Forced Together Again
The storm came in the form of her boss’s text: Emergency deadline. Need files tonight. Laptop crash = your apartment ASAP. Please.
She read it three times, groaning. That meant dragging home boxes of sample boards, color swatches, and sketches to rebuild half a project overnight. Alone, it would take forever.
When she staggered into the apartment with her arms full, Ethan was sprawled on the couch, strumming his guitar. He set it aside when he saw her. “Whoa. Did you rob an art store?”
“Don’t ask,” she muttered, nearly tripping over his sneakers. “I have a deadline, and my boss is panicking. This has to be finished tonight.”
Ethan hopped up, sweeping the sneakers out of her path. “Need help?”
Harper blinked. “You?”
He smirked. “I’m more than just a pretty face. I can cut and paste like a champ.”
She hesitated, but desperation won. “Fine. But follow instructions exactly.”
“Bossy,” he teased, but he was already rolling up his sleeves.
—
H OURS LATER, THE TABLE was a battlefield of glue sticks, sketch pads, and color chips.
Harper hunched over a layout, trying not to notice how close Ethan’s arm brushed hers whenever he leaned in.
To her surprise, he wasn’t half bad—quick with his hands, careful with her directions, and annoyingly cheerful about the whole thing.
“You’re... not terrible at this,” she admitted reluctantly.
He shot her a grin. “High praise. You’d make a good team leader.”
She rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips. He had a way of making even stress feel lighter.
At midnight, she stretched, groaning. “I think we did it.”
Ethan flopped back in his chair, glue smudge on his cheek. “Told you teamwork was my specialty.”
Harper’s laugh slipped out before she could stop it. “You look ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously handsome?”
“Ridiculously messy.” She reached without thinking, brushing the smudge from his skin with her thumb. The moment lingered—his eyes caught hers, warm and searching—and suddenly the air between them was charged.
She jerked her hand back, heat flooding her cheeks. “I—I should email these files.”
“Right.” He leaned away, but the glimmer in his gaze didn’t fade.
—
T HE NEXT MORNING, HARPER expected awkwardness. Instead, she found Ethan making pancakes in the kitchen, humming off-key.
“You don’t have to—” she started.
“Think of it as payment for last night’s free labor,” he interrupted, sliding a plate toward her. “Besides, fake boyfriends should cook breakfast, right?”
She groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Don’t remind me.”
“Why not? You were very convincing.”
She peeked at him through her fingers. “Convincing?”
“Melissa totally bought it.” He leaned against the counter, grin slow and infuriating. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe you actually liked me.”
Her heart thudded hard enough to betray her. She scowled, stabbing a pancake with her fork. “Don’t get used to it.”
But as he laughed and poured more syrup onto her plate, she couldn’t shake the truth pressing at her edges: she was getting used to him. And that was the problem.