19. Harlow
Chapter 19
Harlow
I , Harlow West, propositioned a man for sex.
If my parents ever caught wind of this, it would be the worst thing I’ve ever done. They already consider me eccentric and strange compared to the rest of the family.
“Harlow is a little odd, and I hear she had to pay for company during her alone time .” I can hear their distaste.
There’s a part of me that really can’t believe it myself. I haven’t been able to step outside all day for fear of running into Harrison. It’s a cold day anyway, so cozying up inside is perfect.
I considered reaching out to Cassidy to see if she and Blake wanted to hang out. It would take my mind off things and maybe the embarrassment would fade. I’ve been brazen in the past, but not once in my life have I offered to pay someone to keep me company. To make matters worse, the money was an unthought, rash offer.
He knew what I was asking for and that makes it so much worse. He knew I wanted to sleep with him. Could he really blame me? We have tension, sexual tension. Our kiss was all that fireworks shit Meg reads about in her books. It was more than that—it was raw and real. It was needy and hot. How could he not want the same thing?
Tossing aside the manuscript in my lap, I call it a day. I can’t read anymore. My brain needs a break. I lie back on the couch when a weight climbs me. Cleo’s soft paws pat up my legs before she settles herself half on my chest, half on the couch. My arms engulf her in a gentle embrace. I pet her, and her purrs vibrate through me. Whoever invented weighted stuffed animals should add the smallest timed vibration and purr. It’s comforting.
When I peel my eyes open, I realize that I have dozed off; the chill of Cleo’s absence must have woken me. Stretching my arms above my head, I arch my back and then kick out my long legs. I feel like a cat, myself, stretching and reaching to the very tips of myself. Reaching for my phone, I see that I haven’t missed much. It’s after seven, so I should get something to eat.
Heath: I saw that there’s been some rain out there. Is that putting a damper on your trip?
Me: No, I actually enjoy the rain.
Heath: You enjoy rain?
Me: Yes.
Heath: Why?
Me: The sound, the smell, it’s good for plants.
Heath: Noted.
Noted? Every time I talk to this guy, he notes something about me. I feel terrible for all his efforts because I am in no headspace to reciprocate. If I want to kick off this arrangement right, truly making a better effort would be the start.
Me: Do you like the rain?
Heath: A question, I’m shocked.
Heath: I don’t mind the rain; I despise getting caught in the rain. Wet leather shoes and socks are a complete discomfort during long meetings.
Me: Noted.
Heath: Noted.
Noted. Will all our conversations come off so businesslike? I’m not a warm and fuzzy girl, but the conversation screams beige decor, white couches, and a housekeeper who tends to the fresh flowers. My mother would be delighted.
I make my way upstairs, change out of my comfortable clothes, and toss on a long-sleeved black dress, black vine-patterned tights, and my boots. I have a feeling it’s safe for me to leave the bunkhouse now, and I’ll only be making the short walk to my car before I drive into town. A drink to clear my mind and the company of Silas sound better than replaying the past few days in my mind.
“Is your sister ever here?” I ask Silas as I work through a cup of vegetable soup and fresh bread. It’s divine and everything I needed after this chilly day. The herbs are robust, and the vegetables taste fantastic. I wonder if they get their ingredients from Harrison’s family farm.
“Cece? She’s here in the morning cooking and helping out, but she has her own stuff going on in the evening. She wants to open an art and dance studio, but we already have something like that at the rec center. I don’t pry too much.”
“I like a girl with ideas. Well, let her know I’d like to meet her, compliment the chef on another five-star meal.” I say as I rip a piece of bread and dip it into the broth.
“We call that garbage soup, you know,” he states, unimpressed.
I pause before tossing the bread into my mouth, holding it between my fingertips as I decide if I want to continue eating or not.
“Why?”
“Because she makes that when she doesn’t know what to make. She says it’s a hodgepodge meal or something like that.”
“Well shit, if this is just tossed together, I bet the rest of her cooking skills are impossible to beat. You think if she opens a dance studio, it will fail?”
“No, I think her idea is great. She’s already the dance instructor at the rec center and often has to fight for the space. I just don’t want her dumping money into anything. She’s young.” Silas dries a few more cups and starts putting them away. He’s made an effort to talk to me each time I’ve been here before this visit. Tonight, he’s a little more reserved. I find myself having to pull the conversation out of him.
“She’s lucky to have such a great big brother.” I pull out my phone to read for leisure as I eat, assuming our conversation is done.
Meg: I’m not cyberstalking your future husband or anything, but he was seen at Tiffany )
When I look up, I notice Silas typing away on his phone too, a mischievous smile on his face .
Looks like he’s talking to someone important.
I read a self-published thriller written by an indie author. I like to pick these books up on my e-reader. I think supporting them is great, plus I’ve reached out to a few and now they’re working with West Media. It’s cool to see indie authors’ dreams come true.
Lost in my book, I barely register Silas dropping off another drink in front of me—a spiked coffee with a cookie.
“You guys have cookies?” I ask, quirking my head.
“No, my sister made those for me, but I think they’re good with coffee.”
It’s an oatmeal cookie with cranberries and white chocolate, and it pairs with the coffee just as perfectly as he led on.
“Thank you.” I blow over the rim of the cup and get back to my thriller.
I almost want to reach out to this writer already. I’m only a fraction into this book and it’s good. It’s damn near perfect. I can tell she used an indie editor, and that’s okay. I remember being a young woman in publishing. The writing community can be so supportive but at the same time so cutthroat.This author and editor did great.
I’m so into my book that I’m oblivious to everything around me. I hear people come and go. I hear Silas chat with patrons like they’re family. The details are all lost. Time must have movedmuch quicker than I had realized. I’m on my second spiked coffee, and it’s going down too easily. I look up, and Silas is leaning against the bar, looking at me.
“What can I get for ya?”
“How could you tell I was wanting something?”
“It’s the first time you’ve actively looked up from that screen in the last half hour.” He laughs, looking down at his watch. He steps away from the bar and fills a cup with water.
He gets closer to me than the last two times he brought me a drink; this time he leans across the bar, bracing his weight on an arm. He reaches and puts the glass in front of me, right next to the remnants of my last coffee. Figuring he planned on getting back to whatever he was doing, I drop my face and try to let myself fall back into the details of my book.
He doesn’t walk away, and I feel his lingering presence. He reaches for me and pushes the few strands ofloose hair behind my ear. I’m surprised by his touch, but it’s not unwelcome. I wait for that similar zing or spark I felt when I was around Harrison, but nothing comes. My gaze meets his and, for a moment, he pauses as he looks at the details ofmy face. His fingers trail down the locks he had just tucked right to the tips. He twirls them in his fingers and begins to move his lips.
“Oh, thiswill be goo—,” he starts when a hand shoots across my face and grabs his wrist.
My eyes travel up the corded forearmto a furious face.
“Thought you weren’t interested.” Harrison is practically seething with anger. His jaw istightly clenched, and I watch the slightest flare of his nostrils. It’s intimidating and hot. Not once did I imagine my golden boy with this kind of attitude.
I hear a chuckle escape Silas’s lips, and my eyes bounce back to his.
“We were just talking about hair products. I can’t get overthe shine Harlow has in her hair.” I roll my eyes at his words. Such bullshit. The man has perfect hair, and he knowsit.
“Right,” Harrison says before releasing Silas’s hand .
I’ve never been a girl to care much about accents, but the slight twang in Harrison’s voice sends a chill down my spine.
“Text me her tab, I’ll send it to you later. We’re leaving,” he demands, and the hand that was once gripping Silas’s reaches until it hits the middle of my back, then slides down my spine.
I would argue if I could find the words. The minute Harrison’s hand slid down my back, any kind of coherent thought left my mind, and all that was left was a hot feeling low in my belly.
“Have a good night,” Silas says over his shoulder as he turns away from us. I realize he set me up to piss Harrison off, and a small part of me is thankful. It might have worked in my favor by helpingme convince Harrison that we can have fun while I’m in town. It might have helped me convince him that he wants this as badly as I do.
I am a little stunnedby the whole interaction. I’m still in the mindset of spiked coffee and a good read, but I rise and stand next to Harrison as he leads me out the door of the bar.
“I drove myself,” is what I say, but I don’t think that’s what I wanted to.
“Are you good to drive?”
I nod.
Harrison walks meover to my little rental and opens the door forme. Once I’mseated, he leans down so I can hear him clearly.
“I’ll follow behind you. Straight to the bunkhouse.”
I just nod again.
This isn’t the same guy I talked to yesterday. I replay our conversation, and I realize that there is a harsher side of Harrison. He was curt and direct yesterday, but that was only a taste.
Now he’s loosening those reins and showing me more. I’m surprised by how much I like it. The way it heats me up, like riling him up seems to excite me more.
He closes the door,and I watch him walk over to his truck. His legs are long, sturdy, and strong. He might not look like he has a lot to him, but I can tell he is ripped under each piece of that clothing. Rubbing my thighs together, I hope he’ll let me catch a glimpse of it.
Once I’ve parked in front of the bunkhouse, I turn the engine off and let out a huff of air. So much for hoping for more. Harrison did follow me all the way home, but once we hit that fork in the road that separates his trailer from my place, he took the other route. Disappointment and frustration weigh heavy on myshoulders. No less, I have that tension back that I felt before and I intend to let my imagination fly. I plan to allow myself the time to imagine what could have been if he followed me all the way back here.
Inside the bunkhouse, I walk into the kitchen to get myself that glass of water I never got to drink at the bar. Cleo comes around a corner, and I know she wants some love; she’s probably freezing here.
I’ll have to turn the heating pad on for her.
I hold my water in one hand and with the other, I unzip my boots. Cleo is readily awaiting my legs to be free so she can arch herselfagainst me.
She does her own thing, rubbing herself against me and occasionally making a small figure eight around my ankles. I get about half of my glass down before she sits next to me and begins to meow.
As I bend over to scoop her up, I hear a knock at the door.