Page 39 of Unlawful Hearts
CHAPTER 19
AVA - PITCHFORKS
The dress was red. Low at the back and fitted. A little too nice for a fundraiser at a local community hall, but I wasn’t in the mood to blend in.
Remi had insisted I wear it.
“It’s just a dress,” she’d said when I’d scowled at my reflection. “Not an agreement to a ceasefire.”
Now, standing just outside the event doors with her, I was starting to think she was wrong.
Because the moment I stepped into the hall, it felt like every pair of eyes turned our way.
The air smelled faintly of starch and floor polish, the kind that clung to every small-town gathering place. Laughter rose in uneven pockets, the kind of laughter that stretched a little too wide when politics or grief were in the room.
Remi wore a deep green wrap dress, heels that made her look three inches taller, and a quiet confidence that didn’t come from vanity—it came from survival. From grit. From learning how to take up space without apology.
We walked in side by side, the familiar hum of polite conversation and cheap wine filling the air. A local band strummed something soft near the corner. Decorations were minimal but tasteful… someone had tried. Probably Remi.
I had wondered more and more lately if she worked so hard, if she never stopped, because she was desperately trying to live enough, do enough for her and Jenny both. Like filling both pairs of shoes was the only way Remi knew how to get out of bed in the morning.
She leaned over and whispered, “See? No pitchforks. No torches. Just overcooked meatballs and watered-down drinks.”
“Maybe they’re hiding the pitchforks behind the coat rack.”
She rolled her eyes. “Try not to bite anyone.”
I bit at the air and replied with a wink. “No promises.”
I scanned the crowd, my mood already fraying, until I saw him.
And I froze.
Harlan stood near the podium, deep in conversation with a councilwoman, a whiskey glass in one hand. His suit was dark and pressed, his tie neat, his jaw clean-shaven.
And on his head?
A goddamn cowboy hat.
Remi leaned in. “Okay, I see it now.”
“See what?” I asked.
She gave me a look, sayingyou are not fooling anyoneand hit me with: “He asked about you yesterday.”
“Shut up.”
“What did I say?” She laughed.
“Something that means nothing.”
She grinned.
And I hated her a little for it.
Because Harlan Gray had no right to clean up like that. He had no right to look like he belonged here, like he was the kind of man who remembered to bring flowers and hold doors open, even though I knew damn well he was also the kind who could pin someone to a wall with nothing but his stare.
He caught sight of us and excused himself from the conversation.
