4. Harper
Harper
The last few days I’ve been minding all my Ps and Qs.
I haven’t so much as stepped one tiny toe out of line, and it’s killing me.
I swear I can feel it slowly eating away at my soul.
Every cell in my body is screaming at me to bend the rules, to ignore the work I’m supposed to be doing so I can do what I really want to do instead.
Which is follow Ev. Which is a really fucking bad idea.
I need to prove to Arthur that I can do this, that he can trust me with the big stories, but the truth is the DeMarco case is boring me.
Nothing is happening right now since it’s still very much in the early stage of things, but the real reason is that my heart isn’t in it because my brain knows the real story lies elsewhere.
That elsewhere is standing less than ten feet away from me right now, because I may or may not have seen him walk into this grocery store and followed him in.
It was a fluke, really. Technically I’m not doing anything wrong, because I wasn’t tailing him.
I was minding my own business, driving by on the way to a pet store for Watson, when I happened to look over and see him.
He was easy to spot because unlike everyone else on a casual Saturday afternoon, he was in a black suit and towering over all the other people in the parking lot.
I’d quickly changed plans, mentally promising Watson to get him his favorite dog bones after the detour.
He hasn’t noticed me yet. He’s too busy staring at the pile of fruit in front of him like he has no clue what to do with it.
I start to feel sorry for him until I remind myself that he probably has a staff that usually does this for him.
He must be slumming it for the day by doing his own shopping.
Must be real hard when you’re born with a gold bar shoved up your ass.
I actually don’t know if he comes from money.
The small amount of info I’ve managed to gather on him leaves a lot to be desired.
His parents died when he was young, an uncle raised him before succumbing to a heart attack right after Ev graduated high school.
Whatever the story of his birth, it obviously was the stuff of family money.
He never had to take out any loans for college or the prestigious law school he graduated from.
Meanwhile, I’m still making monthly payments on the giant loan I had to take out to get my degree.
I’m halfway convinced I’ll die of old age before I get it all paid off.
Meanwhile, the jackass up ahead paid cash, probably didn’t even feel the sting of losing so much at one time.
When he reaches out and squeezes one of the peaches so hard it nearly bursts in his hand, I sigh and push my cart over to him.
Without turning his head, he says, “Come to gloat, Harper?”
“How the hell did you know it was me?” I ask, because I’m 100% positive that he hasn’t looked over at me once.
He puts the peach that he’s just manhandled back on the pile and turns his head to look at me.
I try not to think about how gorgeous his eyes are.
They’re a piercing blue-green color with dark lashes and eyebrows that look perfect instead of bushy.
I linger briefly on his stubbled jawline before forcing my gaze back to the display of fruit.
“Smell it,” I tell him.
“What?”
Reaching over, I grab a peach and bring it to my nose. I close my eyes and inhale, putting it back when I can’t smell anything. I grab several more before I find a good one that fills my nose with the sweet aroma.
I hold it out to him. “Smell it.”
He takes it, his fingers brushing mine for a brief touch that lingers far longer than it should. I huff out a laugh when he does it wrong.
“Not there,” I say. “It’s too hard to smell there.”
“Where do I smell it then?”
I can’t think of any other way to word it, so I say, “The hole. Just smell the hole.”
The side of his mouth quirks up, and I roll my eyes at him. “You’re a lawyer. You’re supposed to be more mature than that.”
“You’re the one who came up to me and told me to smell the hole,” he says, nearly making me laugh before he brings it to his nose and inhales.
“You smell it?”
“It smells very sweet,” he admits, and then surprises me by adding, “and like it would taste delicious.”
When he puts the peach in a bag before grabbing another one to smell, I can’t help but rake my eyes over his mouth, noticing the sensual fullness of his bottom lip and immediately wondering what it would feel like to have that mouth on me. Heat rushes to my face as I quickly look away.
“Nifty trick,” he says after he’s added four more to the bag. “Have any advice for strawberries?”
“You can sniff them, too, but it’s easier to just look at the color. You want red all over. No white at the top near the stem. And flip the package over. Sometimes there are hidden moldy ones on the bottom.”
“Are these skills you’ve picked up as an investigative journalist?” he asks.
His tone is more friendly teasing than sarcastic, so I answer him. “No, my friend loves to cook. He covers all the cooking and recipe articles at work. He’s always experimenting with recipes for his boyfriend to try.”
I’m not sure why I feel the need to add that last bit. Nothing could ever happen between Ev and me, so it’s not like it matters if he thinks I might be hooking up with my coworker.
“Lucky guy,” Ev says. “I usually get takeout.”
“No personal chef?” I ask.
He gives a soft laugh. “No. In case you haven’t noticed, I like my privacy.”
“Wow, so that means no housekeeper either?” Truly shocked, I let my mouth drop open in exaggerated surprise. “Are you telling me the infamous Ev Nikitin scrubs his own toilets?”
“Infamous? That makes me sound downright evil. I prefer highly esteemed. I think that has a nicer ring to it. The highly esteemed Ev Nikitin scrubs his own toilets.” He grins, an honest-to-god smile, the first I’ve seen from him, and says, “See? Now I also sound humble.”
I laugh before I can stop it, before I can remember that he and I don’t get along and that we’re playing on opposite teams. “I have to admit. I had no idea you could stop being a jackass. I thought it was just your natural state of being.”
He shrugs a broad shoulder, looking both ridiculous and gorgeous in his suit in the middle of the produce department. “I’m sure even the devil can look sweet from time to time.”
“That’s how he got Eve, right?”
“I’m not so sure I’d call a snake sweet, but if you believe the story, then, yeah, that’s how he got Eve. And I’m not a jackass. I’m just very good at my job.”
“As am I,” I tell him.
“Any luck getting that interview from me?” he has the nerve to ask. When he sees my glare, he smirks and starts to steer his cart towards the strawberries. “See you around, Harper.”
“I’m working the DeMarco case,” I remind him, not bothering to add that it’s only until one of the senior reporters gets back. “I don’t need an interview from you.”
I curse his name to hell and back when he doesn’t even bother to turn around, leaving me hollering at the wide expanse of his shoulders in the suit that was very clearly made for his exact measurements.
Looking around, I notice several women openly eyeing Ev, and I realize I must sound like a jilted lover to them.
Gathering up what little dignity I have left, I drop the pretense of shopping and leave my cart and the store.
After that, shopping for Watson isn’t as much fun with the conversation I just had running through my head the whole time.
My spoiled greyhound doesn’t seem to mind that I was in a grumpy mood while I shopped for him, though.
He actually shows a little burst of energy when I get back and he sees me open the bag of his favorite treats.
“Here you go, boy,” I tell him, bending down so I can love on him for a few seconds before he walks back over to the couch. He gnaws on the bone while lounging comfortably across the cushions.
“I really envy your inability to give a damn about anything,” I tell him.
His brown eyes linger on mine while he continues chewing.
Clearly, I could learn a few things from him.
Instead of letting Ev rile me up, I should just let it pass me by like water off a duck’s back.
I try to imagine myself doing that and huff out a breath before grabbing the bottle of wine I’d picked up after the pet store.
“Screw that,” I mutter while pouring myself a full glass. I will never be able to be calm about anything. After twenty-seven years, I know this about myself. I’m hot-tempered, annoyingly curious so my mind never shuts up, and tenacious to the point of being obsessive.
I hold my wine glass up at Watson. “I’m quite the catch, buddy. See how lucky you are?”
He keeps gnawing away while I proceed to get myself as tipsy as I can without crossing the line into fully inebriated. It’s a fine balance, but I think I can manage it.
* * *
Turns out I was wrong. Watson pulls me from my deep, drunken sleep with a wet tongue to the face. My pained groan doesn’t deter him. His full bladder wins because I feel way too guilty making him hold it any longer. With another moan of pain, I curse my own stupidity and roll out of bed.
“I’m never drinking wine again,” I tell him, while he does a little pee-pee dance, long legs tapping excitedly on the floor, letting me know he really has to go.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. Not caring that I must look like death, I shove my feet into the closest pair of shoes and grab his leash, not even bothering to check myself in a mirror. Sometimes it’s best not to know.