Chapter 12 Harris #2
“You have no idea.” The words come out quieter than I intend, but I don’t bother covering it up. For once, I don’t feel like putting on a show. “Don’t let this ruin your image of me as a goofy, carefree lumberjack. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”
Her nod is slow. Lucy settles back onto the couch again, and I watch her raise a glass to her lip and take a sip. “I don’t think it ruins anything. If anything, it adds a bit of complexity.”
“Complexity,” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Don’t know,” she teases, but her eyes—those eyes—say otherwise. “Haven’t decided yet.”
I lean closer, dropping my voice low. “Well, I don’t have a ton of time to convince you.” Pause. “What about you?” I ask. “What’s the most serious thing you’ve done?”
“Most serious thing I’ve done?” she repeats, tipping her head back against the couch.
A faint smile plays at her lips that doesn’t quite reach her eyes as she considers my question in kind, like she’s trying to come up with something that sounds as impressively complicated as my answer, but nothing comes.
“Honestly?” She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never done anything big or crazy. Never left my town, never packed up and started over somewhere new.”
I blink. “Seriously? You’ve never lived anywhere else?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. Born and raised right here. Went to school here, got my first job here, and somehow I’m still here.”
“Wow.” It slips out before I can stop it, but I mean it. “I don’t know if I could do that. I mean, staying in one place that long? Doesn’t that feel—I don’t know—limiting?”
“Sometimes,” she admits quietly. “But it’s home. My family’s here. My friends. Everything I know.”
I study her for a moment, trying to reconcile the fearless, quick-witted woman in front of me with someone who’s never stepped outside the bubble of her hometown. “So you’ve never even thought about leaving? Not even once?”
She hesitates, fingers brushing the edge of her glass. “I’ve thought about it,” she says softly. “But thinking about it and actually doing it are two very different things. And I don’t think I’d even know where to start.”
I nod slowly, letting her words sink in. There’s something raw and real about the way she says it, and I can tell she’s not looking for pity or judgment.
She’s being honest, and that’s what I asked for.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, leaning forward, “you strike me as someone who could figure it out if you wanted to. You’re smart, resourceful, and let’s face it, a little intimidating when you want to be. I don’t think there’s much you couldn’t handle.”
She blinks at me, surprised. “You think I’m intimidating?”
“Obviously. Beautiful, confident women always are.”
Lucy looks taken aback by that comment too. “Beautiful and confident?” She repeats the words like she’s rolling them around in her mouth, testing how they taste. “You really lay it on thick, don’t you?”
“Hey, I call it like I see it. Plus, it’s not laying it on thick if it’s true.”
“Thank you,” she whispers. “I feel like such a dipshit not having done anything . . . I don’t know. Adventurous.”
“Everyone has their version of adventure. It doesn’t have to be skydiving or jet-setting across the world. Sometimes it’s just about stepping outside your comfort zone.”
Lucy lets out an unladylike snort, fingers fiddling with the edge of her hoodie sleeve. “You sound like a motivational speaker.”
“I try.” I grin.
“I have a confession to make,” she blurts out. “I am so small town that I live above my parents’ detached garage.” Lucy cringes. “Is that bad?”
My head tilts back when I laugh.
“Wait,” I say, still chuckling. “Above the garage? Like a real-life, fully functioning apartment or are we talking a futon and mini-fridge kind of situation?”
Lucy presses her lips together. “Somewhere in between. There’s a bed, a kitchenette, and the world’s tiniest bathroom. It’s cozy, okay?”
“Cozy,” I repeat, leaning forward with a grin. “Is that the word we’re using?”
“Don’t make fun of me!” She swats my arm, her cheeks flushing. “I like it there. It’s private, and it’s not like I need a lot of space.”
I lift my hands in surrender. “I’m not judging. Honestly, it sounds kind of great. No annoying neighbors—plus, you can probably guilt your parents into delivering food right to your door.”
“I never said no annoying neighbors—sometimes my parents drive me nuts, especially my dad, who’s nosier than my mom.” She grins, the tension melting from her shoulders. “Mom brings me leftovers all the time. I think she feels bad for me.”
“Why would she feel bad?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Because I never left? Everyone else went off to school, doing big, exciting things—college, careers, traveling—and I’m still here, living over a garage and teaching yoga classes.”
I watch her carefully, noting the way her gaze drops to her lap, like she’s bracing herself for me to say something stupid or patronizing.
I don’t.
Instead, I lean back against the couch, arms stretching across the backrest.
“You ever think maybe they’re the ones missing out?” I ask, my voice calm, steady. “I mean, yeah, traveling and careers are cool and all, but there’s something to be said for staying close to the people you love. Being home.”
“Home,” she repeats softly, testing the word.
I nod. “Am I allowed to visit this above-the-garage apartment of yours, or is it strictly a no-lumberjack zone?”
“I’ll think about it.” Lucy laughs. “What about you? What’s your living situation? Give me a visual.”
Do I tell her the truth: that my living situation is a McMansion perched in the hills? Or do I dial it down to something less . . . obnoxious? Something that doesn’t scream I have way, way too much money and no clue what to do with it?
“Shit.” The word slips out before I can stop it, and Lucy eagle-eyes me curiously.
“That bad, huh?” she teases, tucking her legs under herself like she’s settling in for a bedtime story. “Come on, don’t hold out on me. I gave you my above-the-garage confession—what’s yours?”
I rub the back of my neck, stalling. “It’s not bad. Just not small-town relatable.”
“Pfft.” Her brows lift in challenge. “Try me.”
There’s no way to explain this without sounding like a total tool, so I blurt out: “All right: a sprawling modern house. Too many rooms for one person. A kitchen I barely use with ridiculously expensive appliances. A pool I didn’t want taking up the entire backyard but somehow ended up with.”
Her eyes narrow, like she’s trying to gauge if I’m screwing with her or not. “A pool?”
“Yep. And not just any pool. It’s heated. With an infinity edge.”
Her jaw drops, but instead of the awe I was bracing for, she busts out laughing. Full-on, head-tilted-back, bellyaching laughter.
“Oh my God,” she gasps. “For a second, I thought you were serious. You live in a mansion with an infinity pool? That’s hilarious.”
I am stunned into silence by her mirth.
“That is a good one, Harris,” she continues. “Seriously, you should’ve led with something even more ridiculous. Like telling me you have a private bowling alley or a helicopter pad.”
Well, I personally don’t—but several of my good friends do. One of the guys who attends her yoga class, as a matter of fact.
“Right,” I manage, trying not to let my ego deflate entirely. “Totally joking.”
Ha ha.
She wipes at a tear in the corner of her eye. “Infinity pool. You are too much.”
I force a laugh, deciding it’s better if she thinks I’m kidding. Now is not the time to argue—that would make things awkward—and besides: I’m pretending to be an actor pretending to be a lumberjack, hired help for Lake Loon Days or whatever the hell the jingle jamboree is called.
Lucy leans back into the couch, still chuckling to herself, completely oblivious to the reality she laughed right over.
Maybe it’s for the best.
Because the second she finds out the truth about me, it could very well come back and bite me in the ass and change the way she views me.