Page 1 of Country Contract

Chapter 1

Harlow

Do you ever look at yourself and wonder if the younger you would be proud of where you are? I do. I do it all the time.

I’m sitting at my bedroom vanity—a refurbished American Gothic vintage letter desk, painted black, with an arched gold-framed mirror leaning against the wall. I just finished applying a moisturizer to my face and am allowing it to dry before adding my additional SPF. My ivory skin takes sunburn seriously, and even from the window of the car, the left side of my face can fall victim to the sun.

After my skin is dry, I apply a blush-tone eyeshadow to my lids and black mascara to my thick lashes, encasing my black eyes. Peach-tinged Vaseline is the last thing I apply before taking my long black hair over my left shoulder and braiding it. I remember Maria braiding my hair for me any day I asked when I was little. She would always comment halfway through, noting I had more hair than she knew what to do with.

I stare at myself in the mirror. Would little Harlowthink I’m doing a good job? Would she think I chased my dreams and am living my best life?

I think about it for a moment. Little Harlow wanted to be Nicole Kidman inPractical Magic, and I guess part of that is true. I’m single and still make rash decisions, but I lack the passion she had in her role.

A younger me wanted to own a plant and crystal store, but that isn’t what I ended up doing. I do own plants and crystals but have little knowledge in either area. I can keep most of my plants alive but failed to study horticulture and geology during my years at the university. I instead chose literature and business degrees.

Teen Harlow wanted to cut her hair into a short, edgy bob with effortless waves. I have not once chopped my hair, and as I tie off the end of my braid, I can’t even imagine doing it now.

I dreamed of a dragon lord taking me to his lair and making me his Queen of Beasts. There are obviously no dragons, and there hasn’t been a man, let alone a lord, in my life for the past two years. Young Harlow might be a little disappointed that I didn’t fight harder for love, but I haven’t felt that spark everyone talks about.

Overall, I think my younger self would want me to just be sure of myself. I’m not short on confidence; I just lack direction or passion. I’m not young enough to keep that going. Thirty-six isn’t exactly young. I think I read that I only have a few years left before bearing children can get risky.

I slide off the velvet bench in front of the vanity and brush away any wrinkles in my black dress. It’s knee-length and A-line in cut—I don’t have much in curves, so this cut adds to my lack of “womanly” appeal. The neckline is a deep V cut, but no cleavage in sight. My favorite part of thissimple dress is the sheer, long sleeves that come to a tight cuff at my wrist. There are slits in them, so my skin peeks through any time an elbow slips out.

As I make my way toward the front door, I hear small paws jump down from the windowsill. Cleo graces me with her presence, tilting her head expectantly. Her yellow eyes stare at me, and I feel as though she can sense my recent self-reflection.

I rub my fingers against her black, velvety naked skin, and she purrs.

“I like you just fine,” she tells me like she wants to reassure me before I leave for my family dinner. I wish I could take her everywhere with me. She has been my greatest companion for the past five years.

“I’ll be home in a little while.” I pet her one more time heading out. Before I close my door, I look over my shoulder and take in the space.

“Little Harlow would like it here.”

“And with that being said, I think it would be a great match.” My father’s voice is a low baritone and has been going on and on most of this dinner.

When I first arrived at my parents’ home, I knew deeper in my heart than ever that my younger self would be happy with where I am.

Where my mother’s style is white, cream, and touches of blue and purple, my style is black and gray with touches of blush and green. All of her walls are painted white and filled to the brim with picture frames, mirrors, and art. My walls are nearly black with floating shelves, hangingplants, and some moth taxidermy. My parents’ home could pass for something in a Pottery Barn catalog.

We all sit at the grand dining room table for our quarterly family meal. My father, Henry, is at the head with my mother, Harriet, at the other end. My sisters, Heidi and Hayleigh, sit to my father’s left, across from my sister Helen and me.

I continue to push around the mixed vegetables on my plate when I feel a tap on my right foot. I look over to see Helen side-eyeing me as she sips her wine.

“What,” I mutter, pinching my brows together.

“What do you think, Harlow?” my mother asks.

“Of what?”

My father grumbles from his seat.

“Of the match, dear?” my mother presses, her tone sweet. She doesn’t look like she’s sixty; she looks like one of my sisters.

“I think it’s . . . fine.” I see Helen’s eyebrows shoot up, and the idea of just coasting through this conversation is gone.

“Okay, sorry I wasn’t listening. I was eating. What match?” I admit.

“Between you and Heath,” she prods, nodding toward my father. I turn to look at him and see his frustration. He holds his scotch glass in one hand and taps his other fingers against the table. There is no saving me now.

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