13. Jefferson
CHAPTER 13
JEFFERSON
I jog the distance to her house, easily find the key, and only need a few minutes of rummaging through her kitchen to find all the ingredients. I do glance down the hallway toward her bedroom. I could bring her pants. But I also know that she never wears many clothes when she’s lounging around, and I would bet, if she were on the couch watching television by herself, she wouldn’t have pants on. So she’s not going to have them on at my house.
I’ll give her a blanket, or even sweatpants of mine if she really gets uncomfortable. But if she were my girlfriend, we would definitely have a no-pants-at-home rule.
I am jogging across the yards, and up my back steps less than twenty minutes later. I let myself in the back kitchen door, but immediately stop when I hear voices.
I set the popcorn supplies on the counter and tip my head listening.
Motherfucker. That’s Zach Nelson’s voice.
“You should just go to Dottie’s for coffee,” Harlow is telling him. “Or the bakery.”
“I just like having that first cup or two at home while I get ready,” he says. “You can’t spare enough grounds for one morning? I’ll go to the store tomorrow.”
“The Dixons really don’t have any coffee?”
“They might but I can’t find it. Wanna come over and help me look?”
Is this guy fucking serious? He came to my house to ask my girlfriend to come over to look for coffee?
“They don’t have tea either? That’s what you drank this morning,” Harlow says.
“I’d already had my coffee for the day. I try to watch my caffeine.”
“Well maybe tomorrow is a good time to start cutting back.”
“Come on, Harlow. Be a good neighbor. Just loan me some coffee.”
“The only thing I really want to give you, Zach,” Harlow says, “is my middle finger.”
I grin. Sounds like she’s handling him fine. But I’m annoyed that he came over. Why? He couldn’t borrow coffee from anyone else? He couldn’t just wait until tomorrow?
He’s checking up on us. He’s suspicious.
I stop just out of sight and contemplate how I want to play this.
Harlow’s at my house. It’s late at night. And… I straighten, realizing how she’s probably dressed while answering the door. On one hand I like that she’s wearing my T-shirt and nothing else. That should send Zach a clear message. On the other, I hate the idea of him seeing her partially dressed. The shirt hits her the same place on her thighs that a pair of shorts would, but there’s something about him seeing her in an oversized T-shirt that is a little too intimate for me.
I’m in a T-shirt and joggers, so I kick off my shoes, strip off my shirt, and head out of the kitchen through the opposite doorway, making it look as if I’m coming in from the back of the house.
“Hey, Lily, what’s going on?” I ask.
Harlow looks back at me, and I notice how her eyes flicker with surprise when she sees me shirtless. She recovers quickly though and says, “Poor Zach here can’t find the coffee at the Dixons.”
“That sucks,” I say, moving in behind Harlow and resting both of my hands on her hips.
She’s standing in the doorway, blocking Zach’s entrance to the house. She has one shoulder propped on the open door, her other on her hip.
“Thought you said I could come borrow a cup of sugar,” Zach says.
“Do you want some sugar?” I ask.
Zach’s eyes scan down Harlow’s body. “Who doesn’t like sugar?”
This fucker. I grab Harlow by the back of the shirt and tug her behind me. I step forward. “There’s nothing here for you,” I tell him. “And I absolutely want nothing to do with making tomorrow, or any other day, any better for you. That includes coffee.”
“Does everyone know what an asshole their favorite coach is?” Zach asks.
“You haven’t even begun to see asshole from me.”
“Unless we count ten years ago, right?”
I lean in. “Unless you want a repeat of that, you need to go.” Then I step back, shut the door, and lock it.
I immediately became aware of Harlow’s hand on my back. My bare back.
“You okay?” she asks.
I turn to her. “He just showed up?”
“Yeah. It’s kind of ballsy of him to show up at your house, when he knows we are here together alone.”
“Do you think he knew I left?” I ask.
“No. I think he was checking up. To catch us together and see what we’re like when we’re alone.”
“So he’s suspicious.”
“Or he thinks if he keeps showing up, he’ll make me think twice about my choice?” she suggests.
“That’s plausible too,” I agree.
“Well, I’d say catching us half naked can’t hurt,” she says, letting her gaze travel over my bare chest and down my abdomen.
I feel my body heat, and the air around us suddenly fills with electricity.
I’m even more acutely aware of how sexy she looks wearing only my shirt. I lift my hand and brush her hair back from her face. For just a second, I am tempted to lean in and kiss her. I could say that I did it in case Zach was looking in my front window, but I acknowledge to myself that wouldn’t be the full truth. Or maybe any of the truth. I’d be doing it because I just really want to kiss Harlow again.
I drop my hand instead.
But I can’t seem to keep my dad’s words from dinner out of my head. Why don’t you just actually date? Instead of making this all fake, why don’t we just date? Give it a try? While we’re doing this, why not see if this could be something?
She takes a breath and turns toward the sofa before I can do anything else.
“So you found all the spices?”
“Yep, and the popcorn and oil.”
She crosses to the couch and sits down, grabbing the remotes off the coffee table and pointing them at the TV. “And pants?”
“Oops, I forgot.”
But looking at her, sitting on my couch, one long bare leg tucked up under her butt, the other dangling over the edge of my couch, knowing she’s got panties and nothing else under that shirt—my shirt—I regret nothing.
She rolls her eyes, but smiles, “I’m shocked.”
I chuckle. “You know that I don’t know how to make this popcorn, right?”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, that’s right. I can’t let you ruin my popcorn.” She bounces up from the couch. “I’m on it.”
“Teach me. “
She glances back as I follow her into the kitchen. “You want to learn?”
“Why not?”
She eyes me again, her hot gaze sliding over my torso. “You should probably put a shirt back on.”
“Too distracting?”
“The hot oil could be dangerous.”
“Especially in your hands.”
“I should say that I would never throw hot oil on another human being,” she says, taking inventory of the supplies laid out on the countertop. “But I feel like the threat of it could keep you nice and polite for the next few minutes.”
I actually love her sass. She’s rarely snarky with anyone else, but I think that’s what I like the best about it. Besides the fact that she’s just funny. I feel like she’s more herself with me than most people. Even her family at times. It’s like she has to be softer, more composed, patient, and calm with everyone else. But she lets it all loose with me.
“Do you have a deep pot with a lid?” she asks.
I start to move toward the low cupboard where my pots and pans are stored, then think better of it. I lean back against the countertop and point. “Down there.”
She bends to get a pot out and I just appreciate the view.
She seems to realize that a moment later. But she stays in the bent over position and swivels to look at me, her hair falling over her shoulders and across her face. She blows a strand up out of her eye and looks at me. “You did that on purpose.”
“Stored my pans down there in case you ever came over and took your pants off?”
“Made me bend over to get it.”
“You’re closer to it.”
She’s still bent over, clearly not shy or embarrassed by the position she’s in or my ogling.
“I guess if I was really your girlfriend, me bending over in front of you would be a regular thing.”
That getting-very-familiar heat hits hard. “Oh, for sure,” I tell her. My voice is low and a little huskier than I intend.
She straightens slowly. “But if you were really my boyfriend, there would be one difference.”
“Do tell,” I say as she sets the pot on the stove and reaches for the oil.
“I wouldn’t be wearing panties when I bent over in front of you. And I trust I’d be in that position for… a while.”
I choke on… air, I guess. I cough and watch her smirk as she adds oil to the pot and turns the stove on.
I really like this side of Harlow. We’ve bickered, but we’ve never outright flirted until all of this started.
I won’t go so far as to say that I am thankful to Zach Nelson for coming back to town this week, but this is all turning out pretty well.
We keep up the snarky banter, teasing, and yes, flirting, as she heats the oil, adds the popcorn kernels, and covers the pot with a sheet of aluminum foil.
After all the kernels have popped, and while the kernels are still hot and oily, she adds the mixture of spices, shaking the whole thing so that they are evenly distributed. I notice she goes heavy on the cayenne. Of course she does.
“So are we gonna need beer with this or what?” I ask, watching her dump the popcorn into a big plastic bowl that I stretched up to retrieve from a higher cupboard.
“Beer is great with this,” she agrees. “So is soda and hard cider. What do you have?”
I go to the fridge and pull out two of my favorite ciders.
I hold the bottles up and nod. “You’re not really a beer drinker so how about this?”
She picks up the bowl. “Depends. Beer isn’t my go-to, but it sometimes fits. Sometimes it’s just really convenient too.”
I follow her out into the living room. “And you tend to just go along with whatever the people you’re with are drinking.”
She sinks onto the sofa and looks up at me with a frown. “What do you mean?”
“You like to make whoever you’re with comfortable and happy. If you’re in a place where you can get what you like too, you will. Like at the restaurant. You’ll go get your Jack and Coke. But if you’re at someone’s house, and they’re making daiquiris, you’ll choke them down. Or if your friends are coming over to your house, and everybody wants margaritas, you’ll make that for them and drink with them.”
She pops a spicy popcorn kernel into her mouth. “You mean, I’m laid-back and considerate.”
I join her on the couch, taking the opposite end. “You are overly concerned with everyone else always feeling good when you’re around.”
“Overly concerned? How can you critique someone for wanting to make other people feel good?”
“I just don’t think you should always make other people feel good at the expense of your own pleasure.”
“I’m fine,” she says rolling her eyes. “My life is great. I have it really good. If once in a while, my friends want to drink margaritas, even if they’re not my favorite, I’d rather spend time with them and make fun memories than worry about having the perfect drink.”
I hand her one of the ciders. “I understand that. I’m just saying, you deserve to have what you like too. Like tonight. What movie were you going to watch with Ginny and Graham?”
“It’s a new romcom.”
“But you prefer thrillers.”
She narrows her eyes and I suspect she’s a little surprised that I know that.
“Of course, Ginny loves romcoms,” I add. “But the last time you got together I’m guessing you watched a romcom then too. Why can’t they watch a thriller with you, especially at your house?”
“I’m fine, Jefferson,” Harlow says, but her voice is softer now. “How do you know I like thrillers anyway?” she asks after a brief pause.
I honestly can’t answer that. I think I’ve just noticed it over time. “I’m not sure. But you do, right? I know I’ve seen a lot of thrillers in your book collection.”
She nods. “You are right.”
“Why is that? You’re such a Susie Sunshine. You always want everything to be happy and good for everyone. I would expect that you would prefer happy movies.”
She sighs, then takes a drink of her cider. I’m not sure if she’s going to answer me, but eventually she leans to set the bowl of popcorn on the table and looks at me directly.
“The romcoms and the happy feel-good movies feel a little fake to me. Or I feel…”
She takes a deep breath and blows it out.
“I like books and movies about terrible shit that can happen in real-life because I can turn it off or shut the book.” She takes another deep breath. “And I can remind myself they’re actors and someone wrote the lines and it’s all staged and all of those people like each other and probably go out to lunch and stuff when they’re not shooting the movie.” She shakes her head. “I know that seems so weird. But it gives me a sense of control and comfort that I don’t get in real life with the real drama and real bad guys. I don’t have assurances things will turn out. The people I run into are truly bad. I can’t control when and how things happen. And I can’t turn it off when it gets to be too much. I have to stay in there and stay with it until it’s over.”
I study her. This is not the first time it’s occurred to me that I admire and respect what she does for a living. She helps kids. She helps families. She tries to create families and homes and security for people who don’t have that. And she is successful. More of her cases turn out well than turn out poorly.
But they don’t all turn out well.
I know she’s had heartbreak. And even at the time, but certainly in retrospect, I realize that I was even more invested in things turning out well with Alex because of her. I would’ve wanted Alex to get happy and healthy, no matter what, but the nights when we didn’t know how things were going to turn out, my worry and frustration were definitely doubled because I was worried about Harlow too. I knew if things turned out badly with Alex, it would affect Harlow deeply.
Sharing that experience with her made it even better when it turned out well. The way Alex grew and blossomed and accepted the love and support we were giving him, and his foster family gave him, was incredible to see. And watching Harlow do the good work she had done with him was gratifying. I’d been proud of her.
I’ve never let myself really think about that. I probably figured it didn’t matter.
But now, with her sitting on my couch, dressed in my shirt, I have this urge to give her all the popcorn and the movie she wants, that she doesn’t give herself when she’s trying to make other people happy. And it makes me think about how it felt to partner with her in helping Alex and how happy I was that she was happy on the other side.
Why don’t you just actually date ?
My dad’s words go through my mind again.
I lean over and take the remote off the table and hand it to her. Then I hand her the bowl of popcorn.
“You can watch whatever you want when you’re here, and you can pause it or turn it off whenever you need to.”
She looks at me and I prepare for a funny or snotty response.
Instead, she says, “Thanks.”
Just thanks.
And when she points the remote at the TV and pulls up a movie I’ve never heard of, I settle into the sofa happily. I haven’t sat and watched a movie with someone in a long time. Harlow and I have never sat quietly, just the two of us for two hours.
If nothing else, this will be interesting.
“Do you want a blanket or something?” I ask, eyeing her bare legs that are stretched out on the sofa cushions between us.
She looks over as the beginning credits start to roll. “No, I’m good.”
“Pillows? Anything?”
“No, I’m good.” She frowns. “Why?”
“You have a ton of pillows and blankets and shit at your house.”
She grins and puts a piece of popcorn in her mouth. “You’ll be shocked to know those are for everybody else,” she tells me. “All of my friends like to be all cozy and cuddled up when we watch movies. I actually hate it. I get too hot and claustrophobic.”
I sigh but keep my thoughts on that to myself. Of course, she has her house stuffed full of things for other people. Of course, she puts up with being hot and claustrophobic, so her friends can cuddle up on her tiny little sofa in her tiny little house with pillows and blankets on top of them.
She’s all about making other people happy, creating comfort, and heartwarming memories.
But I find myself smiling and feel a little warm spot in my chest as I think about it.
Harlow Hansen is a very nice person.
And I wonder what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of her trying to make me happy.
And I immediately shut down the running list of things I would be very happy to have her do for me. To me.
I’m actually shocked by how quickly that list forms.
She pulls one leg up, her knee bending as she settles more deeply into my sofa cushions, and I catch a flash of bright blue panties.
I like the color blue.
I like bright blue panties.
I like spicy popcorn.
I like sparring with Harlow.
I like sassy, smart-mouthed brunettes who bend over backwards to make other people happy.
I like the idea of being someone who can make that sassy brunette happy in that same way.
“This is nice,” she says softly.
I glance over. Her eyes are on the TV, but I heard her. I know she was talking to me. About all of this.
I nod. “It is.”
She smiles and lets out a deep, contented sigh.
Fuck.
I might be in really big trouble.