Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 16
He doesn’t argue with this logic. However, he stands behind me acting like he doesn’t care, but comments on each one I consider until, finally, I pick up a glazed figurine of the yeti from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
I feel Bowen’s cheek against my temple as he leans over my shoulder, “That one.”
“I’m still disappointed I didn’t see one at Salt Fork,” I reply, lamenting being in the Big Foot capital of Ohio and not catching a glimpse of any cryptids.
He leans into my ear, “You must’ve been distracted,” he murmurs and kisses my cheek.
Minutes later, ornament in hand, Bowen is leading me by the hand toward a brick building with a sign suspended from the wood beams of its massive patio, El Bandido Destileria. I follow him through a set of doors into a dim Mexican restaurant with high ceilings and dramatic lighting that accentuate the murals of neon sugar skulls. We make our way to the bar, a floor to ceiling redwood catacomb of every bottle imaginable that spans the length of the restaurant.
Bowen stops near the end of the bar, still sparse due to the early hour, and pulls one of the black leather high top chairs out for me. A minute later, a middle-aged man appears in my field of view. He has olive-skin with a shaved head and he’s wearing a royal blue button-down shirt rolled up at the elbows.
“What’s up, man?” He looks at Bowen, nods, then turns at me, “I’m Joaquín. You ever been here before?”
“No, never,” I reply, clasping my hands in my lap in preparation to hear a spiel about specials and house drinks.
“See all this?” Joaquín motions to the colossal wall of bottles behind him, “It’s the largest collection of tequila and mezcal in the country. If that’s what you’re into, you’re in the right place.”
“Oh, God,” I sigh, dreading having to make a decision, “what do you recommend?”
Joaquín leans over, resting his elbows on the bar top opposite me, “Don’t worry, I can help you.” He glances to the side and points at Bowen, “You’re a whiskey guy, straight up.”
He pulls a whiskey tumbler out from beneath the bar and sets it in front of Bowen, then he turns and hikes his leg up to hoist himself up onto the back counter. He strolls along the countertop and plucks a bottle of Weller from one of the shelves. He hops back down, pours three fingers worth into the glass, and slides it in front of Bowen.
“But you,” Joaquín turns back to me and taps his finger on the bar top, “you’ve got something dark going on.”
His comment catches me off-guard and I watch in silence as he pushes off the edge of the bar and walks to the far end where he disappears through a heavy, wooden door. Slowly, I turn to Bowen, settled back in his chair, his arm resting across the back of mine. He shrugs and takes a sip of his whiskey, totally unconcerned.
This is weird.
Eventually, Joaquín returns and sets a dark bottle of wine in front of me, “You’re a Malbec girl,” he states, planting his palms on either side of the bottle, “pretty on the outside, but intense and full-bodied, with notes of black cherry and a smoky finish.” He pauses and then winks at me, “Spooky.”
I’m at a loss for words, unsure how to interpret anything that’s happening. I blink, staring at Joaquín, and then look over my shoulder at Bowen. The only thing stranger than being told I’m full-bodied and spooky by a bartender I just met is that Bowen looks completely unperturbed by any of it. In fact, he looks downright entertained.
“I’m sorry—what?” I laugh, peering at Joaquín.
Joaquín chuckles and reaches beneath the bar, pulling out a wide-bowled glass and setting it down next to the wine bottle.
He picks up the bottle and begins unscrewing the cork, “Want to hear some spooky stories about this place?”
“Of course,” I lean forward, intrigued.
“Alright, before this was a Mexican restaurant, it used to be a steakhouse with a huge wine collection.” He points to the redwood beams behind him, “Massive. Anyway, one of the servers walked into the dining room, carrying an entire baguette and saucer of olive oil. She looked up and saw a man hanging by his neck above the bar.”
My eyebrows shoot up, “For real?”
“Oh yeah,” Joaquín nods, “right up there, from one of the beams. She freaks out, drops everything—waves of olive oil all over the floor. But then he disappeared…” he pauses suspensefully, “or maybe no one else could see him except her.”
“OK, that’s terrifying,” I laugh.
“That one’s creepy,” Joaquín waves his hand dismissively, “but this one is good,” he says while rubbing his hands together dramatically. “One night, a couple was sitting here at the bar and they watched a bottle fly off the top shelf and land upright on the bar.” He slams his palm down on the bar top, making me flinch, “It didn’t bounce, it didn’t wobble, it didn’t break, it just landed upright with a bang.”
“No way,” I chuckle, leaning back in my chair.
Joaquín pops the cork out of the Malbec bottle and tilts the glass, pouring until it’s a third full. Then he slides the glass toward me.
“Taste it,” he thrusts his finger at me, “and tell me it’s not your favorite!”
Joaquín is right. Just like he said, the wine is thick, fruity, and smoky. It tastes so good, I could down the entire glass right there.
“This is fucking amazing.”
Joaquín lets out a whoop of laughter and leans back against the redwood beams. I glance at Bowen and see he’s laughing to himself, his white teeth gleaming as the light hits his face just right.
Joaquín narrows his eyes, “You know why?”
From the look on his face, I just know he’s about to say something shocking. I shake my head, smiling with anticipation.
He nods to the top of the shelves, “Because that bottle fell from that shelf up there.”
My eyes moved from Joaquín, to the glass, then back to Joaquín, “No!” I exclaim in astonishment.
“Well,” he gives a shrug, “it was one of four or five on the same shelf, but it might’ve been the one.”
It doesn’t matter, I’m still stunned, absolutely dumbfounded I might be drinking wine from a haunted bottle. Is the wine haunted? Am I drinking ghosts? I have no idea what to say.
“But,” I pause, my mind racing, “but, how did you know I like spooky things?”
“Maybe I’m just that good,” he winks at me and taps the bar top, “let me know if you need anything else.” He grins and, in an instant, he’s halfway across the bar, leaving Bowen to his whiskey and me to my haunted wine.
I jerk my head around, my mouth ajar, “What just happened?”
Bowen takes a swig of his whiskey and cracks a smile, “Looks like you found a kindred spirit.”
I glance at him a couple more times as I smooth the front of my hunter green sweater and gaze up at the redwood beams, envisioning a body hanging from the rafters. Talk about holiday spirit…
I take another sip of the wine and hold it on my tongue, savoring the rich taste while Bowen stares at me with a faint smile on his face. He sits perfectly still, his elbow propped up on the bar and his chin resting in his hand.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, shooting him a side-eye.
He shakes his head with a laugh, “You’re the only person I’ve ever met that looks the most beautiful when she’s thinking about haunted houses and murder scenes.” Then he reaches over and runs his fingers across my back, “Are you happy?”
“Yeah,” I close my eyes, taking in the moment, “I am.”
He gives his whiskey a swirl, “In that case, you know what would make this even better?”
I shake my head.
“If you say you’ll marry me.”
I give one long blink, as if I couldn’t be any more stunned at this moment. Before I can respond, Bowen sets down a small, black, velvet box on the bar top and slides it in front of me. The lid is open, revealing a cushion teal sapphire with pave set diamonds along the gold band. I touch the box with my finger and stare at the ring, my mouth half-open.
I jerk my head up, “Are you serious?” I ask in a whisper.
Bowen grins, “I’m asking you, aren’t I?”
I gaze down at the ring and clasp both hands over my mouth, “But we’ve only been together—”
“Four months,” Bowen finishes my sentence, “are you planning on going somewhere?”
I smile at him as I pluck the ring out of the box, gaping at the large, teal stone, “No…”
Bowen takes the ring from me and holds my wrist steady while he slides it onto my finger. Then he kisses the back of my hand, “I already know what I want, and I knew it long before tonight. But,” he shoots me a look, “I knew if I asked you when I really wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to handle it because you have to plan everything, like, six months in advance.”
“You’re not wrong,” I say with a roll of my eyes.
I do have to plan everything six months in advance—at least, I used to… Now, I don’t seem to mind that Bowen decided to buy me a new vehicle or asked me to move in with him after only a short period of time. And now the thought of marrying him after only four months feels like something more akin to excitement rather than being crushed under a boulder. I don’t have to be on-guard all the time because I trust him. I can’t change who I am overnight, but being with him makes so many of the neurotic things I do seem unnecessary. Maybe I can be free again…
Bowen rotates my hand back and forth, examining the ring shimmering on my finger, “I realize you—" he starts, but I don’t give him a chance to finish.
“Yes,” I say, cutting him off, “Yes, I’ll marry you,” I reach for his face and pull him in close to kiss him. I could hold onto him like this the rest of the night, under the moody lighting of a haunted bar in a faraway city on Christmas Eve.
“You know,” Bowen ponders when I finally let go of him, “tonight played out a lot differently than I thought it would.”
I lift my wine glass to my lips, “Like how?”
“I tried to think of the most romantic thing I could do for you, and it turned out to be sitting next to you in a haunted bar on Christmas Eve, talking about the hanged man next to the top shelf mezcal.”
It is pretty perfect.
Suddenly, I remember we’re not back in Ohio, “They’re going to freak out,” I chuckle.
“Who?”
“Jo! Omar! My parents!” I exclaim, “They’ll probably think I’m nuts.”
“No, they won’t,” Bowen says dismissively, “they’ll be happy.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because your parents only knew each other for two weeks before they got engaged. And,” he brings his glass to his lips, “everyone already knew about this anyway…”
I am rendered utterly speechless—again. Clearly, I am the last one to know about anything happening here tonight. But, oddly enough, I don’t mind.
“OK, but seriously,” I pause, glancing around at the entire scene, “you did all this?”
“Well,” Bowen leans back in his chair, “I know you’re not one for big scenes.”
“But how did you do all this? You’ve never been here before.”
One side of his mouth curls, “Was it good?”
I lean over and kiss him again, “It was really good.”
Bowen grins and tips his whiskey to his lips, “Then that’s all that matters, right?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Brett
One Year Ago
I hadn’t planned on going into work the day after returning from Toronto, especially not after the most exciting Christmas I can remember, and especially not on New Year’s Eve, but a half-day isn’t going to kill me.
In fact, I was so excited to leave for the holiday, I forgot to sign a pile of forms on my desk. New hires, badge access, clearances—all last minute, as usual. It looks like the pile has grown since I was last there. One hour of scribbling my name 50 times and I’m out the door, back into the wind tunnel that is the parking lot. When I get to my car, I see a text from Barrett.
BARRETT (4:09PM): When I told Anna your single days are over, she choked on a Christmas cookie. It was a gingerbread man.
If Barrett was in town, she’d be coming out with us tonight, but she’s still in Kentucky visiting her cousin, Anna. I start the ignition and type a response.
ME (4:12PM): Of course it was. Which part?
Coasting over the rolling hills and winding through the country roads, I still need to decide what to wear tonight. The Well reminds me of my favorite bar in college, where Barrett, Katie, Emma, and I posted up every Friday night, the reliable standby in case any other plan turned into a disappointment. Except this place is at the edge of the suburbs, out in the cornfields, instead of a 40-minute drive into the city. I can’t even remember what clothes I own. I need to walk into my closet and stare at the rack for a good 10 minutes.
As soon as I pull around the curve in the driveway, I see a car I don’t recognize. Bowen’s truck is gone, which I expect, but a silver Ford Escape is parked on his side of the gravel. I pull in next to it and cut the engine, peering through my windows to see if anyone is around.
The car is empty.
I get out and slowly walk past it to the front door, hurrying up to the porch to get out of the wind. When I reach for the doorknob, I find that it’s unlocked. I swing the door open and peek inside the house.
Silence.
The house also looks empty, just as I left it a couple hours earlier. For some reason, I don’t feel like there’s a home robbery in progress. And if someone were trying to hide and ambush me, they’re doing a shitty job of it by parking right in front of the house where the Ring camera can see them.
When I step through the door, I come to a stop in the foyer and just listen. All I can hear is the hum of the refrigerator and the heat kick off a minute later. I look over my shoulder at the silver SUV sitting in the driveway, still empty and out of place. Then I make for the bedroom, taking out my phone as I enter the dark hallway. I can’t remember Bowen mentioning that anyone was coming over.
No sooner does my thumb touch my screen than I glance up and let out a terrified scream, “Jesus Christ!” I jump back spastically, grabbing my chest.
A second scream fills the tiny hallway, piercing my eardrums. Suddenly, I find myself standing face to face in the bedroom doorway with Hannah.
“Fuck, you scared me,” she snaps with irritation, brushing her hair behind her ear.
“I scared you?” I scoff.
At first, Hannah doesn’t respond until she notices that I’m eyeing her suspiciously. Then she immediately smiles and lets out a sigh of relief.
She nods to the bedroom, “Hildy and Jay are out of town, so I said I’d come by and check on Waylon,” she explains, moving past me as if to dismiss any concern.
“Oh…thanks…” I turn to follow her back down the hall into the living room, my hands shaking so bad that I have to clench them into fists.
Shouldn’t Hildy have mentioned this to one of us? Maybe not if she thought we’d still be gone, but the fact that Hannah just popped out of our bedroom makes me think she should have…she fucking should have. I try to settle myself down in the time it takes to reach the living room, also still acutely aware that this woman creeping around my house doesn’t even seem to like me.
“So, any fun plans tonight?” I ask as the phrase, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, comes to mind.
“Yeah,” Hannah calls over her shoulder as she arrives at the front door, “meeting Hildy, Jay, and Bo at the Well.”
“Then I guess I’ll see you there.”
“Oh!” She spins around in surprise, “You’re going?”
Is she for real?
“Yeah.” I might as well be Patrick Swayze in Ghost, as much as Hannah is trying to pretend that I don’t exist.
She turns the knob and steps out onto the porch, “See you later then!” she calls over her shoulder, slamming the door.
I stare at the door in bewilderment for a few seconds before I’m interrupted by a familiar jingle. Following the sound, I look over at the basement stairs in time to see Waylon lumbering up the last two steps. He shuffles past me into the living room on his way to his dog bed next to the fireplace. I glance back at the bedroom in confusion.
What the…
Maybe she was looking for Waylon when I arrived…maybe. I still can’t shake the feeling that Hannah shouldn’t have been where she was when I walked in, but there’s nothing I can do about it right now. But I’m definitely telling Bowen about it when he gets home.
In the meantime, I try to distract myself by focusing on picking out an outfit for tonight. I decide high-waist flares are a safe choice, but I still need a shirt. When I throw open the closet door and step inside to flip on the light, I notice something white on the carpet. It looks like a folded piece of paper laying beneath Bowen’s winter coat and sherpa-lined flannel jacket.
Stooping down to pick it up, I realize it’s a 4 x 6 photo that’s folded in half. When I open it, my eyes round with amusement. Bowen is sitting at a desk—the same kind in every high school in America—leaning back in his chair. He’s wearing a white long-sleeve Adidas t-shirt and his dark eyes are averted, smiling at something out of frame. Hannah’s leaning forward over the desk behind him, her arm looped around his shoulders while she presses her cheek against his temple and smiles at the camera.
The photo is old, worn and creased from being loose and held too much. It looks like it belongs with the pictures I found in the basement. But what’s it doing up here in the middle of the closet? Maybe Hannah wasn’t in here looking for Waylon…
I let out an irritated breath and roll my eyes. Am I really that surprised? I secretly witnessed the fallout between Hannah and her boyfriend at the wedding after he essentially accused her of being in love with Bowen. Whatever’s going on with her, Hannah has some serious boundary issues that are now spilling out onto my closet floor.
It’s still sitting there a couple hours later after Bowen gets home and I’m finishing getting dressed for the evening.
