Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Chloe

“It’s so good to see you!” Mrs. Harris pulls me in for a big hug. Sam and I just stepped into the farmhouse and his mother bombarded me just like Sam warned she would. Mrs. Harris really steppedin when my mom died, and losing contact with Sam meant not talking to his family anymore either.

“You too,” I reply.

“It’s been way too long.” She gives me a final squeeze before letting me go. “You’re even prettier than I remember. You look like your mother.” Mrs. Harris blinks away tears, and I have to blink several times to keep from tearing up as well.

“Dinner smells amazing,” I tell her, looking at the spread of appetizers on the counter. “I hope you didn’t go through too much trouble.”

“It’s never trouble for you, dear.” She smiles.

“Hey, Chloe!” Rory whispers, coming into the room holding her sleeping baby. I flash her a big smile.

“Hey,” I say back, just as quietly. “He’s so sweet.”

“He is, but my arm is falling asleep and I have to pee,” Rory chuckles softly.

“I’ll take him,” Sam, who’s standing behind me, offers. My ovaries threaten to explode when I see Rory gently hand off the sleeping infant to her oldest brother. Sam rocks the baby, keeping him sound asleep.

“Everyone is outside,” Mrs. Harris says. “Michael is grilling the steaks. The boys are all out there too.” She turns and checks on the sweet potato fries she has in the oven.

“Do you need any help with dinner?” I ask.

“Oh, no, but thank you.” She picks up another glass dish that’s on the counter and puts it in the oven. “I’m just keeping things warm now. Would you like anything to drink? Sam, why didn’t you offer her anything to drink? Have you forgotten your manners?”

“Seriously?” Sam mumbles, looking at the sleeping baby in his arms. We’ve only just walked in the house. Sam hasn’t even taken his shoes off yet.

“I’m good for now,” I say.

“Help yourself to anything, dear,” Mrs. Harris says. “I think things are mostly in the same place as they were before.” She turns and looks at Sam, smiling. “You need to have one of your own.”

“I’ll get right on that, Mom,” he says dryly. Rory comes out of the bathroom and takes the baby back from Sam.

“Mom, I’m laying him down. Please do not go get him.” She looks at me. “We’re trying to get him used to napping in his crib at home. He hates it.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’ll be right back. I’m so excited you’re here!”

“Want to go outside?” Sam asks me.

“Yeah, it’ll be nice to see everyone else.” We go through the kitchen to get to the covered patio out back. “What’s Rory’s husband’s name again?”

“Dean.”

“Right. I remember now. And you all approve?”

“We do. Dean and I were friends before he started dating Rory, actually, which helped.”

“Oh, for sure. So that’s how they met then? Through you?”

“I’ll gladly take credit for arranging things,” he says with a smile as he reaches for the sliding glass door.

“I never took you as a matchmaker,” I laugh. Sam slides the door open for me and I step out. Jacob, Mason, and Dean are sitting at the patio table, and Michael, who I still call Mr. Harris, is standing by the grill. The smell of the steaks makes my mouth water.

“Hey, guys,” I say with a wave.

“Chloe, hey!” Mason says back. “Grab a drink and join us.”

Sam rests his hand on the small of my back, and the heat from his fingers goes right through me. I remember all too well how good those fingers felt, massaging my sore muscles only hours ago. And I know how good those fingers will feel if he—stop it.

“Whatcha drinking?” I ask, looking at a bottle of brown liquid on the table. The label is turned away from me and there are several shot glasses on the table.

“One-hundred-and-thirty-seven-proof rum,” Dean says, reaching for the bottle. “It’s, uh, interesting, that’s for sure.”

“That sounds disgusting.” I laugh. Sam pulls out a chair for me and goes over to a cooler next to the grill, getting two bottles of water before coming back and sitting next to me. “Thanks,” I tell him and twist the cap off the water.

“Want to try some?” Mason asks, picking up an empty shot glass.

“One-hundred-and-thirty-seven proof,” I echo, making a face. “You know what? Why not.” I look at Sam, a smile playing on my lips. “If I try it, you have to try it too.”

Sam mirrors the apprehensive look on my face but grabs a shot glass. Mason fills each of the shot glasses halfway. Sam lifts his in my direction.

“Ready?”

“No.” I laugh and clink my glass with his. I down the rum without gagging but cough as soon as it slides down my throat. “Holy shit,” I say, and everyone laughs. “That is strong.” I trade my shot glass for my water and take a big drink.

“Want more?” Mason asks, giving the bottle a little shake.

“No, thanks, but I am intrigued by this,” I admit with a laugh. “Who thought it was a good idea to make something this strong?”

“It’s better than the peanut butter whiskey,” Jacob tells me, popping the top off a beer. “Which is shit too.”

“That sounds even worse.”

“It’s not as bad as you’d think,” Sam tries to convince me.

“Says the guy who ate peanut butter sandwiches every day for lunch for four years in a row.” I raise my eyebrows.

He shrugs. “I like peanut butter.”

“To be fair,” Jacob goes on. “You have to try it before you judge it.”

“I have had pumpkin spice whiskey,” I say. “Which was terrible. I don’t even like pumpkin spice coffee.”

I bring my empty shot glass to my nose and sniff. “It smells like something I’d clean my bathroom counters with.”

“It’s probably strong enough to disinfect,” Dean jokes.

Mason takes the bottle back and fills up his shot glass, drinking it slowly. “It’ll keep me from getting sick then.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Sam tells him.

“Damn.”

The sliding glass doors open and shut, and Rory and Mrs. Harris come out onto the patio. “Are the steaks almost ready?” Mrs. Harris asks.

“Just about.” Mr. Harris flips them once more. “Chloe, how do you like your steak?”

“Medium-rare,” I reply.

“Good answer,” he says with a wink. “Rory still likes hers well-done.”

I gasp. “That ruins a perfectly good steak.”

“That’s what I’ve told her.”

“I don’t like my meat to be bloody. I overcook chicken too,” Rory admits and then looks at Dean, eyes sparkling. “At least he doesn’t mind.”

Dean smiles right back at Rory, and they look so in love it’s adorable. “Hey, if you’re cooking me dinner, who I am to complain?”

“Smart man,” Mrs. Harris says with a laugh. It’s nice to see Rory’s husband fit in so well with the rest of the Harris family. I remember Rory complaining about how overprotective her brothers were when she was a kid, and how if there was an off chance she were to get a boyfriend, her brothers would just scare him away.

“Chloe,” Mrs. Harris starts. “Tell us all about being an author. What’s life like in LA? Do you get to go to the set when they’re filming your show?”

Sam nudges my foot with his under the table, giving me an I told you so glance.

“LA is nice,” I start, and Rory grabs a chair and comes over to the table. Sam scoots his chair closer to mine, making room for his sister to sit next to Dean. I can feel the heat coming off him in waves, and my breath hitches in my chest. “The…the weather is the best part.”

“It doesn’t get cold there at all?”

“Not really. The temperatures can drop at night in the winter, but it’s nothing like here.”

“You were smart to go to the west coast,” Rory says, checking the camera to the baby monitor. “But it’s really expensive out there, isn’t it?”

“It is, and adjusting to the price differences took me a while. A ‘good deal’ on food or something there is expensive here.”

“Do you go out with celebrities all the time?” Mrs. Harris asks.

I shake my head, pushing my hair back over my shoulder. It’s hot out still, and having my thick hair hanging down my neck is a sure way to start sweating. “No. I’m home a lot. Or at the barn with my horse. Though right now he’s recovering from an injury, so I haven’t been able to ride in a few weeks.”

“What happened?” Jacob asks. Right, he’s a vet. Sam brings his arm up to pick up his water bottle and his skin brushes against mine. We were so close to combustion standing together in my kitchen, all it will take is one little spark to start the fire again.

“He slipped on wet grass. We were worried it was a stifle injury, but thankfully it’s not.”

“That’s good. Those can be hard to make full recoveries from.”

I nod and am thankful to talk to Jacob about horses until dinner is ready. We all move inside into the air conditioning.

“Do you want red or white wine?” Mrs. Harris asks me.

“Whatever you’re having is fine with me. I’m not too picky when it comes to wine,” I say, and Mrs. Harris smiles and goes with a bottle of red wine. Sam hands me a plate and motions for me to go in front of him to get food.

“Where should I sit?” I ask when we get into the dining room.

“Next to me,” Sam says, eyes meeting mine. His gaze lingers for a few seconds, and then he turns, setting his plate on the table. I put my plate down as well and then turn to go back into the kitchen to get my drink. I assume Sam is doing the same, and I almost walk right into him. I stop short and his hands go to my waist, fingers pressing softly into my skin.

My lips part and I tip my head up, meeting his gaze. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt today, matching the color of his eyes perfectly.

“I thought you might fall again,” he says.

“I…I might have. These floors are quite uneven.”

“I was thinking slippery.”

“Yeah. I’m not wearing socks,” I ramble. Sam slides one hand from my waist to the small of my back and turns his gaze from my eyes to my lips. The floor creaks behind him and I jerk back, moving fast and whacking my hand on the back of a chair.

How he’s able to get me turned on that fast when he hardly touched me is a talent only Sam can possess. The years of pent-up emotion and sexual frustration isn’t helping either.

“Do you want wine?” he asks.

“Yeah, like half a glass,” I say, remembering Farisha’s words of warning. I’m not drunk from the little bit of rum, but I feel my head buzzing even more now that I had Sam’s hands on me again.

“Is this any good?” He looks at the label of Pinot Noir.

“I’m not familiar with that vineyard, but I’d say it depends. Pinot Noir is a dry wine, but it has low acidity which makes it smooth to drink.”

“Look at you.” Sam pours wine into a glass for me.

“I went to a wine tasting a few months ago with friends. We spent a weekend in wine country and tried to act cultured. That little tidbit about Pinot Noir is the only thing I remember. I made the rookie mistake of drinking the entire glass given to me instead of just sipping it. I was the only one out of our group who didn’t puke in the vineyard, though.”

“You almost had me fooled into thinking you’re a sommelier.”

I laugh. “Along with making it look like I worked out when I’m really too lazy for real clothes, making it look like I have my shit together is one of my many talents.”

“Definitely fooled me there too. You seem like you have your shit together.”

“I guess that’s debatable.” Our eyes meet again, and I smile before turning and joining the others at the table. Mrs. Harris and Rory ask me questions about writing, and Sam gives me another look, but this time it’s apologetic. I really don’t mind talking about my books, especially when the people I’m talking to won’t pick me apart about it later. Or at least, if they do, they won’t post about it on social media, tagging me in every single critical post. And it’s another good distraction, because every time I look at Sam, I see him shirtless and sweaty, like he was in the woods.

“The most important thing,” Mason says, finishing his third—fourth?—beer, “is if the rumors are true.”

I reach for my own wine glass, heart jumping. “What rumor? There are a lot of them.” I smile nervously, feeling Sam’s eyes on me. If they ask me about my relationship with Charles, I’m not sure I can sell the lie in front of Sam.

“The rumor that Cardi B is going to make a cameo next season.”

I let out a sigh of relief and suck down a mouthful of wine. “Oh. I hadn’t heard that one yet,” I laugh and set my glass down. “Next season has already been filmed, but I do love her. If she did make a cameo, I would probably die.”

“You don’t have much control over the series?” Mrs. Harris asks.

“No. I’m lucky I have the control I do. Basically, I sold the rights to my series to the network. They’re in charge of everything, but my agent was able to have it written into the contract that I’m a ‘consultant,’ and since the series was so popular before the show, the producers know the importance of sticking with the original plot.”

“Holy crap,” Rory says. “It’s so amazing.”

“Nah,” I say, waving my hand in the air. “I just got lucky.”

“It was more than luck,” Rory counters. “You’re a good writer!

“Thanks,” I say, reaching for my wine. I ask everyone else what they’ve been up to in more detail, getting caught up with each other again by the time we finish dinner. It’s nice being back here, and I didn’t realize how much I missed big family dinners like this.

They’re slightly chaotic and loud, and I never realized how familiar the sound of the constant chatter is. But then Adam goes from fussing to hysterical crying and won’t let anyone but Rory console him, and Mrs. Harris starts badgering Jacob because he wants to go back to his house and check on the animals at the clinic. Mason gets into a political debate with his father, making Sam, Dean, and me get up from the table, joining Mason and Mrs. Harris in the kitchen.

We walk in just in time to look out the window and see a fox sneaking around the chicken coup, and Mrs. Harris sends the boys out to deal with it, telling me to say in the house with her. Only a minute later, she’s on the back porch watching them.

Not wanting to get drawn into talking about politics or side with anyone—though I agree that Mason is right—I go upstairs with Rory and help her get Adam bathed and changed.

“I’m really glad you came over,” she tells me, checking the temperature of the water in the bath before putting her baby in the little blue tub.

“Me too,” I say, getting the baby shampoo out of the diaper bag for her. “I can’t believe so many years went by without seeing you all.”

“It’s weird when you think about it.” She dips a soft blue washcloth into the water and gives it to Adam. He can hardly hold on to it, but it distracts him while she washes his pudgy rolls. He’s so chubby it’s adorable. “You were like my sister and then you just weren’t there anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t blame you,” she rushes out. “Sam said you all lost contact, but I know something…something more had to have gone down.”

“Yeah, but it was a long time ago. And speaking of time…you’re married with a kid. That’s insane.”

She laughs. “It kind of is. I really thought I’d end up alone.”

Hah. I know the feeling. I’ve always loved Rory like a sister, and I’m happy for her. She and Dean are perfect for each other.

“I could have told you that was not going to happen.”

Rory puts her hand on Adam’s chest and looks at me, smiling. “I feel like I owe you so much, Chloe. You inspired me to be confident in who I am, even though I did inherit your nickname.”

“Which one?”

“Creepy Chloe. They called me Creepy Rory.”

My brows pinch together. “That doesn’t have a ring to it like Creepy Chloe does.”

“Right? That’s what I said!” She laughs and shakes her head. “I’ve embraced it, though, just like you did.”

“Good,” I say, rocking back on my heels. “My love for all things paranormal made me the weirdo back in high school, but it also made my career.”

“And I just love that. It’s so inspiring. Be yourself, even though it can be hard.”

“It can be,” I admit, mind going to Charles. I hate that he has to hide such a big part of who he is out of fear of how the truth will be perceived. He’s such a good friend and an overall good person. His superstar status hasn’t gone to his head, and he’s incredibly down to earth for being a household name.

“I just don’t have the energy to be fake now,” Rory says with a laugh. She rinses Adam clean, and I take the towel off the rack and unfold it, getting it ready for Rory to use to dry off Adam.

She gets him dressed in cute puppy-print PJs. Things are much calmer when we get downstairs. Sam is coming back into the living room from the den, carrying a stack of board games.

“You guys still do game night?” I ask, a smile coming to my face. Mr. and Mrs. Harris used to basically force it upon the boys growing up. They’d have dinner and then play some sort of board game. It was something I used to do with Mom and Dad, before Mom got sick, of course. And then after Mom died, I’d spend a lot of my weekends either here or with Farisha while Dad worked.

I never realized how hard that had to be on Dad back then. He lost his wife and then had to rely on others to take care of me after school. I never felt displaced or like I was struggling. The Harris family was always welcoming, and I felt like I belonged here. Being able to be around Sam made it even better.

My heart skips a beat when our eyes meet, and it’s like I’m seeing him in a new light once again. The years have been good to him, and while there is no doubt he’s just as much of a ladies’ man as he was before, I can’t deny he’s matured as well. And, damn, it’s so fucking attractive.

“When we’re all here like this, there’s no way Mom will let us have dinner and then not play a game.” Sam sets the games on the coffee table and sits on the couch, motioning for me to sit next to him. Our gazes meet again, but this time, there’s longing in Sam’s eyes. His lips part and he inhales slowly. “Chloe,” he starts and then hesitates, casting his gaze down.

“I call Chloe!” Mason jumps over the back of the couch, sitting in the middle, next to Sam. “To be on my team.” He grins and looks at me. “If you want to be on my team, that is.”

“Oh, I, uh, sure,” I say and cross the room, sitting on the couch next to Mason, telling myself not to be disappointed. “Soo, what game are we playing?”

“I don’t care as long as we make it a drinking game,” Mason says.

“How do you make Clue a drinking game?”

Mason picks up the game and turns it over, reading the back. “You can make everything a drinking game. Candyland is a good one. Take a shot whenever you pass over one of those squares that has a candy on them. Sip a drink when you get a double-square card.”

“You’re totally speaking from experience, aren’t you?” I laugh.

“It’s been a while. Speaking of drinking, want to try the obscure flavors of whiskey?” Mason asks, looking from me to Sam. I catch Sam’s eye and he nods.

“I’m kind of curious,” I say. “Though peanut butter whiskey still sounds disgusting.”

Mason nudges me with his elbow. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

“I’m open to trying just about anything once. I’ve discovered I’ve enjoyed quite a few things I thought I wouldn’t otherwise like that way.”

“I’m sure you have.” Mason stands and holds out his hand, helping me up off the couch.

“Sam, you coming?” I ask.

“Nah, he’s lame,” Mason rushes out and ushers me out of the room. The whiskey is already out on the counter, along with two shot glasses. Mason pours a little bit of the peanut butter whiskey in my shot glass and fills his up.

“To old friends,” he says, holding up the shot glass.

“To old friends,” I echo. Sam walks into the kitchen, coming up behind me. Mason moves closer, looks into my eyes, and flashes a flirty smirk.

“And to trying new things…things you wouldn’t have before.”