Chapter 18 Harris
Harris
The first rays of morning light filter through the curtains, casting a soft glow across Lucy’s bedroom. I blink awake, momentarily disoriented, until the events of last night flood back.
She lies beside me, her hair a tousled halo on the pillow, her breathing steady and peaceful.
Naked.
I lean toward her and press a kiss to her nipple, tempted to suck on it.
My stomach rumbles, settling that debate.
Careful not to wake her, I slip out of bed and pull on my boxers. The floor creaks under my weight as I make my way to the kitchen, intent on surprising her with breakfast. I rummage through the fridge, finding eggs, milk. Some random vegetables. Tomato. Mushroom. And a bag of shredded cheese.
Omelets it is.
As I whisk, my mind drifts.
Last night was so fucking hot—but it was more than the physical connection. I’ve always been the guy who keeps things casual, never letting anyone get too close. But with Lucy, it’s different.
I pour the egg mixture into the heated pan, watching it sizzle. As I finish setting the table, I hear the soft padding of footsteps behind me. I turn to see Lucy standing in the doorway wearing my T-shirt, eyes still heavy with sleep.
Sexy as fuck.
“Morning,” I say, offering her a warm smile.
She looks at the table, then back at me, a surprised expression on her face. “You made us breakfast?”
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “Figured it was the least I could do after . . .”
“After fucking me three times?”
My eyes go as wide as my grin at her use of foul language. “You sore?”
“Yes, obviously.” She laughs. “I limped out of bed.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining last night.”
“What can I say? I like orgasms.” Lucy gives me a teasing glare, but her lips twitch like she’s fighting back a smile. “But I also think you should be held accountable for any damage.”
I raise a brow, leaning across the table and brushing her fingers with mine. “Accountable, huh? Should I apologize or double down?”
Her laughter bubbles again, filling the kitchen. “Oh, I think we both know you’d double down.”
“Guilty,” I admit. “But for now, breakfast and recovery.” I tilt my head. “After that? Who knows?”
She narrows her eyes, playful suspicion lacing her tone. “You planning on ruining me again?”
“Only if you ask nicely,” I tease, then take a bite of my omelet like I didn’t drop that line.
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t shy away. “I’ll think about it,” she says, her gaze dropping to her plate before flicking back up to mine. “In the meantime, what’s your day look like?”
I shrug, pretending to think. “No team building, no meetings. I could do whatever I want.” Although I should probably go get some more logrolling in—the last thing I want to do is embarrass myself in front of the crowd.
Whatever. I’ll worry about that later.
“And what do you want?” She arches a brow, already knowing she’s the focus of that answer.
“You,” I say simply.
I lean back in my chair, watching her take another bite of her food. The way she’s so comfortable, sitting across from me in her blanket, with no makeup, hair still messy, has me wondering why this feels so easy.
Natural.
Like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
She shifts the focus. “So, what’s next for you after this team retreat?”
I finish my toast, brushing off my hands. “We head right back to work. It’s going to be a grind.”
“And after that? What does offseason look like?”
“Usually pretty quiet. I do some traveling, visit family—maybe work on endorsements,” I explain, watching her reaction carefully. “Why? Planning to pencil me in your calendar?”
I like the direction this is going.
Lucy gives her head a tiny shake. “Just curious what your world looks like beyond football.”
Oddly enough, I’m disappointed in that answer. It would have been cooler if she’d been like I totally want to spend time with you in Arizona! Or wherever.
I’m not picky—I could chill with her in town a weekend or two.
“My life outside of football . . .” My voice trails off as I consider this. “Uh. Staying in shape. I like keeping my hands busy. Woodworking, sketching, trying new recipes in the kitchen.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You actually enjoy cooking?”
“Yeah. But it’s not like I’m a pro.” Not even close. “I like experimenting. My specialty right now is homemade pizza dough. I’ve mastered the crust—crispy on the outside, chewy on the inside.”
“Okay, now I’m impressed.”
“I’ll make you some,” I offer, the words slipping out before I realize I’m making future plans. “If I survive this lumberjack thing.”
Lucy’s smile softens, and I feel something shift again. More than the easy conversation—this is comfort. The kind that sneaks up on you before you can protect yourself from it.
“I’ll hold you to that,” she says.
Interesting. “Is this you admitting you like having me around?”
A slow nod. “Maybe.”
Her maybe hangs between us, soft but heavy enough to knock me off balance. I grip my fork, leaning toward her as I watch her, trying to read the layers beneath that answer.
“Careful, Lucy,” I say, my voice low, teasing. “Keep saying shit like that, and I might show up uninvited.”
She arches a brow. “Uninvited, huh? Just make sure you’re not climbing up the lattice and knocking on my window in the middle of the night.”
I make a mental note of that for future reference.
Lucy sets her mug down and rests her elbows on the table. “So, if you weren’t doing the lumberjack thing, what would you want to do instead?”
Easy. “I’d take you somewhere,” I answer without hesitating.
“Where?”
“Someplace chill,” I continue. “We’d hit a local farmers’ market in the morning, grab coffee, and then drive with the windows down. No plans.”
“Well, dang,” Lucy says. “That sounds kind of perfect.”
For a second, I wonder if I’m imagining the shift in her expression. It’s like we’ve skipped past the “what if” and fallen straight into “when.”
“Yeah. It’s too bad I’ll be swinging an axe.” And trying not to kill myself.
Lucy laughs softly, the sound warming the space between us. “You’ve got this. Think of it as a workout. You love those, right?”
Not necessarily. But it comes with the territory and is a necessary evil.
I run a hand through my hair. “There’s a difference between lifting weights and pulling a Paul Bunyan.”
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit.” She rests her chin on her hand, meeting my eyes. “You’re built for this.”
The way she says it makes my pulse hitch for a second. Compliments from Lucy hit different. She’s not trying to inflate my ego—she’s not full of shit.
I could sit here all day trading lines with her, but the trash bag waiting by the door is starting to bug me, like a reminder that even perfect mornings have mundane tasks.
I rise from the table and grab the bag. “Hold that thought—if I don’t chuck this out, it’s going to drive me nuts. Be right back.”
“Earn your keep, Lumberjack,” she teases, tilting her head back so I can peck her on the lips. “I’ll be here.”
I grin as I head outside.
The air is crisp, the kind of morning that smells like fresh dew and pine. After tossing the trash into the bin, I pause for a second, letting myself breathe. Conversations with Lucy are a strange mix of ease and tension—enough push and pull to keep me guessing.
I’m about to head back inside when a deep voice cuts through the quiet.
“Didn’t realize Lucy had someone over.”
I freeze.
Turning slowly, I spot a man standing near the driveway, arms crossed and gaze sharp. He’s older, with a rugged face and the kind of presence that tells me he’s no stranger to making people squirm. Jeans. Flannel shirt pushed up to his elbows. Gray hair at the temples. Bare feet.
Must be her dad.
Shit.
I glance down at myself—also barefoot, wearing pajama pants and nothing else. Not exactly the look of a guy ready to make a good first impression.
“Morning,” I manage, offering a small wave like that’ll help.
He doesn’t smile but states the obvious. “Taking out the trash?”
“Yup.” I nod, trying to play it cool. “Making myself useful.”
That earns me a raised brow. He steps closer, and I can feel the shift in the air—like this is a test I didn’t know I was about to take.
“You from around here?” he asks, like he’s already made a judgment but wants to hear what I’ll say.
“Not exactly,” I admit. “Just visiting.”
“Ahh. With that group at the lodge.” He nods slowly. “Why do you look familiar?”
“I play football.”
He nods again. “Ah. Everyone in town is chirping about the group of giants that have descended upon us.”
“Yes, sir.”
I have no idea how to talk to dads. It’s not the same as speaking to a fan.
I had sex with his daughter, and he knows it.
“You always take out the trash in nothing but pajama pants?” he asks, eyes flicking to my bare chest. Down to my bare feet.
“Only when I’m trying to make a good first impression,” I deadpan.
He stares at me for a second, then lets out a bark of laughter. “Well, at least you’re honest. Ya look like a guy who escaped a house fire.”
Translation: You look like a guy who sleeps naked and decided to throw something on quick out of decency.
“I feel like I’ve escaped a house fire.”
Lucy’s dad snaps his fingers. “Wait a minute. Now I know who you are. Harris Bennett.”
I give him a nod, standing a little taller. “That’s me.”
He grunts, unenthused. “Yeah, I’ve seen you play. Not much of an Arizona fan, though.”
Oh.
Well.
My dick shrivels at his humble praise. He’s not easy to impress, but I respect it.
“Why is a linebacker from Arizona doing chores for my daughter?”
Because we’re friends seems like an idiotic thing to say to his face, given my state of undress.
“Lucy doesn’t bring men home,” he continues without waiting for my answer. “Not often, anyway.”
There’s a weight to his words, one that makes my spine straighten despite the fact that I look like I just rolled out of bed. His daughter’s bed, ha ha.
“I know,” I say honestly. “She told me as much.”
He grunts. “All right, well. It was nice meeting you. Now go put on a damn shirt before my wife catches a glimpse of you through the window and decides to leave me for a younger man.”
I blink. “No threats? No ‘hurt my daughter and I’ll bury you in the backyard’ speech?”
He shrugs. “Eh. I’m getting old. Besides, you’re bigger than me and could kick my ass. Seems like a waste of breath to lecture you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s it? I pass?”
He squints at me like he’s reconsidering. “Do you want me to threaten you?”
“Not exactly,” I say, shifting on my feet. “It feels like there should be more. Like a lie detector test in a secret room or have the police chief run a background check on me.”
He stares at me. “You watch too much TV.”
Guilty.
Her dad chuckles. “Relax, kid. If I thought you were a problem, you’d already know.”
“Phew.” I let out a sigh. “That’s a relief.”
“If you screw up,” he goes on, “I won’t have to do a damn thing—Lucy will handle you herself.”
I nod, because: fair point.
“She’s got a good head on her shoulders,” her dad says. “She doesn’t put up with nonsense. So if you’re still standing here, I’m sure that means you’re doing something right.”
“She really doesn’t put up with nonsense. I’ve seen it firsthand.”
Her dad eyes me for another second, weighing his next words. “You seem all right, but I’ve seen plenty of ‘good guys’ turn out to be anything but. I reserve the right to change my mind at any time.”
“Noted.” Sir. “I’ll try to keep my approval rating up.”
We share a few more words before I turn toward the steps and make the climb back up to Lucy’s apartment, find her still in the kitchen waiting for my return.
“What was the holdup?” she teases. “Was there an animal rooting around in one of the cans down there?”
What? Animals root around down there, and she didn’t give me advance notice?
“No. I met your dad by the trash cans.”
Lucy blinks at me over her coffee mug. “The trash cans?”
I drop into the chair across from her. “Yup. Real bonding moment. Nothing says boyfriend material like taking out the garbage half dressed.”
She bites her lip, trying not to laugh. “And? What’s the verdict?”
I rub the stubble along my jaw. “The verdict is—I think he likes me. Or at the very least, doesn’t actively want to murder me for sleeping with you.”
Lucy raises a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s a good thing.”
“I’ll take what I can get.” I gesture toward the back door. “He basically said I seem all right but reserves the right to change his mind at any time.”
“Love that for him.”
Wow. She is seriously something else . . .
Cutthroat.
“According to your dad, you’re the real threat. If I screw up, you’ll handle me—not him.”
She laughs. “That sounds accurate.”
“And he told me to put on a shirt.” I let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Basically I’m on thin ice forever.”
Lucy winks. “Welcome to dating me.”
“At least he didn’t give me any rules to follow.”
Lucy taps her chin, pretending to think. “Hmm. Rules might be a little formal—but I do love the idea of a penalty system.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Penalty system?”
“Yeah,” she says casually. “Like, if you put on a shirt again, you owe me a back rub. And if you ever try to mansplain football to me, you owe me dessert.” Mansplain? I would never. “If you say something cocky, you have to . . .”
“Go down on you? Deal. Where do I sign?”
Lucy chokes on her coffee, coughing as she sets the mug down. “Wow. You agreed to that a little too quickly.”
I grin, completely unapologetic. “Trying to be a team player.”
She wipes a stray drop of coffee from her lip, eyes twinkling with amusement. “You do realize penalties are meant to discourage certain behaviors, right?”
I shrug. “Sounds more like positive reinforcement to me.”
Who wouldn’t want to go down on her? Her pussy is sublime.
Speaking of which . . .
I push back my chair and stand, then round the table before she has a chance to react.
“What are you—” she starts, but I don’t let her finish.
I scoop her up effortlessly, one arm under her knees, the other around her back. She lets out a squeal of surprise, smacking my chest.
“You cannot pick me up whenever you want.”
“Pretty sure I can,” I say, grinning down at her. “It’s part of the penalty system. Immediate consequences.”
She laughs, looping her arms around my neck. “Oh, so now you get to decide punishments?”
“Absolutely,” I murmur, shifting her weight easily as I carry her toward the nearest surface. “You make the rules. I’m the enforcement plan.”
Lucy narrows her eyes playfully. “And what exactly is my penalty now?”
I smirk, lowering my voice. “You’re about to find out.”
She doesn’t protest—doesn’t tell me to put her down. Instead, the little minx tilts her head, lips curving into a challenge.
I accept.