Chapter 25 Lucy
Lucy
What I want to do is spend the evening at home, where it’s quiet. Where the lighting is dim. Where I can sit in my pajamas in front of the TV and have Harris massage my feet . . .
But that’s not what happens.
Because Harris is famous—and so are his friends—and once he became the belle of the festival? Well. The only logical place to spend the evening is up at the big, fancy lodge, being roasted and toasted by his friends, the locals—and the tourists.
The moment he ripped his shirt open like a freaking romance cover model, I knew the night would spiral into chaos.
So now here we are, crammed inside the Lakeside Resort, packed with way too many people, all of whom have only one goal: to ensure Harris or his teammates stay as long as possible.
The man of the hour groans, rubbing his temples as yet another round of applause—and another round of shots—breaks out. “I swear, these people are acting like I personally chopped down the entire forest with my bare hands.”
I nudge his side gently. “I mean, you did tear your shirt open like some kind of woodsy superhero. I think that earned you the title of Lumberjack Linebacker for life.”
He gives me a deadpan look. “That was not intentional.”
I snort loudly. “Tell that to the thirsty divorcées at table six.”
A trio of women, each armed with a fresh martini, are brazenly eyeing him like he’s the dessert menu.
“Please.” He reaches for my hand. “Save me.”
I arch a brow, feigning innocence. “It would be rude to leave now.”
His fingers tighten around mine, lips ghosting near my ear as he leans in. “I will do anything if you get me out of here.”
The way he says it—low and promising—sends a shiver through me. “Tempting,” I murmur, letting the words drag out just to watch his expression shift. “So tempting . . .”
Before he can retaliate, a commotion near the bar catches our attention. A giant bear of a man is hoisting himself onto the bar top while the bartender struggles to remove him, raising a beer stein high above his head and shouting, “To the Lumbersexuals!”
The entire bar erupts, laughter echoing off the wood-paneled walls.
“I swear to God, if one more person uses the word ‘lumbersexual’ in my presence . . .”
I bite back a grin, smiling above the rim of my glass. “What’s wrong, babe? Not a fan of your new title?”
He levels me with a flat look. “I play football. I am not a lumberjack.”
I glance down at his flannel-covered chest, then up at the thick scruff lining his jaw. “Mmm. Debatable.”
Before he can argue, another cheer erupts as the bear of a man on the bar top jumps off, slams his beer stein down, and bellows, “Someone Get Bennett An Axe!”
More drunk cheers. More drunk chanting: “Axe! Axe! Axe!”
I’m mid-sip of my drink when a stranger shoves her phone in my face, her grin wide with mischief. “Lucy,” she shouts over the noise, calling me by name. “What was your reaction the moment Harris ripped his shirt open? Be honest.”
I lower my glass slowly, dragging out the moment for dramatic effect. “Well.” I tap a fingernail against my cocktail glass. “I didn’t hate it.”
Harris’s eyes darken a little as a roar of approval erupts from the group, someone clapping him on the back like he’s won an actual championship.
And suddenly, the game has begun.
Again.
Harris leans back in his chair, one arm slung casually over the backrest, his drink loose in his other hand. But his eyes? Yeah. Those are locked on me now, sharp and interested, like my words flipped a switch in his brain, simple as they were.
The bar is loud, buzzing with energy, but I’m suddenly all too aware of him. The way his jaw tics slightly. The way his fingers drum against his glass, slow, deliberate. The way his eyes settle onto me.
Dex whistles. “Ohhh, she didn’t hate it, boys.”
Miles claps his hands. “Yoga teacher gave a love confession.”
They are such idiots.
“He made a scene—now he has to live with the consequences.” I roll my eyes. “When he ripped his shirt open, I was somewhere between mildly entertained and—seriously confused.”
Harris’s smirk grows. “Mildly entertained?”
I sip my drink to hide my smile. “Sure.”
He tilts his head slightly, watching me. “You weren’t impressed?”
I raise a brow. “Do you need me to be impressed?”
The table erupts into chaos.
“Oh Shit.”
“She’s calling him out!”
Harris exhales, shaking his head, amusement in his expression. “Lucy.”
I blink innocently. “Harris.”
He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table, closing the space between us. Lowers his voice so I have to lean closer to hear him. “Know what I think?”
I lift a brow. “Please. Enlighten me.”
His tone is so low only I can hear. “I think you were impressed.”
I don’t react.
Don’t blink.
Don’t let it show that he’s right. Maybe—just maybe—I was affected by his over-the-top performance earlier. By his bare chest glistening in the sun. His muscles. Broad back. Shoulders.
Six-pack abs.
I tilt my head, matching his energy. “And I think you like that I won’t admit it. You love it when I’m stubborn.”
A Cheshire cat–like grin spreads across his face. “You love playing this game with me, don’t you?”
I sip my drink, unbothered. “Clearly . . .”
His eyes flick to my mouth.
The air between us tightens.
The noise of the bar fades.
It’s just us now.
I keep my expression neutral, swirling my drink as if I’m completely unaffected. As if I don’t feel the heat rolling off him in waves. As if I haven’t memorized the sharp cut of his jawline, the way his clean shirt clings to his shoulders.
His lips twitch. “I knew you were looking.”
I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. “You were standing on a stage. Ripping your shirt open. Everyone within a one-mile radius was looking.”
He is so full of himself! Honestly!
My heartbeat picks up as he leans in more, elbows still braced on the table. “You wanna know what I think?”
I feign indifference. “Oh, please. Tell me what’s on that brilliant football mind of yours.”
He’s unfazed. Too controlled. “I think you’re trying really hard not to let me know you liked it.”
I scoff. “Liked what?”
He tilts his head, voice dipping lower. “Me.”
“I think we’ve already established that I like you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“You know what I mean.”
Hmm, do I? “I’m not sure I’m following.”
“You like me like me.”
I snort this time. “What are we, five? Of course I like you.” I pause. “You’re fun. What’s not to like?”
The world around us disappears.
Harris stares at me, his jaw tight, his body tense in a way that tells me he’s already made a decision—one I don’t know if I’m prepared for. He exhales, low and controlled.
One second goes by.
Then another.
And another . . .
Tick.
Tick.
Boom.
Then he moves.
Before I can react, before I can process what’s happening, his hands are on me—strong. Steady. Decisive.
And then?
I’m off the ground, gasping in surprise.
“Harris—”
The bar erupts the same way they did earlier at the lake today when he jumped into the water with me.
I let out an undignified yelp, my hands gripping Harris’s shoulders, my body suddenly pressed against his chest as he hoists me into his arms like I weigh nothing.
I glare up at him. “Harris, I demand to be put down.”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Nope.”
The door up ahead.
He’s headed straight for it.
Behind me, people are banging on tables. “Going Once, Going Twice—”
“And they’re outta here!”
If I said this wasn’t the most exciting, romantic thing that’s ever happened to me, I’d be lying. And the cold night air does nothing to cool the heat simmering between us the second the door swings shut.
Harris doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t falter. Just keeps moving, his grip firm, his chest solid beneath my palms.
I should be fighting this. Wriggling out of his hold, demanding he put me down so I can walk like a fully functional adult.
I should demand—again—to be put down. I should tell him he’s being ridiculous. That he made a scene back there and I’ll never live it down. That there is absolutely no reason for him to be carrying me bridal-style into the night.
But the truth is . . .
I don’t want him to let go.
My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, my body pressing closer, the traitorous part of me craving the warmth of him, the steady strength beneath my hands. Despite everything—the chaos, the spectacle, the way he hauled me out of that bar—being in his arms feels right.
It’s thrilling.
And I . . .
I belong there.
I stare up at him, my breath short. “Where the hell are you taking me?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he keeps walking—down the steep steps behind the resort, down the dimly lit path leading toward the lake .
. . and the road. The night is quiet, save for the faint rustling of wind through the trees and the distant sounds of festivalgoers lingering in town and at the resort.
But here, in the darkened path beneath the pines, it’s just us.
And Harris is determined.
His grip doesn’t falter. His pace doesn’t slow. He moves with purpose, his arms firm around me, jaw clenched. He knows damn well where he’s going.
I let him carry me farther, past the trees, the thick scent of pine filling my senses. The dirt path narrows beneath us, winding toward the lake, where the moon reflects silver against the glassy surface.
The air is crisp, but I barely feel it, wrapped in his warmth.
He shifts his grip, adjusting me slightly, and I try not to notice the way his fingers flex against my thigh or the way my body fits easily against his.
I clear my throat. “You realize this is completely insane, right?”
His lips twitch. “Is it? Hadn’t noticed.”
“No second thoughts? No regrets about abducting me?”
His smile deepens. “Nope.”
My glance moves from his face to focus on the path ahead as we leave the resort behind and approach the narrow road leading to the rental cottages tucked between the trees. Porch lights glow in the night, soft and warm, casting shadows over the gravel.
So pretty.
So peaceful . . .