Chapter 8 #2
“That may be unavoidable. She’s persuasive.”
“Awesome. So, your grandmother will think I’m in love with you, and Rachel will think I’m a PR grenade. Amazing. I’m literally a caricature of myself at this point.”
I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. "Then what do you suggest?"
"I suggest—" Harper starts, then stops as her phone buzzes.
She glances at it, frowns, then looks back at me.
"Sorry. My mom. She's been—Never mind."
But I notice the way her expression shifts, the way her shoulders tense.
"Is everything alright?" I ask, watching her.
Harper's face does something complicated. "She's fine. Just—family stuff. Nothing important."
It's clearly a lie, but I don't push.
Instead, I say, “Fuck it. If you don't want to lie to Babushka, then don't."
"What?"
"Tell her the truth. That we got drunk and made a mistake and we're trying to fix it without destroying both our careers." I lean back in my chair. "She'll probably find it hilarious."
"You want me to tell your grandmother we accidentally got married?"
"She saw the video of us. Wouldn’t be too far of a stretch.”
Harper’s expression softens, her gaze lowering before lifting again.
"Okay," she says finally.
"Okay?"
"I'll come to dinner. I'll be honest with your grandmother. And I'll—" She takes a breath. "I'll consider the staying at your place situation."
"Consider?"
"I need to think about it. Talk to my roommate. Figure out logistics." She stands up, gathering her portfolio. "But I'll consider it."
I stand as well. “Good.”
She nods, turning to gather her things, and that's when it happens.
She reaches for her coffee cup—the one she brought in with her and set on the edge of the table. Her portfolio and laptop catch the handle.
The cup tips. Coffee—hot and dark—does a Tokyo drift through the air in slow motion.
"Shit!" Harper lunges for it.
So do I.
We collide in the middle.
Her hands grab for the cup. My hands grab for the same cup. We both miss, and the coffee lands directly on the front of my shirt.
Again.
Thank God the drink is lukewarm by this point.
"Oh my God," Harper breathes. "Not again."
I look down at my chest. At the spreading dark stain that's soaking through my white dress shirt. At the universe and Harper Beaumont’s apparent offense taken with my wardrobe.
"This is becoming a pattern," I say.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—let me—" Harper grabs a stack of napkins from the credenza and starts dabbing at my chest without thinking.
Which puts her very close.
Very, very close.
Close enough that I can smell her perfume—that same silky scent from Vegas. Close enough to feel the heat of her hands through the wet fabric.
She reaches the napkins towards the floor, blotting the wet spot, and I grab a few napkins, joining her.
I’m not much of a cleaner. Or even a squatter.
But it feels like the right thing to do after alienating my fake wife for the last few days.
Exhaling shakily, she pushes one silky caramel lock behind her ear—only for it to fall right back into place. Her hands are trembling, her normally olive skin flushed. She’s kneeling beside the table now, dabbing uselessly at the spill with a napkin, muttering to herself in frantic, breathy French.
And something inside me unsettles—repositions and rearranges.
Because I remember this.
This exact position she’s in.
Not here, of course. And sure as shit not now.
But on that plane.
When she was close enough that her hair brushed my shoulder, close enough that her thigh grazed mine—so close that I had to turn away because if I didn’t, I would’ve dragged her into my lap in the middle of commercial airspace and ravaged her pillowy, pink mouth with mine.
“Merde,” she mutters, the sound soft. She freezes halfway through blotting, hazel eyes darting up in a wide, wrecked look. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“But I ruined your shirt, the carpet. And you’re staring.”
“I’m not staring.”
I am. That’s the problem.
Her stare softens, those golden-green eyes locking onto mine with sudden awareness, sudden heat.
And fuck me, I feel that heat everywhere.
In my spine. In my pulse. In every blood vessel below the waist that decides to betray me at once.
Against every warning in my mind, my cock stirs. Once. Then twice.
I clear my throat. “I’ll get more paper towels.”
Except I don’t move or back away or blink. Because Harper is rising onto her knees, inches from me, her breath brushing my shirt.
My entire body is a tight rope—filled with all the latent rage of this arrangement. My body is on constant simmer these days, stewing with all the frustration and anguish that Harper Beaumont’s presence in my life has caused.
And still…
I can’t help myself.
I lean in, an unconscious move that feels more like a gravitational inevitability, my gaze falling to Harper’s mouth as her lips part, breath hitching as I—
The door opens.
Rachel walks in, takes one look at us, and stops.
“Whoops. Am I…interrupting?”
“N-no, not at all.” Harper practically launches to her feet, reaching for her things. She scoops them up, hands frantic. “I was just leaving.”
She shoots me one last unreadable look before heading to the door and darting past Rachel, the sound of her footsteps echoing down the hall.
My publicist sighs after a few interminable seconds.
“Jesus Horace Christ,” she groans, flopping down into the leather seat Harper abandoned. “What is it with you two? It’s like you’re one big accident waiting to happen.”
I’d argue, but to be honest, my publicist is exactly right.
Harper Beaumont and I together are a fated collision course, a ride I know I should get off of.
Instead I turn to Rachel, mentally buckling myself in my rollercoaster seat.
“It’s no big deal. But do me a favor, Rach?” I grab my phone, tossing it to her. “While Gina takes care of this,” I motion to my shirt, nodding, “you mind accepting my grandmother’s calendar invitation?”
I head for the door, pausing, before I exit.
“Tell her that my wife and I are RSVP’ing for Sunday dinner.”