Page 45 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

MAREN

The candles still flicker on the bar tables, wax pooling in small lakes of remembrance. Lark kicks the front door closed with her foot and flips the lock with the satisfaction of someone done with the public for a night.

“We survived,” she declares, already reaching for a bottle of red wine from behind the bar, the good stuff we save for emergencies and accidental epiphanies. “That was intense. Really lovely though. I think half the town was here.”

“Felt like more,” I say, sliding into our usual booth by the window. The vinyl is worn smooth from years of sitting here after closing. My feet ache from standing all day, and there’s a red wine stain on my dress I’ll probably never get out, but we made it through.

Calvin slides in beside me, his thigh pressing against mine. He’s loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, and he looks exhausted but peaceful, like he’s finally let go of the tension he’s been carrying.

“I had no idea Susan decked that asshole back in the day... what was his name?” Lark says, pouring three generous glasses with a steady hand. “The one with the boat dealership?”

“Terry Morrison,” Calvin supplies, laughing. “He had it coming. She had a hell of a right hook.”

“Your mom was a badass,” Lark says, raising her glass. “To Susan.”

We clink glasses, and the sound echoes in the empty bar. I take a sip and lean back, watching them both relax into the moment.

“I think my favorite part of the night was when you and Alex started that duet,” I say to Lark, grinning at the memory. “And then Eddie and Marcus joined in using spoons as drums.”

Lark winces, covering her face. “Yeah, I think I’d just done a shot at that point. Things got a little crazy for a bit.”

“You have a really good voice,” Calvin says, turning to look at her. “I was shocked. Professional quality.”

“Oh, thanks,” Lark says, waving him off, her cheeks pink.

I can’t resist. The wine and exhaustion have made me bold. “Well, she should have a good voice,” I say, my tone deliberately casual. “She wants to be a singer.”

“Maren!” Lark kicks me under the table, but she’s laughing. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t know this about you,” Calvin says, leaning forward with interest.

“It’s not a big deal,” Lark says quickly, spinning her wine glass on the table.

“It is a big deal. She’s wonderful,” I insist, grinning at Lark’s glare. “I keep telling her she needs to make a real go of it. She’s an incredible writer too. Her songs are beautiful.”

“Wait, what?” Calvin’s eyebrows shoot up. “You write your own songs?”

“I dabble,” Lark says, shrinking back slightly.

“She does not dabble,” I correct cheerfully, then turn to Calvin with a mischievous grin. “She’s been writing since forever, but she got serious after the divorce six months ago. Now that she’s free from that asshole, the creativity just pours out of her.”

“Maren!” Lark protests, but she’s laughing. “Was that necessary?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “It’s part of your origin story. All that anger had to go somewhere. Better into songs than into keying his truck.”

“I would never,” Lark says primly, then grins. “His truck was too ugly to bother with anyway.”

“Anyway,” I say. “Her songs are incredible. I keep telling her she needs to do something with them. People would love her stuff.”

“It’s just me and my guitar in my apartment,” Lark says, fidgeting with her wine glass. “Nothing fancy.”

“Play him something,” I urge. “You’ve got recordings on your phone, right? Like that one you sent me last week about starting over?”

“That was for feedback only,” Lark says, but she’s already pulling out her phone.

“I’d love to hear it,” Calvin says warmly.

“It’s good practice,” I add. “Getting used to other people hearing your stuff before you perform.”

Lark rolls her eyes. “That’s not happening. No performing.”

“Just play the song,” I say, nudging her foot under the table.

Lark looks between us for a moment. “Fine. One song. But remember it’s just recorded on my phone in my living room. The quality isn’t great.”

“The quality is fine,” I assure her. “Your voice is what matters.”

She hits play, and her voice fills the empty bar. Even through the phone speaker, it’s beautiful. Raw and honest, with lyrics that make my chest heave. I watch Calvin’s face as he listens, and see his eyes widen.

“Lark, that’s incredible,” he says when it ends. “Your voice, the lyrics, everything. You have real talent.”

“Play another one,” I urge, refilling everyone’s wine glasses.

She does, and then another. With each song, Lark relaxes more, even starting to explain the stories behind them.

Calvin asks questions about her writing process, her influences—which range from Joni Mitchell to Taylor Swift—and we all fall into an easy conversation about creativity and art.

By the fourth song, Lark is laughing, telling us about the time she wrote an entire album worth of breakup songs in one weekend fueled by wine and spite.

“Okay, I need to head home,” Lark finally says, checking the time. “It’s after midnight and I’m exhausted.”

“Your songs are great,” Calvin tells her as she gathers her things. “You should really pursue this. You have something special.”

“Hey, you’re a real writer,” Lark says, pointing at him. “More than I am.”

“Nonsense,” Calvin says with a rueful smile. “I think you’re more of a writer than I am. Definitely more talented too, by far.”

Lark blushes but smiles genuinely. “Thanks. That actually means a lot.”

After she leaves, locking the door behind her, Calvin and I sit in the quiet bar just looking at each other. We’re both smiling, warm from wine and the unexpected joy of the last hour.

“Thank you,” I say, reaching across to take his hand. “For being so encouraging with her. She needed to hear that from someone who isn’t me.”

“I meant every word,” Calvin says, his fingers interlacing with mine. “She’s genuinely talented. She should go for it.” He reaches across with his free hand to touch my face gently. “Same goes for you. Your writing matters too.”

“Calvin...” I start, but the way he’s looking at me, I think maybe he’s right. Maybe it is time to take my own writing seriously, to stop treating it like a silly dream.

“I’m serious,” he says, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. “You have stories to tell, Maren. Don’t let anyone, especially yourself, convince you otherwise.”

The way he’s looking at me, steady and sure, makes my heart race. I lean across the small table and kiss him, tasting wine and promise.

“Let’s go home,” I whisper against his lips.

“Home,” he agrees, and the word means everything.

The rain starts just as we’re locking up the bar, fat drops that splatter on the wooden deck outside.

We’d parked at the cabins earlier and walked to the memorial, which seemed brilliant at the time. Now, looking at the dark sky opening up, maybe not so much.

“We’re going to get soaked,” Calvin says, but he’s grinning as he takes my hand. “Ready to run for it?”

Within seconds we’re drenched through. Not just rain but a proper storm, the kind that turns the air silver and makes the world feel electric. Thunder rolls somewhere over the Sound, and I shriek when the cold water runs down my back.

“This is insane,” I yell over the downpour, but I’m laughing. We’re both laughing, stumbling along the muddy trail, our dress clothes plastered to our bodies.

Calvin spins me around suddenly, catching me against him. Water runs down his face, his white dress shirt transparent and clinging to every line of his chest. He looks at me like I’m everything, even though my hair is plastered to my head and my makeup is probably somewhere around my chin.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, and has to shout it over the rain.

“You’re blind,” I shout back, but he’s already kissing me, right there in the middle of the storm. His hands frame my face, and I can taste rain and wine and joy. Thunder cracks again, closer, and we break apart laughing.

We stumble-run the rest of the way, slipping in the mud, grabbing onto each other for balance. Calvin catches my hand, pulling me along, both of us breathless with laughter and rain.

By the time we crash through his cabin door, we’re gasping and completely drenched. I lean back against the closed door, trying to catch my breath, and he’s right there, crowding into my space in the best way. Water drips from his hair onto my face.

“I love you,” he says, voice rough. “God, Maren, I love you. Don’t think I’ll ever get tired of saying that.”

“You’re crazy,” I tell him, but I’m pulling him closer by his soaked shirt.

“Crazy about you,” he agrees, and kisses me again, deeper this time. His hands slide into my wet hair, and I can feel the heat of him through our cold, wet clothes. He presses me back against the door, and I’ve never felt more alive.

“We need to get out of these clothes,” I gasp between kisses. “We’re making a lake on your floor.”

“Don’t care about the floor,” he says against my neck, but he’s already working on the buttons of his shirt with one hand, the other still buried in my hair.

I help him with the buttons, my fingers fumbling with the wet fabric.

When he finally peels the shirt off, I just stare for a moment.

The sight of him, all lean muscle, water still running down his chest, makes me forget how to breathe.

This beautiful, brilliant man who loves me, who wants to upend his entire life for me.

He steps closer, his hands going to the zipper of my dress. “Let me help.”

The way he looks at me, worshipful and hungry at the same time, makes me feel powerful. Desired. Chosen. Like I’m the only woman in the world.

“Calvin,” I breathe, and he understands everything in that one word.

“I know,” he says, pulling me against him. “I know.”

My dress falls to the floor in a wet heap and his hands skim up my sides, leaving trails of heat despite our rain-chilled skin.

“Bed,” he says against my mouth, already walking me backward.

“We’re still soaking wet,” I point out, but I’m not exactly protesting.