Chapter 16
Harper: What are you doing right now?
It only takes a few minutes before I receive a picture back. It’s of a half-drunk coffee cup, a closed laptop, and a large conference table with a basket of pastries in the middle. In the background, a cityscape of a European city is visible through a window.
Nate: Meetings.
Harper: Don’t text during your meetings! Pay attention.
Nate: I’m trying, but someone won’t stop texting me.
I smile down at my phone and pop it back into my pocket. It’s day three of Nate’s traveling week, and, somehow, that first have a safe flight text has morphed into an entire conversation that never ends.
It’s hard to forget, too, what happened on Saturday morning. When I’d woken up at noon to a bright living room… with Nate’s arm around me.
He’d been slumped against me, his face serene and relaxed in sleep. I was reluctant to move, but my left arm felt numb. One minor shift, and he was awake, too.
I looked away from his warm gaze and messy hair, toward the coffee table and the forgotten flowers lying there. A blush had spread furiously up my cheeks, and I said the first thing I could think of.
My peonies! I forgot to put them in the water.
Nate’s voice had been hoarse with sleep and a bit husky. Don’t worry, Harp. I’ll buy you more.
Now, days later, and with Nate as a constant presence on my phone… through the grocery shopping and the long work hours, and the evening walks around the neighborhood, I’ve finally figured out the right word on the tip of my tongue.
I’m happy.
That’s the word, and that’s how I felt with him that night. I experienced happiness in a profound, deep way. Brought on by adrenaline, possibilities, and Nate.
I find myself wanting to ask him more things, all kinds of things, but he’s not here to answer any of them. He doesn’t really talk about himself a lot. Not beyond the surface level.
It makes me wonder what lies beneath it. Who hides beneath the mask he puts on.
A few hours go by before my phone buzzes again. It’s another picture; this time, of a beautiful summertime city near the water. He had sent me several photos of Stockholm so far, each one prettier than the last.
Nate: People are swimming right in the city. It’s wild. It’s only May!
Harper: Jump in.
Nate: I’m in a suit. Also. No.
Harper: You’re the one who was telling me to embrace adventure.
Nate: What do I get if I do it?
I dig my teeth into my lower lip and look over at Aadhya. She’s focused on the computer screen, working hard on the summer event the gallery is hosting in two months. Under Eitan’s supervision, we’ve been given a lot of leeway with the planning. Hostesses, catering, the open bar. This work is unlike anything I was allowed to do in my old job.
I should get back to doing it. But first…
Harper: It’s either there or in the Thames when you least expect it. I’m a good shover.
Nate: Threats? From Harper Elliot? You really are becoming a new person.
I smile down at my phone. At least I’m trying to. I’ve put my “30 Under 30” list up above the desk in the beautiful guest room that’s now mine. Now the goal to stay out all night is ticked off with a bright blue highlighter. So is try archery.
Harper: I have a friend who’s a cutthroat in business. Has no problem lying to get what he wants. So I’m learning, yeah.
Nate: I think what I said was “false impressions.”
Harper: Why did you assume I was talking about you?
The phone goes silent, and I imagine Nate getting into a booked car. Grumbling about not being allowed to drive himself, and zipping through streets I’d love to walk one day. It remains silent when I go to an evening Pilates class I found in the neighborhood. I even try befriending, albeit somewhat awkwardly, the woman exercising next to me. She doesn’t seem offended by my chatter, which is a great start with Brits, I’ve learned.
When the class concludes, I sit down on the mat and take a picture of my legs and the distant mirror. Nate had teased me just a few days ago that I’d probably buy a gym membership and then never use it.
Harper: Made it to class for the second time, for your information. Definitely a solid investment.
His response is immediate.
Nate: Those are your workout tights?
Harper: No, this is my prom dress, actually.
Nate: Very funny.
Nate: I should come with you to Pilates sometime.
That makes me chuckle.
Harper: I would love to see you struggling at something, for once.
Nate: I struggle with things all the time. I’m just very good at hiding it. Case in point.
He sends a photo of an upscale restaurant and a large menu where nothing is written in English.
Harper: How are you gonna solve that?
Nate: I’m going to order whatever chef recommends and then eat it with a smile on my face. Even if it’s pickled herring.
Harper: Send me a pic of the food when it arrives.
Nate: Absolutely not. This is a business dinner. Can you imagine if I tell people to wait before eating because I need to take a pic?
That makes me laugh again.
Harper: Are you with them now? You should talk to them! Not me!
Nate: Don’t worry. You’re helping me to appear aloof and busy. I just referred to you as my brother in New York, by the way, the CEO of Contron. They’re very impressed.
Harper: Go eat some fish.
The next few days fly by in a flurry of back-and-forth texts. Nate sends occasional pictures from his trip—he’s in Berlin now—little updates and jokes.
I didn’t think I would miss him.
But I do.
The giant townhouse is quiet and I have it all to myself, but the luxury doesn’t feel the same without him in it. It feels empty, a shell that’s waiting for him to return.
I leave work in a hurry on Friday, excited to finally see Nate again. But when I arrive home… he’s not here. The empty rooms continue to mock me and the silence is deafening.
I pause on my landing and look up at the narrow stairs leading to his floor. The top level is the last place in this giant, elegant place I haven’t been to.
But I valiantly stop myself from snooping.
Harper: Where are you?
Nate: Have to stay another night in Berlin. There was a fuckup with a supplier. I’m annoyed.
I bite my bottom lip and struggle with the same feeling. I thought I would see him tonight. Had hoped… thought we could order in, watch a movie perhaps…
Harper: Oh. Hope it gets resolved!
Nate: It better.
So I head out instead… and go to a bar in Chelsea.
Grab a drink by myself is on my list. Although everything inside me screams at how weird it is to sit in the bar with a single glass of wine and no one to talk to, I force myself through the profound awkwardness of the first fifteen minutes.
Once I get over my self-consciousness, something amazing happens.
It becomes enjoyable.
Watching the people, feeling the pulse of the night, and drinking my white wine. I don’t let myself be distracted by my phone, either. I am simply present in the moment, in a way I haven’t been for a very long time.
As I walk home with another thing checked off my list, I feel a newfound sense of empowerment.
Ridiculous, Dean would have said. I can hear the tone he would have used, too, like my ideas were fanciful and childish, and had no place in an adult’s life.
I’m reclaiming that sense of wonder one step at a time, and with it, myself. Who I used to be when I indulged my whims, when I focused on fun instead of stability. Tiny movements toward the woman I want to be. Toward the life I want to live.
I walk aimlessly through the kitchen and run my hand over the stone countertop. Look outside the windows at the dark garden I’ve still never really sat in. I’ll have to change that, soon.
Maybe he needs to stay in Berlin for another reason. One he didn’t want to share. It would be unreasonable of me to expect a single, wealthy man in his late thirties to spend every weekend at home or work.
He probably doesn’t need a wingwoman anyway. He might already have someone.
The more I think about it, the more it feels obvious. Of course he does. Which leads me to wonder why he hasn’t just said so.
Maybe he keeps that close to his vest, too. Another thing that he doesn’t share easily or at all.
I turn in feeling more dejected than I have in weeks. However, even the comfort of my glorious bed isn’t enough for restful sleep.
I wake up early on Saturday morning, the day Nate is supposed to host a party at the townhouse.
Yet he’s still not home. The place is still empty.
I go out for a walk in the neighborhood. The spring weather is beautiful, the sky is blue, and I love the architecture in Kensington. It’s almost noon by the time I get a text from Nate.
Nate: Finally got a flight out. It’s been a shitshow here. My assistant and the party planners should be at the house soon to start setting everything up. Don’t worry, they’ll stay on the first floor.
Damn. Does that mean I won’t see him until the party? I’m typing a question about when he’ll be arriving when I’m interrupted by two energetic barks.
Stanley and Quincy, the two dachshunds, and Richard are headed my way. He’s wearing another flat cap but no jacket this time, just a dress shirt with a down vest.
“Good morning,” he tells me. Quincy sits politely at his feet while Stanley nips around mine. “Isn’t it a fine day?”
We end up walking together in the garden. Now that I know how to access it, I’m here more often, in this beautiful and serene space reserved for local residents. The fountain in the middle bubbles happily, and Stanley revels in my pets, his little tail wagging. His floppy ears are like silk.
“I have a ball in here somewhere,” Richard mutters and reaches into the pockets of his vest. He holds up the ball to me with a knotted hand. “If you want to keep him entertained.”
I spend a solid hour chatting with Richard and playing with the dogs. He’s British, almost aggressively so, but he doesn’t seem to mind my small talk and aimless hovering. Quite the opposite.
When I finally head home, the townhouse’s glossy black door is wide open. Two men walk up the steps, carrying a giant cooler between them.
Preparations have begun.
I wave hello to the middle-aged woman standing in my living room—in Nate’s living room—and giving orders to caterers, porters, and all kinds of other personnel.
I sneak past everyone up to my room. Nerves keep me there for most of the afternoon. I read a book, search for a potential new apartment, and select what two art museums I want to go to the next day.
As the afternoon drags on, I choose a dress to wear tonight, only to change my mind and pick out another, and then another. I finally settle on a black dress that goes down to my ankles. It covers a lot… but it’s formfitting, and that makes it revealing all the same. I usually wear an oversized blazer with it, but standing in front of my huge bathroom mirror, I decide to skip the blazer.
The old me would cover up. Not the new me. Not London me.
Downstairs, the music starts to play, and I hear a pair of hurried feet descending the stairs outside my room.
Nate.
He’s home.
I don’t know anyone but him at this party.
I barely know what kind of party it is.
Cracking open my bedroom door, I peek through the gap. There are voices downstairs. Plenty of them, and for a moment, I consider closing the door and hiding. And maybe the old me would have done that.
Retreated with a book.
But that’s not the person I want to be. The person I’m working really hard to become, to inhabit, who embraces opportunities when they strike.
I walk down the stairs.
The first floor of Nate’s townhouse has been transformed into an elegant bar. People mill about, glasses of champagne in hand. The front door is open, and a man is standing just outside. Is that a bouncer? At a house party? Music is playing from speakers I can’t see. They must be hidden.
My steps slow as I approach the bottom of the stairs. I’m scanning the room, looking from person to person. I don’t recognize anyone. Most look about my age, some are older, and a few younger.
It’s a good thing I didn’t throw on my blazer. But perhaps I should have worn heels instead of my ballet flats. People are dressed to the nines.
I run my hand down the banister. So far I can’t see him. Not in the living room, nor in the adjoining kitchen…
But then I spot him.
Standing in the doorway to the study, hands in his pockets, talking to the two men whose faces I cannot see. He’s nodding to whatever they’re saying, but his eyes are locked on me.
Watching me descend the stairs.
I smile at him, excitement rushing through my veins. It’s been a long week without him.
His lips curve in response. It’s a tiny reaction, but it’s there. A silent hello.
I wind my way toward the kitchen island where I usually have my breakfast. Right now, the space is teeming with people. A woman in an apron is pouring more glasses of champagne, and the expensive stone countertop is laden with canapés and snacks.
As house parties go, this is a far cry from the small dinner parties Dean and I used to host.
I grab a flute of the bubbly and a small cracker with some kind of paté on it. Catch the snippets of conversations around me. Something about the investing season is almost over and stocks are a winter sport drift my way, and I wander to the back door that leads to the garden.
I don’t know how to introduce myself. Hi, I’m Nate’s… live-in friend?
His art adviser. That’s what he called me at the gallery, and it’s not incorrect. False impressions and all that. Maybe it’s time I learn to use them to my advantage, too.
“You came,” Nate says.
I turn to find him beside me, with his own glass of champagne in hand. He looks calm, serene even, his face pleasantly neutral.
Like he knows he’s being watched.
“You’re back,” I say. “And considering all I had to do was walk down the stairs, it wasn’t hard.”
He looks down at my dress, and a smile plays on his lips. “You look gorgeous.”
“Thank you. Um, who are all these people?”
“I have no idea,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Okay, that can’t be true. Who put the guest list together?”
“My assistant, the party planner, and my brother,” he says. “I made a few additions.”
“Really?” I look over my shoulder, eyes halting on a group of beautiful women standing by the dining room table. “Who?”
“You, among a few others.”
I nudge his shoulder. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
“I wasn’t going to confine you to your bedroom.”
My gaze meets his. “Haven’t seen you all week.”
“No. I’m sorry about that. The trip had to be extended.” He sighs, eyebrows scrunching together. “Our supplier in Berlin was delayed getting to the meeting, and we couldn’t come to a… solution. I had to stay longer to hammer it out.”
Despite the otherwise pleasant expression on his face, there are faint circles under his eyes and tenseness to his jaw.
He’s wearing a mask.
“Well, it was very quiet around here without you.”
“Was it? I’m sorry.”
“You should be. I was forced to tackle several of my goals on my own.”
His eyes darken. “Which ones?”
“Um, going out to a bar by myself. I also went to the movies alone after work on Thursday.”
“All right. Good job,” he says. “If you did number seventeen, don’t tell me about it. I’ll never be able to see the guest bedroom in the same light again.”
A laugh escapes me, but I can’t look at him. “It’s still so embarrassing that you saw that.”
The threesome I had impulsively put on the list.
“I don’t think embarrassing is the word I’d use,” he mutters. He takes a long sip of his drink, his eyes thoughtful. “Two men? A man and a woman?” His eyebrow lifts. “Or two other women?”
I look over my shoulder. “We can’t discuss that here.”
“Why not?” he asks. “It’s a party, isn’t it?”
“It’s not that kind of party.” But then I look around—at the beautiful people in elegant dresses and suits. Take in the crooning music playing from the hidden speakers. Scrutinize the flowing bar. “Wait. It’s not, right?”
He snorts. “You think I’d throw an orgy and invite you?”
“You’d throw an orgy and not invite me?”
“If I did,” he says calmly, like this isn’t the stupidest conversation I’ve ever had, “I’d warn you first. Now come on.” He leans closer, his eyes on mine. “Which kind of threesome do you want?”
“Nate!”
“What? Want me to go first?”
My eyes flare. “You want to have a threesome?”
“I’ve tried it.” The words roll off his tongue ever so casually, smoothly, his eyes not leaving mine. Like that’s a perfectly normal thing to say.
“You have,” I breathe. “What kind?”
“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s entirely fair,” he says. “You just don’t like it.”
That makes me grin. “I was trying to give a false impression.”
“Good try, but I’m the master of them,” he states. His eyes drop briefly to my lips, then flit away.
“Is that what you’re doing tonight?” I ask. “Giving a false impression?”
His wandering gaze freezes for an instant. But then he looks at me and smiles, just a teeny twitch of his lips. “There is an ulterior motive for having this party.”
“Tell me what it is so I can help.”
“I wish you could, Harp.”
“What’s the deal?”
“A few of the invited people are more important than others, that’s all.”
I step closer, our shoulders brushing… and look over at the crowd. Give them all a quick glance. “Who?”
“They’re impossible to describe.”
“Why?”
“Because they all look alike,” he says dryly.
My gaze snags on the group of women standing by the dining room table. They all look beautiful, but fairly similar, indeed. Dresses, heels, blow-dried hair.
“I see.” A frown pulls on the corners of my mouth. Maybe he’ll let me help this time? It’s definitely an easier environment here, less risky, easier to introduce myself. “Anyone in particular you’re interested in?”
“What?” Nate turns, follows my line of sight. There’s a quiet sigh when he sees where I’m looking. “Ah. You’re still determined to be my wingwoman.”
“Isn’t that what you meant?” I ask.
His eyes narrow into slits. “Would you like me to return the favor? There are plenty of eligible men here. Single. With stable jobs. Available.”
I take a long, slow sip of my drink. It’s a terrible idea. I’m not ready to date yet… but I feel like being wild, and drinking more than I should, and embracing the new me.
Making bad decisions has never felt more fun.
“It’s a deal,” I say.
“A deal,” he murmurs, voice close to my ear. “May the best wingman win.”