Chapter 18
Harper
My head is pounding.
That’s the first thing I’m aware of—a dull, throbbing ache that seems to pulse in time with my heartbeat.
The second thing I’m aware of is that I’m still wearing my dress.
The emerald sequined dress that cost me way too much money and is now twisted around my body at an uncomfortable angle, digging into my ribs.
I groan, forcing my eyes open, and immediately regret it.
Sunlight streams through my bedroom window like a personal attack, and I throw my arm over my face.
What happened last night?
Fragments come back in pieces. The gala. Champagne. Lots of champagne. Collin with Jessica. Dancing with Micah.
The kiss.
Oh, the kiss.
I kissed Micah.
Or he kissed me.
Or—honestly, I’m not entirely sure who started it, but it definitely happened, and now I need to get up and figure out what that means.
I blink at the ceiling, my mind still fuzzy with sleep. Sunlight streams through the window, way too bright for whatever time it is. I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands, trying to clear the fog from my brain.
One problem at a time, Harper.
First: Get out of bed.
I stretch my arms overhead, feeling my spine pop in three places, then slowly swing my legs over the side of the mattress. Both feet touch the floor—solid ground, thank goodness—and I take a steadying breath.
Okay. You’ve got this. Just stand up like a normal person who didn’t kiss her fake boyfriend last night.
I push myself up and take one step forward.
My foot catches on something warm and solid, and suddenly I’m pitching forward, arms windmilling uselessly as gravity does its thing.
I land hard.
On something that definitely isn’t the floor.
What the…?
My brain scrambles to process. Warm. Solid. Moving?
Then a very male grunt sounds directly beneath me, and I freeze.
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
I lift my head, and Micah’s eyes fly open inches from mine.
For one horrible, suspended moment, neither of us moves. Neither of us breathes.
Pure panic floods his face as he seems to fully register our position—me sprawled on top of him, my hands braced against his chest, our faces way too close.
“What are you doing in my apartment?!” I blurt out, my voice climbing about three octaves. “On the floor! Next to my bed!”
I brace my hands against his chest for balance, and that’s when I notice the blanket has slipped down to his waist.
And his chest is...bare.
Completely bare.
And—oh my word—he has abs.
Like, actual defined abs.
I blink down at him, my brain completely stalling out.
This is Micah. Sweet, awkward, always-wears-button-ups Micah, and he apparently has a six-pack hiding under all those oxford shirts.
When did this happen?
“I—you—we fell asleep, and I didn’t want to…” He’s stammering, his hands hovering uselessly near my shoulders like he’s not sure whether to push me off or steady me.
I scramble off him, my face burning as I push myself to standing.
“You have abs?” The words come out as nearly a yell before I can stop them.
Micah stands up too, shirtless in only his dress pants from the gala, disoriented movement, squinting at me like he’s trying to bring me into focus. He immediately crosses his arms over his stomach. “Harper—”
“Why are you shirtless in my bedroom?!”
“I can explain—”
“And why do you have abs?!” I’m gesturing wildly now, my brain trying to keep up in real time.
“Can we maybe focus on one crisis at a time?” He’s squinting around the room now, one hand still covering his abs while the other fumbles through the air like he’s searching for something. “Where are my glasses?”
“Your glasses?” I’m still staring at him—at his abs, at his bare chest, at the fact that he slept on my floor. “Micah, why are you on my floor?”
“My glasses, Harper.” He takes a stumbling step forward, nearly running into my nightstand. “I can’t see anything without them.”
Oh. Right. He’s basically blind without those things.
“Don’t you have contacts?” I ask because I need this to not be entirely my fault.
“Daily lenses. I threw them away last night.”
“Who throws away perfectly good contacts?”
“People who follow the instructions on the box, Harper.” He pinches the bridge of his nose.
I take a step back to scan the floor, trying to locate them, and my heel comes down on something.
Crack.
I freeze.
Oh no.
I lift my foot and stare down at the mangled frames—broken clean in half at the nose bridge.
“Did you find them?” he asks hopefully.
“Um.” I stare at the two separate pieces in my hands—the lenses still intact, but the frames snapped clean apart at the nose bridge. “Yes?”
“Can you hand them to me?”
“About that...”
I walk over to my desk and grab the tape dispenser, holding one half of the frames in each hand. I start frantically winding tape around the broken nose piece, trying to hold both halves together. The tape overlaps in lumpy layers, getting thicker with each desperate wrap.
It looks absolutely ridiculous.
Like something a kindergartener would bring home from craft time.
But maybe if I fix them, he won’t be mad?
I turn back around and hold them out. “Here.”
Micah takes them, squinting as he examines the tape-covered mess. “Harper... what happened?”
“I stepped on them.”
“You stepped on them.”
“I’m so sorry!” The words tumble out in a rush.
“I didn’t see them, and I was confused because you’re on my floor—shirtless, by the way, which we still need to talk about—and I tripped, and I’m so, so sorry.
I’ll go with you today to get them fixed.
Right now. We can go right now. It’s the right thing to do.
The least I can do, really, considering I broke them and you were—” I gesture vaguely at the floor.
“—doing whatever you were doing down there.”
“Harper.” His voice is calm, cutting through my spiral. “Breathe.”
I take a breath.
Then another.
“It’s okay,” he says gently, putting them on. “They’re just glasses.”
“But I broke them.”
“Accidents happen.”
“But—”
“Harper.” He steps closer to me, and I’m suddenly very aware of how tall he is. And how shirtless he still is. “It’s fine. I promise.”
I force myself to breathe normally, counting to five like my therapist taught me.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
My heart rate slows.
And then my eyes drift down to his stomach again.
“Those are pretty nice abs, Micah,” I hear myself say.
He gives me the most bewildered look I’ve ever seen. “What?”
“I just—” I gesture vaguely at his torso. “I didn’t know you worked out. Like, really worked out.”
“I go to the gym sometimes.”
“Clearly.”
He grabs his white dress shirt from the chair and quickly pulls it on, fumbling with the buttons.
And I finally remember the actual important question.
“Why are you here?”
He pauses mid-button. “You don’t remember?”
“Remember what?”
His expression softens. “You got pretty drunk last night. Like, really drunk. And you got sick. A few times, actually. I didn’t feel right leaving you alone, so I made a bed on the floor.”
Oh no.
“You could have at least slept on the couch,” I say weakly.
“Yeah, no. Not with how much I was up helping you last night.”
A flash of memory hits me—Micah’s hand holding my hair back, his voice low and soothing, telling me it was okay.
I press my hand to my forehead; the headache intensifying. “Oh no.”
“Hey.” He steps closer, concern written all over his face. “It’s okay.”
“I threw up in front of you.”
“Technically on the toilet, but yes.”
“Multiple times.”
“Three, to be exact.”
I groan, sinking onto the edge of my bed. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I don’t normally drink,” I blurt. “Like, ever. And I definitely never drink that much. Last night was just... a lot. With Collin and Jessica and the whole—” I wave my hand vaguely. “Everything.”
“I know.”
“And I probably said a bunch of stupid things and made a complete fool of myself—”
“You didn’t.”
“—and now you’ve seen me at my absolute worst, and I’m still in this stupid dress—” I look down at the wrinkled, twisted emerald fabric. “Oh my gosh, I’m still in my dress.”
I stand up abruptly and immediately regret it as the room spins slightly.
Micah’s hand is on my elbow instantly, steadying me. “Easy.”
“I need to change.”
“Okay.”
“And shower.”
“That’s probably a good idea.”
I start toward the bathroom, then stop. Turn back around.
Micah’s standing there in his wrinkled shirt and dress slacks, hair still a mess, squinting slightly out of his broken glasses.
And despite everything—despite the headache and the embarrassment and the fact that I apparently threw up three times in front of him—I feel this overwhelming wave of gratitude.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For staying. For taking care of me.”
His expression softens. “Anytime, Freckles.”
The nickname makes my stomach flip.
And suddenly, another memory surfaces.
The kiss.
His hands in my hair. My hands on his chest. The way the world disappeared.
I stare at him, and he stares back, and I wonder if he’s thinking about it too.
But before I can say anything—before I can figure out what to say—I blurt out, “Can you make breakfast?”
He blinks. “What?”
“There’s bacon and eggs and stuff in the fridge.” I’m already backing toward the bathroom. “Can you start making it?”
“Uh... sure?”
I pause at the bathroom door. “And can you pretty please start a pot of coffee?”
“Harper—”
But I’m already closing the door, leaning against it, my heart racing.
What am I doing?
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and nearly scream again.
Mascara is streaked down my face in dark trails.
One of my false eyelashes is completely missing—just gone, presumably lost somewhere between the gala and my bed.
And my hair, which was elegantly pinned up last night, is now half-fallen, sticking out at odd angles like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket.
I look like a disaster.
I am a disaster.
I peel off the dress, letting it fall to the floor in a sparkly heap, and turn on the shower.
As steam fills the bathroom, I stand under the hot water and try to piece together last night.
The gala. The introductions. Collin introducing me to his girlfriend.
The photo booth.
The dancing.
The kiss.
And then... champagne. Lots of champagne. Talking to Anna. Talking to random people. Everything getting blurry.
Micah taking me home.
Micah carrying me inside.
Micah taking care of me while I was sick.
Micah sleeping on my floor because he didn’t want to leave me alone.
I press my forehead against the cool tile wall.
What does this mean?
I finish showering, wrap myself in a towel, and stare at my reflection again.
Clean face. Wet hair. No makeup.
Just me.
And somewhere in my kitchen, Micah Sanders is making me breakfast.
I take a deep breath.
Okay, Harper. You can do this. Just go out there, eat breakfast, and pretend like everything is normal.
Even though nothing about this is normal.
Even though I can still feel the ghost of his lips on mine.
Even though I’m pretty sure last night changed everything.
I slip on a sweatshirt, my favorite pair of leggings, and open the bathroom door.
The smell of coffee hits me immediately.
And despite the confusion and the embarrassment, and the massive hangover—I smile.
Because Micah stayed.
And somehow, that feels like the most important thing in the world.