Chapter 17
Micah
I can’t think straight.
Harper kissed me.
Or I kissed her.
Or we kissed each other.
I don’t even know anymore.
All I know is that a few minutes ago, I had Harper Mitchell pressed against a wall on a quiet balcony, her hands in my hair, her lips on mine, and every single rational thought I’ve ever had completely evaporated.
And now we’re back in the ballroom like nothing happened.
Like the world didn’t just tilt off its axis.
Like kissing her didn’t just confirm everything I’ve been trying to outrun.
She’s laughing at something Mariah just said, her hand resting lightly on my arm, and I’m trying to focus on the conversation. Trying to nod at the right moments. Trying to act normal.
But all I can think about is the way she tasted sweet, like something I was never supposed to have. The way she made this little sound when I deepened the kiss. The way her fingers tightened in my hair like she didn’t want to let go.
That wasn’t fake.
I know it wasn’t fake.
She has to know it wasn’t fake.
Right?
But she’s acting like everything’s fine. Smiling. Mingling. Sipping another glass of champagne like we didn’t just cross a line we explicitly agreed not to cross.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
“Micah?”
I blink, realizing Harper’s looking at me expectantly.
“Sorry, what?”
“Mariah asked how long you’ve been running the children’s ministry.”
“Oh. Right.” I force myself to focus. “About three years now. Started as a volunteer and worked my way up.”
“That’s wonderful,” she says warmly. “It takes a special person to work with children full time.”
“Harper does it every day,” I say, glancing down at her. “I just get them on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings.”
Harper beams up at me, and I wonder how long I can keep this up.
God, help me.
Mariah excuses herself to check on the silent auction, and suddenly it’s just us again.
Harper sways slightly, and I steady her with a hand on her elbow.
“You okay?”
“I’m perfect.” She grins up at me, her eyes bright and unfocused. “Absolutely perfect.”
She’s definitely had too much champagne.
“Maybe we should get some water,” I suggest.
“I don’t need water. I need—” She spots someone across the room and waves enthusiastically. “Anna! Anna, come here!”
Anna makes her way over, Tim trailing behind her, and Harper immediately loops her arm through mine.
“Anna, have you met Micah? Of course you have. Isn’t he amazing?”
Anna grins. “You’ve mentioned that. A few times.”
“Because it’s true.” Harper leans into me, and I can smell the champagne on her breath. “He’s so amazing. And patient. And kind. And he has these dimples—” She reaches up and pokes my cheek. “Right here. See them?”
“Harper—”
“And he kisses like—” She stops herself, eyes widening slightly. “Never mind.”
Anna’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh really?”
“Harper,” I say quietly, “maybe we should—”
“I’m fine, Dimples.” She pats my chest. “Completely fine.”
But she’s not fine.
She’s drunk.
Not falling-down drunk, but definitely past the point of making good decisions.
And Collin and Jessica have already left, anyway. There’s no one left to perform for. No reason to stay.
I need to get her out of here before she says something she’ll regret tomorrow.
“Actually,” I say, addressing Anna and Tim, “I think we’re going to head out. It’s getting late.”
“Aww, but the auction isn’t over yet,” Harper protests.
“I know, but you have to teach on Monday. Early morning.” I lower my voice. “And Collin already left, so...”
Understanding flashes in her eyes—brief and sharp—before she nods. “Fine. But only because you’re very convincing, Dimples.”
I guide her toward the exit, one hand on her lower back, the other ready to steady her if she stumbles.
She waves at approximately seventeen people on the way out, calling out goodbyes and compliments and something about “seeing everyone Monday.”
By the time we make it to the valet stand, I’m exhausted.
And Harper is leaning heavily against my side.
“You’re warm,” she mumbles.
“Thanks?”
“And tall. You’re very tall.”
“I’m aware.”
“I like that about you.”
My heart does something stupid. “Harper—”
“And you smell good. What is that? Your cologne?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“It’s nice. You’re nice.”
The valet pulls up with my truck, and I help Harper into the passenger seat. She sinks into it with a sigh, and I reach for her seatbelt, clicking it into place.
But then I notice her hair.
The elegant updo from earlier is coming undone—pins slipping, curls falling loose around her face. Without thinking, I reach up and gently tuck a strand behind her ear, my fingers grazing her temple.
She watches me with soft, unfocused eyes.
There’s a smudge of mascara under her left eye—probably from rubbing it earlier when she was upset. I brush my thumb across it carefully, wiping it away, and her breath catches.
“Micah,” she whispers.
I should step back. I should close the door and walk around to the driver’s side.
But I don’t.
Instead, I lean in—just slightly—and press my forehead to hers.
Her eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, we just breathe. The noise of the valet stand fades. The world narrows to just this.
I could kiss her.
I want to kiss her.
But she’s drunk. And vulnerable. And this—whatever this is—can’t happen like this.
So instead, I close my eyes and just stay there for one more second. Two. Three.
“You take care of me,” she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Someone has to,” I manage, my voice rough.
“Collin never did.”
The words hit me harder than they should.
I pull back slowly—reluctantly—and every instinct in me screams to stay close. But I force myself to straighten up, to let go, to step back.
“Let’s get you home,” I mumble.
Then I close the door—carefully, gently—and stand there for a moment, one hand still on the truck, trying to remember how to breathe.
Finally, I walk around to the driver’s side and slide in.
But the warmth of her forehead against mine still lingers.
For the first few minutes, Harper is quiet.
She stares out the window at the Dallas skyline, the city lights reflecting in the glass, and I can’t tell what she’s thinking.
Then, so softly I almost miss it, she says, “He moved on like I was nothing.”
My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
“Harper—”
“Six months together, and he moved on in like, what, two weeks? Maybe less?” Her voice cracks. “How does someone do that? How do you just... forget someone?”
I glance over at her, and my chest aches at her expression.
“You’re not nothing, Harper.”
She turns to look at me, and there are tears in her eyes. “Then why does it feel like I am?”
I don’t have an answer.
Not one that will fix this. Not one that will take away the hurt.
So I just reach over and take her hand, lacing my fingers through hers.
“You’re not nothing,” I repeat, quieter this time. “Collin’s an idiot for not seeing what he had. But that doesn’t mean you’re not enough. It just means he wasn’t right for you.”
She stares at our joined hands for a long moment.
Then she whispers, “What if no one is?”
“Someone is.”
“How do you know?”
Because I would be, I want to say. Because I see you, Harper. All of you. The messy parts and the beautiful parts, and everything in between. And I wouldn’t forget you in two weeks or two months or two years, or ever.
But I don’t say any of that.
Because she’s drunk and hurting and trying to get over someone else.
And I’m just the guy pretending to be her boyfriend.
So instead, I squeeze her hand and say, “Because you’re worth being right for.”
She doesn’t respond.
And when I glance over a few minutes later, she’s asleep, her head resting against the window, her hand still in mine.
The drive to her apartment feels both too long and not long enough.
Too long because I keep replaying the entire night in my head, torturing myself with the memory of how right it felt.
Not long enough because I don’t know what happens when we get there. I don’t know if she’ll remember this conversation tomorrow. Don’t know if she’ll remember the kiss.
Don’t know if she’ll regret it.
When I pull into her parking lot, Harper stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.
“Hey,” I say softly, gently shaking her shoulder. “Harper. We’re here.”
She blinks awake, disoriented. “What?”
“Your apartment. Come on, let’s get you inside.”
She tries to unbuckle her seatbelt, fumbling with the latch, and I reach over to help her.
“I can do it,” she mumbles.
“I know you can.”
She manages to get the door open but nearly trips over her own feet trying to step down from the truck.
I’m out of my seat and around to her side in seconds, catching her before she face-plants into the pavement.
“Okay, new plan,” I say. “I’m carrying you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Harper.”
She looks up at me, and something in my tone must convince her, because she just nods.
I scoop her up—one arm under her knees, the other around her back—and she immediately wraps her arms around my neck.
“You’re strong,” she murmurs against my shoulder.
“You’re light.”
I carry her up the stairs to her apartment, and she digs her keys out of her clutch with one hand while still holding onto me with the other.
Her apartment is dark when we walk in, and I fumble for the light switch with my elbow.
“Bedroom?” I ask.
“Down the hall. First door on the right.”
I navigate carefully, trying not to bump into anything, and finally make it to her room.
It’s exactly what I expected—organized chaos. Colorful throw pillows on the bed. Books stacked on the nightstand. A bulletin board covered in photos and postcards.
I set her down gently on the edge of the bed, and she immediately flops backward with a sigh.
“My feet hurt.”
“I bet.” I kneel down and carefully unbuckle her heels, slipping them off one at a time.
She watches me through half-closed eyes. “You’re too good to me, Dimples.”
“Just taking care of you, Freckles.”
I grab the blanket folded at the foot of her bed and drape it over her.
She’s still in her dress, still has her makeup on, but I’m not about to try to navigate that situation.
“Sleep,” I say. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Don’t leave.”
The words are barely a whisper, but they stop me in my tracks.
“Harper—”
“Please.” She reaches out, her hand finding mine in the dark. “Don’t leave.”
I should leave.
But the way she’s looking at me—vulnerable and small and scared—makes it impossible.
“I’m not leaving,” I say quietly.
Relief floods her face. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
She closes her eyes, still holding my hand.
I wait for a moment, then carefully reach for the reading chair in the corner of her room—one of those oversized ones with a cushion. I drag it closer to the bed, trying not to make too much noise, and sink into it.
But I don’t let go of her hand.
I can’t.
So I sit there, our fingers intertwined, watching as her breathing gradually slows.
With my free hand, I reach over and gently brush a strand of hair away from her mouth.
She doesn’t stir.
Just keeps breathing, soft and steady, her features relaxing more with each passing minute.
The tension in her shoulders eases. The worry lines between her brows smooth out. The tight set of her jaw softens.
She looks peaceful.
Beautiful.
Completely unaware that I’m sitting here falling apart.
Her thumb twitches slightly against my palm—a small, unconscious movement—and the ache intensifies.
I run my thumb over her knuckles, just once, memorizing the way her hand feels in mine. The warmth of her skin. The delicate bones beneath. The way our fingers fit together like they were designed for this exact moment.
Minutes pass. Maybe ten. Maybe twenty. I lose track.
All I know is that I’m watching her breathe. Watching the rise and fall of her chest. Watching the way her eyelashes flutter slightly in sleep.
And I’m holding her hand like it’s the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth.
My suit jacket is wrinkled. My tie is crooked. I’m pretty sure I have lipstick on my collar from when she hugged me earlier.
And I don’t care.
Because this—sitting here in the dim light, holding Harper Mitchell’s hand while she sleeps—this is everything.
Even if she’ll never know.
Even if tomorrow she wakes up and goes right back to trying to win Collin back.
Even if this is the only moment like this I’ll ever get.
I close my eyes for just a second, letting myself feel the weight of it.
Then I open them again because I don’t want to miss a single moment of watching her.
“God,” I whisper into the darkness. “I’m asking You to help her see how special she is. How much she’s worth. How beautiful and brilliant and fierce she is, even when she doesn’t believe it herself.”
Then I let go of her hand, take a deep breath and run my hands over my face.
“I’m asking You to heal her heart. To take away the pain of losing Collin. To help her see that it’s okay to move on. That she deserves someone who sees her. Someone who shows up. Someone who won’t forget her in two weeks or two months or ever.”
I pause, my chest aching.
“And I’m asking You to help her find that someone. Someone who will love her the way she deserves to be loved.”
I lift my eyes, staring at the ceiling.
“Can I ask a selfish prayer, Lord?”
Silence.
Just the sound of Harper breathing and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
“Can that someone be me?”
The words hang in the air, heavy and terrifying, and true.
“I know I shouldn’t be asking this. I know she’s not ready. I know she’s still trying to get over him. But God... I think I’m in love with her. And I don’t know what to do about it.”
I drop my head into my hands.
“So if You could make a way... if You could show her that I’m not just pretending... if You could help her see that this—” I gesture vaguely at the space between us. “that this could be real...”
I trail off.
Because I don’t know how to finish that prayer.
Don’t know how to ask for something I want so badly it physically hurts.
So I just sit there in the darkness, listening to Harper breathe, and hope that God heard me anyway.
Hope that somehow, someday, this won’t just be pretend anymore.