Page 96 of Awaiting the Storm
The memory of being in Caison’s arms flashes through my mind, and I wince.
“Well, I wasn’t there, so it doesn’t count,” Harleigh says.
“Yeah,” Charli says. “You were brooding then, too, if I recall correctly.”
“And we were dealing with Carl’s return,” Shelby says.
“And other men,” Charli adds.
I groan. “Don’t say his name.”
“Okay. No men tonight. Just the Storm sisters out on the town,” Harleigh sings.
“You guys have at it,” I say.
“Come on,” she pleads, turning her wide baby blues on me. “Just one drink. One dance. One night with your sisters.”
I waver. I shouldn’t. I’ve got an early morning. The ranch hands are on holiday-modified hours, and I’m still behind on just about everything, and I really don’t want to deal with any more people.
But Harleigh’s only home for a few days. And she’s looking at me like she used to when we were kids and I told her we couldn’t stay up late because we had chores in the morning.
“One hour,” I say. “That’s it.”
The porch erupts into squeals, and I brace myself as the three of them jump to their feet and rush me.
“You won’t regret this, Sissy!” Harleigh shouts, hugging me tight.
“I already do,” I mutter, though I hug her back.
“Everybody upstairs!” Charli demands, clapping her hands. “Operation Hot Girl Happy Hour is a go!”
Shelby whoops. “I call the curling iron first!”
“I call the red dress I saw in your closet!” Harleigh yells, darting for the door.
“Wait!” I call after them. “We pinkie swear—one hour! No tequila!”
Charli looks back with a wicked grin. “One hour. But I make no promises on the tequila.”
“Charli!”
But she’s already gone.
I stand slowly, draining the last of my wine before following them inside. The warmth from the kitchen greets me again—sweet and comforting. The house is full of life tonight. Full of love too. And even if I’ve been dragging lately while I sort through my mess of business and personal regrets, there’s something healing about having all my sisters around.
And maybe Harleigh’s right.
Maybe a little fun won’t kill me.
One hour of dancing and laughing and pretending everything’s okay with the wild Storm girls may be just what the doctor ordered.
Shelby’s got the heat cranked, but it does nothing for the chill on my bare legs due to the thin silk of the short dress I let Harleigh talk me into wearing. My head’s a little swimmy, and the thin heels of my black ankle boots are definitely not meant for icy parking lots, but none of that compares to the real problem right now.
Drunk, loud, and fired-up Charli Storm.
“I’m just saying,” she rages beside me, “he doesn’t get to waltz into town with his fancy shoes and his sexy jawline and just mess with you. You’re Maitland fucking Storm.”
We’re in Shelby’s truck. Harleigh is lounging in the small back seat, and I’m stuck in the middle of the front bench.
