Chapter 21 Lucy
Lucy
This is not how I imagined the scene when Harris Bennett met my mother.
No. She didn’t catch us in the act.
She didn’t barge in unannounced.
She’s here because she’s the only person I could think to call with a level head; we already know Annabelle is zero help during an emergency.
Obviously, the only logical thing to do was call my parents over—moms usually know what to do, and I’m fairly certain my father’s back has been jacked up a time or two.
Yes. They’ll have the answers.
They’re standing over Harris—giant hunk of a man—like two field medics assessing a patient, fussing over his bruises.
Dad stares down at him, Harris’s lower half covered by my comforter. I couldn’t get a T-shirt on him without causing more pain, so his chest is still bare, bruises and all.
“Well, hello, young man,” Mom says, clasping her hands together as she gives Harris a slow, assessing look. “I’m Liz—Lucy’s mom.”
Harris, for all his usual confidence, visibly swallows before shifting his arm off his forehead and attempting to sit up a little straighter. “Uh, hello, Mrs. . . .”
He doesn’t even know my last name.
Oh God. Could this get any more embarrassing?
“LeBrandt,” my mother supplies, glancing at me over her shoulder, brows raised as if to say Seriously, Lucy?
I shrug.
Harris clears his throat. “Mrs. LeBrandt.”
He shifts again, like he’s trying to sit up properly, but then immediately winces and gives up, sinking back into the pillows.
It does nothing to improve the situation.
If anything, it makes all this look so much worse—because he looks like some wounded knight in a romance novel, battered and bare chested and in my bed.
“Have you taken any ibuprofen?” Mom asks Harris, pressing her open palm to his forehead. She smooths his hair back as if he were a feverish toddler, giving him the same sympathetic expression she once reserved for me all the times I was sick or injured.
“No.”
She gives me another disapproving look. “Luce—can you grab three?”
As I leave the room I glance at them again. Harris Bennett, a literal football-playing tank of a man and wannabe lumberjack, leans into my mother’s pampering like he is indeed a feverish toddler.
Kill me.
Kill me now.
Dad, who has been standing silently through this whole exchange, finally sighs. “Liz, stop babying him. Look at him, he’s huge.”
Mom scoffs. “He’s hurt.”
“He fell into a garbage can.”
“Poor thing,” my mother goes on. “And after all that, Lucy made you climb the steps up here instead of driving you home?”
I whirl around. “Excuse me?”
No, she did not!
“I felt fine after the fall, Mrs. LeBrandt. I was trying to be romantic.”
I groan, digging through my medicine cabinet, one ear on the conversation in my bedroom.
“Romantic?” Mom repeats, and I can hear the interest in her voice.
Oh no.
No, no, no!
I knock over the ibuprofen bottle in my panic, pills spilling everywhere as I rush to grab three.
“I tried to surprise Lucy,” Harris continues, voice dripping with pure, undiluted theatrics. “Climbing to her balcony, like in the movies.”
Dad snorts. “What movie? Jackass?”
I hear Harris grinning as I shut the cabinet. “I was going for Romeo and Juliet, sir.”
Mom actually swoons. “Oh, how sweet.”
I grip the bottle tighter. “It was not sweet, you guys,” I mumble weakly, already losing control of the narrative, setting the pills into Harris’s open palm.
He shrugs his bare shoulders, looking far too pleased with himself. “I miscalculated.”
Dad raises a brow. “You think?”
Mom is still smiling, like this is the most adorable meet-cute she’s ever heard in her entire life. She loves a good romance novel. “Luce, why didn’t you tell me about Harris?”
I feel all the blood drain from my face.
Harris—the absolute menace—turns to me, expression one of lazy amusement. “Yeah, Luce. Why didn’t you tell her about me?”
Murder. Cold blood.
Right here. Right now.
I clear my throat, shifting awkwardly on my feet near the doorway. “It never came up because he flies home on Monday.”
A beat of silence follows my words, my mother’s delighted expression falling off her face as she processes this new information. “Monday?” she repeats, her gaze flicking back to Harris. “Where is home?”
“Home is Arizona. I was here with some of my teammates to get a little rest and relaxation.” He stretches, then immediately winces, his face tightening as he drops his hand back to his side. “That part hasn’t worked out so well.”
Dad nods. “That’s what happens when you scale the side of a garage and break half the trellis.”
“I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“What were you thinking?” my mom asks.
“I—”
Before he can finish, the front door swings open with a dramatic crash, and Annabelle’s voice slices through the tension like a chain saw. “Lucy! Harris! I’m here—help is on the way!”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Of course she would arrive at this moment, when things couldn’t get any more awkward.
I’d briefly forgotten that in addition to my call to my parents, my bestie knew about the marooned hottie in my bed, and of course she wants to be involved. I should have known she’d come over.
Annabelle appears in my bedroom doorway seconds later, a hot tea in one hand and a cookie in the other. She takes one look at the scene—Harris still bare chested in my bed, my parents standing over him like doctors, and me, looking like I’d rather die than be here—and grins.
“Oh,” she drawls, stepping inside like she owns the place. “This is even better than I imagined it. No worries—I brought ice packs, Band-Aids, and snacks.”
“I’m sure you did.”
Annabelle holds up the cookie, breaks off a chunk, and pops it into her mouth, chewing like she’s savoring the moment. Like this moment—one when I’m dying of embarrassment—is the best evening entertainment she could have possibly hoped for.
I groan, dropping onto the edge of the bed and pressing my fingers to my temples. “Annabelle, why are you here?”
She lifts her cup and sips from it. “Moral support. I was worried.”
Dad snorts. “She’s gonna need it.”
Annabelle grins. “Phil and Liz—just so you know—I happen to love Harris. I give him my stamp of approval.”
Mom sighs dreamily. “He is very charming.”
Harris beams at them both. “Thank you, ladies.”
He raises his arms above his head like he’s going for a casual stretch, but the second his muscles tense, his face twists in a grimace.
I glare, crossing my arms over my chest. “You don’t get points for winning over my mom and best friend—they don’t even know you.”
I’m never telling Annabelle anything ever again, I swear!
Mom, thrilled by this disaster, hums. “We know enough. He’s delightful, persistent, and—” She gestures toward his shirtless, rugged, hot body. “Very dedicated.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Mother!”
Dad sighs, rubbing his temples. “Are we actually going to stand here pretending climbing her trellis with the intention of breaking in was some noble, romantic gesture?” He levels Harris with a stare. “The man fell onto my garbage cans.”
Harris nods solemnly. “I’d do it again, sir.”
Mom actually gasps.
Annabelle clutches her chest. “Such a heroic thing to do.”
I shoot Harris a look. “Would you please stop flirting with them?” He is not doing me any favors.
Harris shrugs, all easy confidence. “Can’t help it, Luce. I’m just a guy doing romantic shit and making all of y’all swoon.”
I want to smother him with a pillow. Who is this guy? He’s hurt! What man turns into a total wicked flirt when he’s laid out on his back? He is leaving. He has no right to charm the pants off my mother.
Mom sighs wistfully. Annabelle fans herself, playing along, winking at me to let me know she’s teasing.
Then—when I think things cannot get any worse—there’s a loud, insistent knock at the door.
Annabelle perks up, her face none too innocent.
I narrow my eyes at her. “Why do you look guilty, Annabelle?”
She swallows, lifts her travel mug as if she’s making a toast, and adds, “Just let his buddies from yoga know that Harris was gravely injured. Plus Wally, Bill, and Kyle, but they’re not as concerned.”
I hate her so much sometimes.
My mouth opens—ready to unleash the full force of my outrage—but before I can get a single word out, the front door swings open with zero hesitation.
Two massive bodies storm into my apartment like it’s a damn police raid, heading straight for the bedroom with determination.
“Where’s Bennett?”
The deep, booming voice comes from none other than Miles, a guy I recognize from morning yoga—though he looks ten times more imposing indoors than he does on the beach.
“Oh.” He looks down at me. “Hey, hot yoga instructor. What are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
Behind him, another one of his teammates—Deshaun?—follows, scanning the room like he’s ready to assess the damage and take command of the situation.
They barely spare me another glance before their eyes land on Harris, lounging shirtless in my bed, looking like some kind of hunky fallen gladiator.
Miles’s brows shoot up. “Damn, bro. You look rough.”
Deshaun steps closer, arms crossed. “We heard you almost died.”
Almost died? I shoot a glare in Annabelle’s direction.
Harris lets out a groan, bearing the burden of a great and noble tragedy. “Honestly, guys, it was touch and go for a while.”
Mom gasps, eyes wide with concern. “Nobody told me it was that serious!”
I throw up my hands. “Oh my God.”
I give up.
Harris’s teammates take up most of the oxygen in the room simply by existing, their giant frames hovering over the bed as we all stand idly by, watching. “Wait.” Miles scratches the back of his head. “Why are you here? And not in the hospital?”
Harris waves him off, like this is some minor inconvenience and not a series of truly terrible life choices catching up to him. “Because I’m fine.”
Deshaun doesn’t believe him. “Sure. Okay.”
Miles still looks unconvinced. “Nah, man. We need the full story.”