Page 37 of Awaiting the Storm (Wildhaven #1)

T he mulled wine in my mug is warm and spicy, made with a bold Malbec that Grandma Evelyn says is “just right for cold nights and baking.” The porch boards creak under my socked feet as I lean back in the old swing, watching the stars blink to life, one by one.

The scent of cinnamon, nutmeg, and roasted pecans still clings to my lounge clothes.

We baked a small village of pies tonight—apple, pecan, pumpkin, and even that cranberry orange custard pie Grandma insists is “an acquired taste.” The turkey’s brining in the cooler, taking up half the fridge in the mudroom, and the kitchen smells like the holidays and a lifetime of memories.

Behind me, the screen door springs open and slams shut. Charli saunters out first, a cup of mulled wine in one hand, a half-eaten sugar cookie in the other. “You hiding out here so you don’t have to do dishes?”

“Yep. I figured you three had it covered,” I say, tipping my cup toward her.

She settles into the swing beside me, tucking her legs up like she did when we were little. “My feet hurt. Grandma had us rolling pie dough for hours. It’s like she thinks we’re gonna be feeding the entire county.”

“In all fairness, Axle, Royce, and Cabe could probably out-eat the rest of the county,” Shelby says as she comes out the door next, her wild curls tied up in a high bun and flour dust still smeared across one cheek. “Plus, you kept eating the filling before it hit the pie shells.”

“I have no regrets,” Charli says, licking sugar from her thumb.

And then, like a little firecracker, Harleigh bounces through the door, glowing with the energy only a college student on holiday break can summon. “Y’all didn’t wait for me.” She pouts, flopping down onto the step at my feet with exaggerated drama .

“You took forever in the bathroom,” Shelby says, handing her a glass of spiked cider. “What were you doing in there anyway?”

“I was video-chatting with Marco.” Harleigh rolls the R in Marco seductively and waggles her eyebrows.

“Marco? I thought his name was Paulo?” Shelby quips.

“Paulo is Marco’s brother, and she switched,” Charli teases.

“Switched? It’s not like they’re handbags you can change out to match your outfit,” Shelby gasps as she chokes down a sip of cider.

“Sure you can. Paulo already graduated. He was only in town to visit some friends and his brothers. We hooked up at a party. It was super hot, but he was on his way back to San Diego the next day,” Harleigh explains.

“And Marco is okay with the fact that you hooked up with his brother?”

She shrugs. “I didn’t tell him. Paulo didn’t tell him. It was before we went out. It’s not a big deal.”

I shake my head. My sisters have always been more adventurous than me. Sometimes, I wonder who I would have been if I’d gone off to college. Would I be as uptight, or would I run headfirst into anything that caused my heart to race?

“You’re trouble,” Charli says.

“I am trouble,” Harleigh replies with a wink.

We all laugh, the sound wrapping around us like a blanket. It’s one of those rare moments—when all four Storm sisters are in the same place at the same time, no one’s fighting, no one’s crying, and no one’s covered in horse shit.

Thanksgiving is two days away, and we’re ready. Grandma’s kitchen is off-limits to all menfolk until the feast is served, and Grandpa’s already declared a three-day suspension on healthy eating.

“None of that modified recipe nonsense,” he said earlier, wagging a finger at Grandma Evelyn. “We want the traditional Thanksgiving feast with all the trimmings.”

“Axle threatened anarchy if she messed with Thanksgiving dinner,” Shelby reminds us.

“Royce said he’d order pizza and eat it at the table,” Charli adds. “And Cabe just said he’d eat it so he wouldn’t hurt Grandma’s feelings, but he’d never forgive her.”

Needless to say, we’re all extra thankful we aren’t gonna have to chew on tofurkey.

I sip my wine again, letting the laughter fade into a peaceful quiet. The stars above us seem brighter tonight. Maybe it’s the clear sky or just the way this place always feels radiant when all the girls are home.

Charli nudges me with her foot. “You’ve been real quiet.”

“I’m just soaking it in.”

“You’re brooding.”

“Am not,” I tell her, but the crease in my brow gives me away.

They all turn to look at me—three sets of Storm-blue eyes assessing me closely.

Shelby gestures out to the land beyond the porch with her glass. “The ranch is looking good, huh?”

“It is,” I admit, glancing out toward the barn, where the new lights gleam faintly in the distance. “Better than it’s looked in years. Even with the light snow we got this morning, there’s something about it lately. Like it’s coming back to life again.”

Charli beams. “Mr. Hamilton said the same thing when he dropped off his daughter’s horse yesterday. Said he didn’t expect it to be so … what was the word?”

“ Vibrant ,” I say, nodding. “He told me that too. And he was real impressed with how you handled that mare.”

Charli glows with pride. “She’s spirited, but she and I found common ground.”

“Yeah, well, you got her over her fear of those higher jumps, which had been a real challenge. That’s no small thing. He’s already recommended us to two other parents. Their horses’ll be here after the holiday.”

That makes Charli blink. “Really?”

“Really. I’m proud of you,” I say, and I mean it. “You’ve stepped up. I see it. Thank you.”

She tries to play it off, but the way she ducks her head and smiles like a little girl on Christmas morning tells me the praise means a lot to her.

“I told you I could do it,” she murmurs.

“You did,” I agree, and for a moment, I let myself feel it—that flicker of hope that maybe we’ll be okay after all.

But it fades just as quickly as it came.

Shelby must notice because she reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You all right, Sissy?”

I nod, even though I’m not entirely sure. “Just tired.”

Charli side-eyes me. “You’ve been tired for years, Matty. This is different.”

“It’s winter blues,” I say.

“No, it’s something else,” Harleigh pipes up, looking up at me from her spot on the step. “You need a night out.”

“I need to finish this mug of mulled wine and go to bed early,” I reply dryly.

“I’m serious,” she says pleadingly. “I’m only home for a few days, and I want to go out with my sisters. All of them. Even the responsible, serious one who never cuts loose anymore.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not true. I cut loose with them,” I say, hooking a thumb in Charli and Shelby’s direction. “They had to carry me to bed last time. That’s how loose I cut.”

“Psht,” Shelby grunts. “We didn’t carry you anywhere.”

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.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” I mutter, pressing my forehead to the dashboard. The leather is cold. It helps. “I told you that in the bar, I told you that in the parking lot, and I’m telling you now.”

Harleigh laughs over my shoulder. “Which is exactly why we’re going right to his place so you can say your piece. It’s for your emotional well-being.”

“My emotional well-being was shot all to hell the minute we started doing lemon drops.”

“I can’t help the men at the pool tables kept sending them over. It would have been impolite not to drink them,” Harleigh says.

“I only had four,” Charli declares proudly. “Harleigh drank my other two.”

“You guys are just outta practice. Four shots are what we do while getting ready to go out on campus.” Harleigh snorts.

Shelby, the only sober one among us, sighs. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but y’all are insane. Matty, if you want me to turn around, just say the word.”

“Oh, now, you offer,” I grumble as she takes the turn onto the road that leads to Caison’s cabin.

Charli leans forward, putting a hand on my knee.

“Matty. Sissy. Listen. You’re too hot, too smart, and too damn good to be moping over some man, even one with rich chocolate eyes and a voice like sin.

So, we”—she pauses to gesture to all three of them—“your guard-dog sisters, are going to help you get closure with that douchebag.”

“I don’t need closure,” I grit out. “I need a hot shower and a sandwich to soak up the alcohol sloshing around in my stomach.”

“Well, maybe you should’ve eaten more at dinner,” Harleigh mutters.

“And maybe y’all should’ve left me at home!”

Charli shrugs. “Too late.”

Shelby’s truck pulls up the driveway to Caison’s cabin.

“What if he’s asleep?” I mutter.

Charli scrunches her nose. “It’s only nine.”

It feels so much later .

The log cabin comes into sight. The porch glows warmly, and there’s a faint flicker of light coming through the front window.

“Guess he’s up. Let’s go give him a piece of our minds!” Charli cries.

God help me, I do want to see him.

Maybe to yell or punch him in the face. Or maybe to grab that smug, maddening face and kiss him hard enough to forget everything he’s done.

Charli throws her arm across the back of the seat and squeezes my shoulder. “All right, ladies. This is it. We ride at dawn.”

“It’s nine o’clock. We’ve covered this already,” Shelby deadpans.

Charli ignores her. “We haven’t come this far to come this far. Now get your game faces on. Matty’s ready to rumble.”

“Correction,” I say tightly, “Matty’s ready for her warm bed because it’s November and she’s wearing a dress the size of a postage stamp.”

Harleigh leans up. “And she looks hot as hell in it, which is just going to rub salt in ol’ boy’s wound.”

Charli kicks the door open. “Let’s go, girls.”

“No, no, no.” I reach for her, but she’s already halfway out of the truck.

Harleigh follows from the back with a loud cackle and a drunken twirl.

They step to the side and I scramble out, muttering curses under my breath, but before I even get both feet on the ground—

Shove.

A not-so-gentle push sends me stumbling forward. My heel catches the edge of the drive, and I nearly eat dirt. I flail, right myself at the last second, and spin around, wide-eyed and livid.

“Charli!”

“Good luck, Sissy!” they all scream from inside the truck.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Harleigh calls gleefully from the back window.

Shelby hits the gas, and the truck lurches forward, wheels skidding on the gravel as they peel out of the drive and vanish through the trees.

I’m standing in the middle of the driveway. Alone. In a tiny red dress. With no phone. No jacket. And rage bubbling in my chest.

“Oh. My. God. I’m gonna kill those brats,” I hiss, spinning in a circle like it might somehow rewind the last five minutes.

The night air is frigid. Wind cuts right through my skin .

I wrap my arms around myself, stomping my feet for warmth, and scream, “I hate all of you!”

And that’s when the cabin door creaks open.

I turn at the sound, and out steps a woman.

An older woman—maybe late fifties, early sixties. Long, dark hair and dark eyes—eyes just like his. She wears a soft sweater and slacks.

Shit.

I wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

“Well,” she says in a voice laced with amusement, “you must be Matty.”