16. Harper
Harper
If I thought yesterday was long, I quickly learn it was nothing compared to the slow ticking of today’s clock.
I look around the empty house, trying and failing yet again not to be hurt by Ev’s sneak-out this morning.
He hadn’t even left a note. I’d clearly meant so little that he hadn’t even spared me a thought this morning.
I’m annoyed with myself more than anything.
I’d let myself believe that last night meant something, but apparently I’m the only sappy jackass around here with hearts in her eyes.
It had been good, damn good, but it had just been a way to relieve stress and all the sexual tension that’s been building up between us.
We both needed a release, and we got one.
End of story. The late-night cuddling had just been because Ev must’ve been feeling a little sentimental. Hell, maybe he just felt sorry for me.
I look over at where Watson is lounging on the couch. “I’m such a dumbass,” I tell him.
The half tail wag he gives could be either agreement or disagreement. I can never tell with him. I do know waking up to him wedged up against my back while I was butt-ass naked had been an early morning shock I hadn’t been expecting.
I give up all pretense of trying to make the best of things today, and instead shower just so I can put my pajamas back on.
I keep wearing Ev’s hoodie because I like it, but I add underwear and my own comfy bottoms. Grabbing a couple of comfortable blankets and pillows, I make myself a bed on the couch next to Watson and grab the remote.
It’s a day of mindless reality TV and comfort movies.
The only time I leave the nest I’ve created is when Watson or I need a bathroom break and to get food.
By the time I hear the carriage door open, I’m pretty sure there’s an imprint of my body on his nice cushions, and the coffee table is littered with empty candy wrappers and a half-eaten bag of chips.
My plate from lunch is buried under there somewhere, along with an empty can of Olipop.
I don’t bother lifting my head when I hear him walk into the room.
Neither one of us says a word, not even when I hear him set his briefcase down and slowly make his way over to me.
When he stands in front of me, blocking my view of the TV, I finally look up at him.
I watch him take in the scene before him, probably appalled at the mess I’ve made and the fact that I’ve been in pajamas all day and made a bed of his couch.
I very briefly regret not even bothering to brush my hair today but then quickly tell myself I don’t care.
“I almost came home early to check your pulse,” he says while eyeing the wrappers I hadn’t bothered to throw away. “I’ve never seen anyone lie in one position for so long.”
“I’m surprised you even bothered to check up on me,” I mutter. “You sure got your ass out of here fast enough this morning.”
“I should’ve left a note,” he says, and I stay quiet because he’s right. He should have. Even if it was just to say, Hey, thanks for the fuck that meant nothing to me. Please get out of my bed before I come home and let’s pretend this never happened.
When I stay quiet, he says, “I’m sorry.”
Meeting his eyes, I wiggle the remote in my hand and say, “Could you move? You’re in my way, and it’s almost to the good part.”
“Maybe this is for the best,” he says without moving. “Everything has been stacked against us from day one, and my keeping you here hasn’t helped. We’ve complicated things enough between us. I’d hate for you to have a moral dilemma when it comes time for you to write your tell-all piece.”
I look up at him, too pissed and hurt to say anything. Watson, sensing the tension in the room, stretches and then gets off the couch, choosing to lie on the chair in the corner instead.
Ev pulls my phone from his pocket and scrolls through it like he owns the thing before tossing it at me.
It flops down on my nest of blankets, the wall of text messages glaring up at me like the angry rant it most likely is.
Radio silence is not something Arthur likes or appreciates or puts up with for very long.
Before I even read them, I say, “You’re going to get me fired. You know that, right?”
“No, I’m going to get you a pay raise and a nice promotion. My downfall is going to make your fucking career, Harper, so stop acting like a martyr who can’t get out of bed in the morning. This is what you wanted.”
“I wanted this?” I ask, waving my arms out to the surrounding walls I can’t leave.
“You wanted an inside scoop,” he says, sounding as angry as I feel. He smacks a hand at his chest. “And you got it. I’m right fucking here, so grab a pen and start taking notes.”
Wishing I could ignore him and throw my phone at him, I grit my teeth and pull up the Notes app instead.
He tugs off his suit jacket and tosses it at an empty chair before rolling up his sleeves and pacing in front of me.
I watch his forearms flex as he scrubs his hand over his face and around to the back of his neck.
It’s impossible for me not to remember every detail of last night as I watch him.
That face that looks so pissed right now had looked euphoric when it had been between my legs, eating me like he’d never tasted anything so good, and those hands, the same ones that are now trying desperately to massage the tension from his own neck, had been over every inch of my body last night—rough and demanding, but also so fucking tender.
Everything he’d done last night had made me feel wanted and adored and, as crazy as it sounds, loved.
But now he’s acting like it was all a mistake, one he’d like to forget as soon as possible.
I want to ask him about it, to demand answers, even if it does just make him even angrier, but when he starts talking, telling me a crazy story about missing CCTV footage and a tattoo that connects the victim to the DeMarco family, the journalist inside me takes over as my fingers hurry to type down everything he’s saying.
“How am I supposed to write this?” I finally ask when he’s done. “Aren’t you worried about it coming back to you?”
“Journalists have sources. Anyone could’ve leaked it to you. What about that cop friend of yours?” He has the nerve to look over at me when he says, “You should probably text him back, Harps. He’s worried and wants to make sure you’re okay.”
“Careful, Ev, or I might think you’re jealous.”
“Does his wife know he texts you and meets with you regularly?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but Devin and I are just friends, and I’m sure his wife knows. Not that there’s anything to know. He would never cheat on her, and I would never sleep with a married man.”
Ev huffs out a disbelieving breath. “You two used to fuck. If I were his wife, I wouldn’t be okay with you two still being so close.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you aren’t his wife then.
” Keeping my focus on my phone, I start to scroll through all the messages I missed.
There’s an angry stream from Arthur, telling me to get my ass back into the office ASAP, even if I am contagious, a few from Jace making sure I’m okay and letting me know he’ll make me some homemade soup as soon as I think I can stomach it, and then two from Devin, wondering why I haven’t been down to the station to pester everyone and asking if I’m okay.
Hardly the long wall of overly personal texts Ev made them out to be.
“He texted twice,” I tell Ev. “And not a single one was a dick pic.”
“Oh, is that something he used to do for you?” Ev asks. “Did he put a badge on it so you’d know it was his?”
I snort out a laugh before I can stop it because Devin would never in a million years send a dick pic, especially not one with his badge hanging from it so the whole world could identify it as his.
“Glad you find it so amusing,” Ev says. He grabs his jacket and storms out of the room before I can say anything else.
While he changes, I read through the notes I took and start writing an article that’s going to make Arthur happy enough to stop pestering me, and then I write everyone a response, so they’re ready to go when my jailer approves them.
I keep working on the short article when he comes back into the room, ignoring him as he starts to prepare a supper for us.
I’d feel a little guilty if he was cooking a meal from scratch, but since he’s just heating up a frozen lasagna, I don’t ask if he needs help and instead finish writing.
By the time the house starts to smell like an inviting Italian restaurant, I’m giving it a final read-through and stretching the kinks out of my neck and shoulders.
Standing up, I give another stretch and walk over to the kitchen island.
Ev’s dicing tomatoes and cucumbers for a salad when I set my phone and laptop down in front of him.
“Just waiting for your approval,” I tell him. “Don’t worry, I didn’t try to slip in a tit pic or anything.”
I see the tic in the side of his jaw as he reaches for my phone. He’s the one who decided we were done before we’d really even started, so I’m not sure why he’s acting so upset at the idea of Devin and me.
Without a word, he reads through all my texts and then switches to the laptop to read my article.
When he’s convinced I haven’t hidden any secret please help me messages, he uses his own phone to allow mine access and then sends off the messages and email.
Picking the knife back up, he goes back to chopping while I awkwardly stand in front of him, looking very much like I’ve been lying in bed all day eating junk food.
Not knowing what else to do, I take a seat on one of the barstools and ask, “You really think DeMarco did this?”