35. Harlow
Chapter 35
Harlow
W e’re at a family Italian restaurant in a town outside of Pebble Creek. He made another comment on how the town had so little to offer, but I tried to pay no mind to it. I’m here for a vacation, there’s no reason for me to become so defensive.
“Anything exciting happening for you?” he asks warmly. He looks a little uncomfortable in the, what he would describe as drab, wooden chair. The table between us is decorated with a cream tablecloth that has an intricate deep-red pattern on it. A candle surrounded by fake flowers is set between us. I ordered eggplant parmesan, and he ordered baked ziti.
“Nothing really. I’ve been working, relaxing, reading for fun, riding horses—all good things.”
“Sometimes uneventful times are the best. I’m surprised you didn’t get risotto.”
My head jerks back. “I would never order risotto.”
“Afraid it will be better than Maria’s?” He’s joking with me .
“It would never. I don’t like to waste money on disappointment.”
“You’ll never know if something is better than what you’ve had if you never try it.” And he throws in a wink.
Who is this guy?
Where is Ryan?
“Where’s your work husband?” I’m surprised he didn’t even drive us. It’s just been Heath and me.
“Do you miss him more than me?”
I don’t think I was prepared for this flirtatious version of him. He’s wearing a deep-red knit sweater, his hair a little messier than usual, and black slacks. His distinct brows rise waiting for my response. I would actually consider him attractive at a time like this but in the back of my mind . . . it’s not enough.
It’s not bright blue eyes full of curiosity and care.
It’s not tousled dirty blond hair messy from being under a hat all day.
It’s not corded arms or broad shoulders.
“Maybe I do.” I answer sarcastically.
We continue our dinner with ease—no bumps or crazy turns. It’s like a simple drive on a road with no sights to see. There’s nothing of substance, and it breaks my heart to know that my dinners might be like this for the rest of my life. It could be that I’m not putting enough effort into it.
I try to ask Heath more about his hobbies to try and make a connection, but I can’t. He tries to flirt and make me laugh; I throw him a bone and chuckle at his jokes.
The restaurant is relaxed, and the people around us seem more like family to each other than patrons. They are all laughing, eating, and drinking beer or wine in abundance. There’s some old Italian music playing softly. I have a large appreciation for the choice of Italian and the mention of Maria. Both of those things are close to my heart.
Heath doesn’t seem as comfortable with the silence without his phone on the table to keep him busy, and as we move further along in our dinner, he makes more and more small talk.
With the lack of substance in our conversation, I move on to talking about a book I’m editing—a thriller about a woman who can’t determine if the life she’s living is reality or if she’s dreaming and is avoiding a stalker. He holds interest and seems thankful for a topic to continue the conversation until we leave.
We sit in silence for most of the drive home, making small comments about the dinner.
“I promise our dates won’t always be like this. Once you get back, we’ll go out more, and things will just click. Conversation will come easier, and we’ll grow closer. Remember, I’m not the best at making friends.” He smiles sheepishly at the road in front of him.
A sudden pang of guilt shoots through me as I really think about what I’m doing with Harrison. I have a gut feeling that if Heath found out what was going on with us, he would be hurt. He’s putting more effort into this than I am.
“I don’t really get it. How can you know after seeing a picture of me? How can you be so sure that things will work out between us?”
“Are we ever really sure?”
“I guess not; everything in life is a gamble.”
We smile and stay silent the rest of the ride, this time less tense.
When I get back to the bunkhouse, a part of me wonders if Harrison will come over to talk again, and the other part of me wonders if he’ll need space. He’s an emotional one, and he tries to hide it sometimes.
He doesn’t come by, and I appreciate the space after the events of the day.
I lie in bed with Cleo curled next to me. I read for pleasure instead of work and sip on Sleepytime tea, willing the night to just be over.
Harrison
The Kings told me I don’t have to worry about bringing a trailer over to their farm. They want me to be comfortable with my decision before taking this new mare home.
Harlow and I leave in just an hour, and I’m itching to get near her. It’s only been a few days, but, as I told her before, I want as much time as I can get before she leaves. When that time comes, she’ll be starting her new life, and hopefully, I’ll be moving in the right direction for mine. For the last two days, she’s been buckling down on a few manuscripts, and I’ve been helping with the farm.
Usually, I would pop by her place, but after her date with her future husband and my pathetic confession, I gave us the space we needed to remind ourselves that this is temporary. That was likely more for me than her. She seems to be handling this whole situation in stride, even her arrangement. She says she doesn’t know what to do, but there is this overall sense of peace she holds.
After I helped her pick an outfit and left her place for mine, I was a mess. I tried to sketch or read, but nothing could put me at ease. Hunter and Cassidy told me to stop by, but I couldn’t. I knew that they would have more to say than I was willing to hear.
I told her I didn’t want her to go, and she went.
I crossed a line, but I strangely feel like she had crossed one by going.
I finished the last touches packing my bag. I brought myself extra riding clothes and a few gifts for Harlow.
Silas: You ready for your trip?
Me: I think so. I hope I like this horse and find a pup.
Silas: You know that’s not what I mean.
Me: I intentionally ignored what you meant.
Silas: Meaning you’re not ready.
Rolling my eyes, I pocket my phone and load up my truck with everything I need. As I drive over to the bunkhouse, I make sure I have my Bluetooth connected to my truck for a game I have planned. If I know Harlow as well as I think I do, she’s going to love it.
She’s waiting in the window, the light framing her silhouette. It’s the image of someone waiting for me to pull up and it tugs at my heartstrings. Even though I know she’s not mine forever, she’s mine for now, and I enjoy seeing her waiting for me.
I park my truck next to her car, leave it running, and jog up the stairs to the door. By the time I get there, Harlow already has it open, greeting me.
“Howdy, cowboy,” she drawls. She’s wearing charcoal-gray jogger sweatpants that completely engulf her and a tight, long-sleeved black shirt with a square neck. Those long black locks are braided and hanging over her shoulder.
“Howdy, darlin’.” I kiss her cheek quickly and then move to grab her small overnight bag. It’s a little heavier than I expected, but I do my best to make sure it doesn’t look like I’m surprised when I lift it. Too bad she’s intently watching me, and she laughs lightly.
“Need me to get that?” she taunts, and I shoot her a funny look that only makes her laugh harder. Hoisting her heavy-ass bag up, I carry it the whole way, intentionally not using the rolling wheels. Cali girls really do pack a ton of shit. We’re going to be gone for two nights.
After I toss her bag in the back, I make sure the Tonneau cover is sealed in case of a random fall rain. I close it all up and hop into the truck where Harlow is waiting for me.
“You okay?” she asks sarcastically, not actually caring at all if I’m okay.
“Peachy.” While she’s laughing at me, I reach into the back and grab my PC High hoodie that I wear often for comfort. I hand it over to her.
“Here, for if you get cold.”
“Thanks, kid. You got this like last year, right?” She laughs, and it’s evident that she’s been hanging out with Cassidy too much.
“I’m only six years younger than you.” For some reason this only makes her laugh harder.
I let out a long sigh but smile as I put my truck in drive and start our drive to Palos Valley.
Once we hit the interstate, I watch her as she settles into her seat—taking off her shoes, crossing her feet under her legs, and slipping my hoodie on. I don’t miss the moment she brings the front of it to her nose and smells. Did I wear it after my shower while I packed up and got everything ready? Sure as fuck did. Glad I did it, too.
I hand Harlow my phone and turn my radio on.
“Here, open Spotify and pick a random playlist. Let’s see what comes up and make our own playlist for the ride home.”
Harlow smiles wide. “What are we calling our playlist?”
“How about ‘Harrison is cooler than Harlow’?”
“How about you’re dumb?”
I laugh loudly.
“You can name it whatever you want. Let’s start.”
Harlow starts on what seems like a classic hits playlist. It goes from the Beatles to The Temptations. We name the songs we like, and she adds the ones we agree on. I learn that she loves women artists and alternative EDM. Her musical range is all over the place, and it helps to expand mine. I’ve been listening to the same tunes for so long that I didn’t realize what I was missing out on.
She doesn’t have a great voice, but it’s not that bad. She sings quietly to many of the songs we add to the list. I smile and watch her—her hands are tucked mostly into the sleeves of the hoodie with only the tips of her fingers and black nails peeking out.
She likes to tap her nails on the tops of each other, moving from one hand to the other. I’ve tried it, but my nails are so short I don’t think I’m getting the same experience.
She plays a few indie bluegrass songs that she thinks I would like, and she’s spot on. I love them. She’s expanding my range in so many areas. Movies. Music. Sex. It’s great.
I haven’t told her about the mare we’re going to look at, but I know she’s going to love it.
I look over to her for a moment, and it’s nice to see her in my oversized green hoodie. The color suits her. She’s like the stem of a rose—supportive and thorny.
Harlow changes the music to some calming genre she tells me is lo-fi. It’s different and consists of mostly covers. She hums a few tones and then grows silent next to me.
“I like—” I start, but when I turn to look at her, she’s asleep. She’s curled up with her knees drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. Her face is turned mostly away from me, but I still catch the curve of her high cheekbones, the length of her long naked lashes. She looks perfect while sleeping. It could just be my opinion, but she looks so angelic that she could almost be faking.
I drive and listen to the lo-fi playlist, fighting my own midday drowsiness due to its melodic beats. There’s little traffic on the road, mostly large trucks making cross-country trips and trucks like mine. I spot a few smaller cars, but out here in the middle of nowhere, they’re mostly people passing through. I pass a few RVs and think about how cool it would be to be able to travel in one. To drive across this country with someone and see the land in the comfort of your own traveling home.
This road trip with Harlow is nice, but there isn’t much to see along the way. When I look to my left, I see large open plains, cleared-out fields, and past that, some trees. Over to my right is a solar power field, which is newer and appreciated by people like Hunter and me. Straight ahead is a whole lot of nothing continued. Just the road and the few people like me driving on it to get somewhere.
Harlow makes a strained noise next to me, and I peek over at her. She’s turned toward me, her brows pulled together, and her jaw clenched tightly.
Putting my left hand on the wheel, I run my right over her head. My thumb drags across her tight brow, and I feel it relax under my touch. I squeeze the back of her neck in my hand and watch the road in front of me, giving her a light massage. When I look back over, her eyes are open and watching me. I go to drop my hand from her, but she grabs it and holds it on the center console with hers. With our fingers twisted together, she leans deeper into the seat and closes her eyes again.
As cold as she may look to everyone, and as gory as her tastes may be, Harlow is warm. I feel it emanating from her hand into mine. Her black, well-manicured nails and smooth soft skin are a complete contrast to my short, blank, and ugly hand. Even though her hand is much more delicate than mine, I can feel the strength within it. I remember how firmly she would wrap those thin fingers around my cock as she brought me pleasure. I smile to myself, knowing full well I’ll have her all to myself for the next two days.
When we pull up to our hotel, we quickly check in and bring our things along with some takeout to our room. It’s a simple suite—two queen beds, a couch, a desk, a TV, and a mini fridge. It is absolutely nothing to write home about. Harlow made a comment about how I had more bags than her, but I paid no mind. I have a reason for traveling heavy.
We eat mediocre Chinese food and sit on the couch, talking about the trip. We talk about how much music means to her. We talk about the absolute nothingness out here and how it’s so different from the nothingness in California. Palos Valley is a lot like Pebble Creek, only more equestrian than bovine. The nothingness in California is deserts, mountains, beaches, and forests. It’s rich with diverse terrain, whereas our land is rich with crops and farm animals.
After we finish our food, I suggest I shower first. She blinks a few times, shocked that I would not offer for her to go first, but I need to.
When I get into the bathroom, I make sure it has what I need for this trip to go just right. Where the room has little to offer, the bathroom is the nicest aspect. It has a decent shower with a small bench at the end, a soaker tub with no jets, and a large vanity with one sink. It’s simple, nice, and exactly what I need.
I roll one of my suitcases in and open it up. After setting my old leather toiletry bag on the vanity, I turn on the shower. Under the illusion that I am showering, I start to set everything up.
With travel wipes, I clean out the tub because Lord knows if they did. I rinse it down and start to fill it, making sure the water is extra hot. On the edge of the tub, I put a coaster, a candle, and some chocolates.
Back over by the vanity, I pull out the facial cleanser, moisturizer, and sheet face mask that Cassidy had suggested. More candles, a set of soft, clean towels, and a hair wrap are set next to the other items. In the shower, I put a body scrub, shampoo, conditioner, and hair mask.
Franny made a killing when I stopped in, no doubt selling me extra shit Harlow might not even need. I don’t even know what a hair mask is, but she insisted that with as long and beautiful as Harlow’s hair is, she will love it.
Back over to the tub, I drop in a bath bomb that is scented with a coastal lavender blend. The tub turns a lovely light purple, and the entire room starts to smell tranquil. I turn the water a little cooler and put my hand in. It’s hot, but not the kind that would stop you from getting in. I light the candle, pull out a bottle of red wine, and fill a black silicone wine glass that says “witch” in gold script. I look everything over and quickly smile at my work .
I take the fastest rinse of my life in the shower and hop out. Tossing on only a pair of soft pajama pants, I head out to the main room. Harlow is waiting patiently, looking through her phone, and only notices me when I clear my throat.
“Damn, you take a long shower,” she jokes. “You didn’t have to jerk it before, you know. I love that you can’t last. It just means I feel that good.”
I can’t help the shocked look on my face.
“We have all night.” She smiles, rising from her seat and walking toward me. I quickly meet her halfway and kiss her lips lightly.
“Yeah, yeah, make fun all you want. At least my rebound time is good. I have the stamina to keep up with you,” I counter.
She kisses me with a smile and grabs her bag to head into the bathroom. I set my bag aside and grab my other one.
“I assume this bed is mine,” I joke, noticing a few of her things on the bed farthest from the door.
“Obviously,” she jokes just as she turns the corner into the bathroom. I hear a quiet gasp. “Harrison.” My name sounds different on her lips. People call my name all day but hearing her say it is better than every song we listened to on the way here.
I put my bag on the runner at the foot of the bed, and then I hear the quick footfalls of Harlow. Before I can even turn to look, her arms are wrapped around me. Instead of going around my neck, she tucks herself into me, sliding her arms under mine. She squeezes me tightly and rubs her face into my chest.
“Thank you,” she says against my skin.
“It was weird, I suddenly had the urge to build a spa. It kind of came to me in a dream. Like it wasn’t even my own idea. Seemed almost like . . .” I look down at her, but all I see is the top of her head; she hasn’t moved. “Seemed like I was under someone’s spell.” And with that, I feel her shake with light laughter.
“I was looking for spas while I was waiting for you. You said not to worry about it, and I couldn’t find anything.”
“Oh yeah, there isn’t anything like that in towns like this.” I kiss the top of her head and grab her shoulder. “Hop in there and take your time. Don’t let the tub get cold.” I smile and turn her away from me.
She walks on light, happy feet to the bathroom and doesn’t look back.
When I hear her click the door shut, I move as quickly as possible to set up our room. A set of creamy soft sheets with matching pillowcases goes over the ones the hotel provided. I pull out a forest-green waffle robe and then pull out the things I need for her last surprise.
While Harlow showers, I finish setting everything up and then tidy up my own shit. I’m sitting and scrolling through new tack when she finally emerges, towel wrapped around her, wrap holding her hair. Her skin looks flushed and dewy. Those fucking collarbones are highlighted as if she put moisturizer specifically on them. Her neck is pink and begging for me to kiss and nip at it. Her eyes widen at the sight of her bed.
“Ah, Harlow, you made it just in time. Your appointment was five minutes ago.” I fake what I think is a good city accent, but it sounds a little British.
She smiles brightly at me.
“Is this one of those places that gives massages with happy endings?”
I act as if I am appalled by her suggestion.
“My dear, no! You were penciled in for a pedicure. ”
Harlow laughs loudly, and I smile at how beautiful she is. I grab her new robe and open it for her. Once she has it on and tied, she reaches under and pulls the towel from her. I swallow hard, wondering if there is a tiny piece of fabric under there or if she’s completely bare.
“Please, lie down.” I open my arms dramatically to the bed, and she saunters over.
I massage her feet, place a toe separator in between her toes, and pull out two bottles of nail polish.
“Which one do you want, dear?” I show them to her, and her laughter booms through the room.
The bottles of polish are by two different brands—one called Midnight and the other called Licorice. She quiets herself and then taps on her lips for only a moment before speaking.
“I’ll take the Midnight on the left and Licorice on the right.”
“Lovely choice.”
I pay close attention as I paint and blow on each toe. Harlow’s eyes are on me, and I love being her point of focus. We talk a little bit, just light conversation that isn’t really about anything at all. It just flows.
She asks me about some high school memories, and I share them.
I ask her about the first book she edited, and she knows every detail.
We talk about the movies we’ve been watching.
When I finish both of her feet, I hold them in my hands by her heel and admire them.
“I swear I’m not weird?—”
“Says weird people,” she interrupts.
I give a flirty glare and push on. “Your feet are beautiful, just like the rest of you.”
“I knew it,” she says definitively, and I look at in her in question.
“You have a foot fetish.” She is so fucking proud of herself.
“I do not!” I say with a barking laugh. “Why do you think that?”
“Ummm, because you are always holding my feet. Always rubbing and touching them. You put them in your lap . . . on your dick. I know it, even if you don’t yet.”
I laugh even harder.
“Harlow, I do not have a foot fetish. I don’t have any fetishes.”
“Oh yes, you do. Feet. Praise. Domination and submission. You have kinks. If I was making out with you and then stopped and went to the other side of the couch and rubbed your dick with my feet, would you tell me to stop?”
I have tears in my eyes from the laughter.
“No man would.”
“Sure, they would . . . if they didn’t have a foot fetish.”
“Harlow, stop.” But she doesn’t; she drops her foot from my hands and rubs it over my pajama bottoms. I have already been sporting a semi while looking at her in that robe, but the contact pushes that to what I would call a slight erection.
“See. You’re hard.”
I push her feet off me and check to make sure her toes are dry. Since they aren’t tacky, I believe they are and instruct her to flip over. Over her robe, I massage her in long, sweeping strokes. Harlow’s body starts a little tense, but with each pass, I feel her muscles relax under me.
I know that spas are something women enjoy, but that’s not something we have around here. I’m glad that I was able to give her this, and from what I can tell, she is too.