Page 22 of Honeyed

“Says the guy who married his best friend for money and a shot at helping people. If this has taught you anything, maybe it will be to think outside the lines once in a while. You’re too good, too black-and-white. You try to toe a line and not end up getting anything you want. If you want to help August, this is how you’ll have to do it. Put your morals aside and look at the big picture.”

It’s clear as day that I’m not just referring to the August situation, but we aren’t discussing our history right now.

Sighing as he polishes off the IPA he brought over to stock in my fridge, he nods. “You’re right. She might hate us when she finds out, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Standing because I’m too antsy to discuss this next part while sitting face-to-face, I start clearing dishes. Warren hops up too, grabbing what he can that I’ve left behind, and we move to the sink together. Wordlessly, I grab the dish brush and soap and get to cleaning. His elbow grazes mine as I hand over the first pan for drying, and a spark sizzles between us. Even like this, doing something as platonic as washing and drying, I can’t help but staunch the desperate need for him.

For years, I’ve been fighting the ache of my body and the overstimulated beat of my heart whenever we’re close like this. It has to have had some adverse effects on my health, like not giving in to my sexual desire has taken years off my life. Holding that kind of passion in will only lead to some negative outcome.

Once again, though, I swallow it down and keep moving forward.

“August is only one part of the equation. What about the storefront?” It’s bold to ask your fake husband for the millions he just inherited, but I do think I’m owed a favor.

I see the chuckle as it shakes his chest. “Of course, you know I’d do anything for you. Hell, if I had the kind of money Arthur’s lawyer is about to send me after our meeting next week, you know I’d give it to you without making you marry me. But alas, such was the deal. And now your husband has to buy you a fancy Newton Street store. So tell me which one you want, and we’ll make it happen.”

My heart flutters. I don’t think many people in my life would call me materialistic, but I love a good present. A nice pair of shoes, a shiny piece of jewelry, or even a delicious package of chocolates make my luxury-loving heart beat faster. Warren saying he’s going to rent me out a store, whichever one I want, so that I could fulfill a dream I’ve been fantasizing about?

Talk about love languages.

“I want you to be involved too.” The words pop out before I can stop them.

“What for? I know you, you already have a vision laid out. I’m sure you have the design plans drawn up in your head. Which vendors you’ll talk to, what local artisans you want to partner with. What do you need me for?”

This sweet, gorgeous man. He always, always counts himself out. And not in a way that’s not confident because Warren has plenty of easy confidence. But in a way that reveals how much people in his past hadn’t chosen him. Warren looks at the world and relationships as if no one would want him there if it hadn’t been for his hard work and adaptability. I guess that’s a product of his upbringing, and while I should be used to it, it never fails to make my heart bleed for him.

“A while back, you dropped a casual line about not being sure you wanted to be at the restaurant anymore.”

“I said that while I was drunk,” he grumbles, and I know he probably thinks I forgot what he said.

As if I would ever let it slip my mind that he was thinking about leaving. Leaving me, leaving my family. Warren is as much of a staple at Hope Pizza as my father is, and that’s saying something. Before he made the confession, I would have never known he was unhappy. But perhaps, like me, he needs a change.

“Drunk words are just sober thoughts expressed.” I tap my chin, soap bubbles popping on my skin.

His hand darts out, and he swipes them away with the towel. Our gazes linger for a second too long before I clear my throat and get back to the dishes.

“We’re partners now. I mean, we always have been, but people will expect us to start this venture together. I need someone I trust, someone I can rely on, someone who knows how my brain works even better than I do at times. You mentioned it yourself that you didn’t know if you wanted to be at the restaurant, so give this a try.”

If I wasn’t mistaken, Warren might be going through the same kind of quarter-life crisis I am.

“I have been searching for some kind of shift,” he admits, stacking dry dishes on the counter.

“Then let’s do this together. It’s a chance to do something new, something that is ours alone. I love my family, and my dad and Evan, but God, I need a break. I love Hope Crest, I want to highlight its gems more. I want to collect beautiful knick-knacks and sell them to people who love that kind of thing. It makes them happy, and it makes me happy.”

One of the things I’ve always tried to explain to people who find out I’m from a small town is that I’m completely content living here. Being away from the glitz and glamour of a city, knowing every single person you run into at the grocery store, walking the sidewalks you did as a little kid …

It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of. There is absolute happiness in a slower, small-town way of living. And I might be the impulsive extrovert of the Ashton family, but I’ve never wanted to stray from this place. I’ve always loved the quiet of the canal in the mornings, the Fourth of July party on the high school football field, and the Christmas caroling the elementary school kids did on the weekend prior to December twenty-fifth. There’s a calm that settles over your soul when you belong to a small town.

We finish the dishes, and I lean a hip against the counter. “When do you meet with his lawyer?”

“Next week.” He’s looking over my shoulder, and I know he’s thinking about something else.

“You miss him.” We haven’t talked about Arthur since the funeral, with everything else that’s been unfolding.

He swallows like it’s a heavy task to accomplish. “Yes. He had become a mentor, a friend, in recent years. It was like I’d rediscovered this parent I never knew I had, but the connection was more mature, more like a friendship. We’d sit and talk for hours about life, about money, about love and Clara, and things he’d seen and did. Things he wanted for me. When he got sick, I tried as best as I could to remind him of who he was. It was … fuck. Seeing him like that, forgetting all that he’d done and all we’d shared. It was so painful to watch. Like the person you knew was gone but still sitting right in front of you.”

His face holds a sheen of pain, like he remembers exactly what it had been like sitting in the room with a ghost.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were going over there to see him? Why didn’t you tell me he was sick? I could have helped with that pain.” When I found out initially, I’d been hurt.

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