering breath. I want to believe him so badly, but a lifetime of shaving myself down to fit in the boxes people create for me has me wobbling on the edge of indecision. It’s easier for me to think I’ve done something to deserve my mother’s hostility because the alternative is devastating.
To be such a disappointment for no reason at all? Because my mother is intent on holding on to an old feud that started before I was born?
It’s easier to withstand her venom if I’ve done something to earn it.
Nolan can see it. I know he can. The corners of his mouth quirk up in a sad, understanding smile.
“You’re not the villain of your story.” He pushes off the wall and fiddles with the sleeve of his cuff. “And you’re also not going to this gala alone.”
“No?”
“Frankly, I’m insulted I didn’t receive an invite.”
“You don’t seem like a black-tie sort of guy.”
“Now I’m even more insulted. I look very good in a suit, thank you very
much.”
“The dress code states tuxedos.”
“Lord Jesus and all the saints,” he mutters. “Fine.”
“There will be Christmas carols. Socialization. I wanted to spare you.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m already dead, Harriet. One night of socialization is
hardly an inconvenience.”
“You love the dead jokes.”
“Not a joke.” A smile lifts one corner of his mouth. “I’m dead serious.”
I groan and lean my head against his chest as he laughs, a rough rumble that I press my ear to. His arms wrap around me and squeeze, his laugh trailing off to a happy sound as my hands brush across the strong planes of
his back.
“Ask me.”
I dig my nose into his shirt. Asking for the things I want is still so difficult for me. Like using a torn muscle or putting weight on a bad knee.
“Want to come to my mother’s gala with me? There will be fancy champagne and too-small appetizers and awkward dancing. It’s going to be a miserable time.”
“Yes, Harriet,” he says with a hint of mischief, his mouth moving against my temple. His body tenses and relaxes, the hot flare of his magic lifting the edge of my skirt. His shirt is suddenly starchy and stiff, a bow tie nudging at my nose. I lean back so I can fully take him in, draped in formal wear.
“Of course I’ll go.” His eyes crinkle in amusement as he adjusts his cuff links. Two small, round pieces of sea glass that match his eyes. My mouth goes dry. “How nice of you to invite me.”
