Chapter 19
Micah
I’m standing in Harper Mitchell’s kitchen, cooking breakfast, trying to remember how to be a functional human being.
My hands are shaking.
Get it together, Micah.
But I can’t stop thinking about last night.
The way she looked at me right before she said it.
Kiss me, Dimples.
So I did.
And it was everything I knew it would be and nothing I was prepared for.
I can still feel the ghost of her hands in my hair. Still taste the champagne on her lips. Still hear that little sound she made when I pulled her closer.
The coffee maker beeps, startling me back to reality.
Focus. Breakfast. You’re making breakfast.
Cooking has always calmed me. Something about the routine, the steps, the way everything has a place and a purpose.
Unlike whatever is happening between Harper and me right now.
The bacon is sizzling; the pancakes are stacking up on a plate, and I’m just scrambling the eggs when I hear the bedroom door open.
I freeze.
Harper walks into the kitchen, and my brain just...blanks.
She’s in an oversized sweatshirt and leggings, her wet hair pulled back in a low bun, no makeup, looking nothing like the polished girl from last night.
And somehow, she’s even more beautiful.
“Wow,” she says, surveying the spread on the counter. “Impressive. You can cook too.”
“It’s just breakfast,” I say, plating the eggs.
“That’s a whole meal, Dimples. Not just breakfast.” She grabs two mugs from the cabinet and pours coffee for both of us.
I set the plates on her small dining table, then turn back to grab the bacon.
And that’s when the guilt hits me.
Because I’m standing in Harper’s apartment. Alone. After spending the night.
And yeah, I was on the floor. And yeah, she was sick. And yeah, nothing happened.
But it still feels...wrong.
“Harper.” I set down the bacon platter. “I don’t really think this is appropriate for me to be here. You and me. Alone in your apartment.”
She pauses mid-sip of coffee. “What?”
“I just—” I run a hand through my hair. “I stayed last night because you needed help. But now it’s morning, and we’re having breakfast, and I don’t—”
“Micah.” She sets down her mug. “It’s not like we’re actually dating.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
It’s not like we’re actually dating.
Right.
Because this is fake.
All of it is fake.
The hand-holding. The dancing. The way she looked at me last night before she kissed me.
Fake.
“Right,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Yeah. Of course.”
She doesn’t seem to notice the shift in my tone. Just grabs a pancake and drowns it in syrup. “Besides, you’ve already seen me at my worst. Throwing up. Mascara everywhere. Missing a fake eyelash. If that doesn’t kill the romance, nothing will.”
I should laugh. Make a joke. Keep things light.
But all I can think is that nothing could kill the romance for me. Not the throwing up. Not the mascara. Not any of it.
Because I’m pretty sure I’m in love with her.
And she thinks this is all pretend.
“So,” Harper says, cutting into her pancakes. “Last night went pretty well, right? I mean, aside from the whole me-getting-drunk part.”
“Yeah,” I manage. “It went well.”
“Collin definitely noticed us. Did you see the way he kept looking over?”
“I saw.”
“And Dr. Bailey loved you. Everyone loved you, actually.” She takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “We’re pretty convincing as a couple.”
Because it’s not fake for me, I want to say.
But I don’t.
“We did good,” I say instead.
“These pancakes are really good,” Harper says as if this situation is completely normal.
“Thanks.”
“Seriously. Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
“My mom. She made me learn before I moved out for college. Said no son of hers was going to survive on ramen and pizza.”
Harper smiles. “Smart woman.”
“She has her moments.”
We eat in relative quiet, and I try to focus on the food instead of the way Harper’s looking at me. Like she’s trying to figure something out but doesn’t quite know what.
When we finish, I stand to clear plates, but Harper waves me off.
“No, I got it. You cooked, I clean. That’s the rule.”
I want to argue, but that’s when I catch my reflection in the mirror above her couch.
The taped-up glasses.
I’d almost forgotten.
“Okay, well, I’m gonna get going—” I stand.
And Harper bursts out laughing—doubled-over, tears-in-her-eyes laughing.
“What?” I ask, completely confused.
“Your glasses!” She points at my face, still laughing. “Oh my, I forgot about the tape. You look ridiculous.”
I touch the frames self-consciously. “They’re fine.”
“They’re held together with half a roll of Scotch tape, Micah.”
“It’s functional.”
“It’s a disaster.” She wipes her eyes, finally composing herself. “I’m so sorry. Again. Where did you get those?”
“LensCrafters. The one down the street.”
“Okay,” she nods decisively. “You go home and change—because I’m sure you want to get out of that suit, and then meet me at LensCrafters in an hour?”
“Harper, you really don’t have to—”
“Micah.” Her voice is firm now. “I’m going to get your glasses fixed. End of discussion.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it.
Because the look on her face tells me, there’s no point.
“Fine,” I say. “One hour.”
“One hour,” she confirms.
I grab my jacket from the chair, slip on my shoes, and head for the door.
But before I leave, I glance back.
Harper’s standing in the middle of her living room, arms crossed, hair still damp, looking stubborn and absolutely beautiful.
And all I can think is: I’m so screwed.
My house feels too quiet when I get home.
I drop my keys on the counter, and Biscuit immediately appears, chittering indignantly.
“Yeah, I know,” I mutter, crouching down to scratch behind his ears. “I was gone all night.”
He climbs up my arm, perching on my shoulder, and I make my way to the bedroom.
“Long night, buddy,” I say, stripping off the wrinkled dress shirt. “Really long night.”
Biscuit chitters again, like he’s asking for details.
“Okay, fine. You want the full story?” I toss the shirt into the hamper and head to the bathroom. “Harper asked me to be her fake date to this gala. Which, yes, I know, was a terrible idea. But I did it anyway because apparently I’m incapable of saying no to her.”
I turn on the shower and wait for the water to heat up.
“And then—” I pause, running a hand over my face. “Then she kissed me. Or I kissed her. I don’t even know anymore. But it happened. And it was...”
I trail off because I don’t have words for what it was.
“And now I’m supposed to just pretend like everything’s normal. Like I didn’t spend all night praying that she could be mine. Like I’m not completely in love with her.”
Biscuit squeaks, and I glance at him.
“You think I’m being dramatic?”
He tilts his head.
“Yeah, well, you’re probably right.”
I shower quickly, throwing on jeans and a t-shirt, and fish out a backup pair of dailies from the drawer. I keep extras for emergencies. Apparently, this qualifies.
The broken glasses sit on my dresser, still wrapped in tape, and I carefully place them in their case.
When I’m ready to leave, Biscuit follows me to the door.
“I’ll be back soon,” I tell him. “And when I get back, we’re having a serious conversation about boundaries and emotional self-preservation.”
He chitters, completely unbothered.
I grab my keys and head out, trying to ignore the nervous energy buzzing under my skin.
Because in twenty minutes, I’m meeting Harper at LensCrafters.
Just the two of us.
In broad daylight.
With absolutely no excuse to hold her hand, or call her Freckles, or pretend that last night meant something.
God, give me strength.
I climb into my truck and head toward the store, already bracing myself for whatever comes next.