Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
H arper
I don’t eat the hospital food. It looks like something vomited on my plate and I have seen enough vomit for one day. Instead, I discharge myself and go to call a taxi. Outside the hospital building, in the warm Rockview sunshine, I spot a coffee shop over the street.
I’m no longer feeling sick. In fact, I feel damn ravenous, with a strange desire for something vanilla flavored.
I wait at the very end of a long line, my stomach rumbling more and more loudly as the line moves forward.
Finally, I reach the front, and the teenage girl with pink hair asks me what I want.
“A large latte,” I say. She nods, picking up a cup, while chewing on gum furiously. “Actually, you’d better make that a decaf. I’m pregnant,” I blurt out.
She nods again but shows no other reaction, like I haven’t just shared the most life-altering news with her.
“And do you have anything to eat with vanilla in it? I have a real craving – must be the pregnancy hormones.”
Still, nothing. No congratulations, or how many weeks are you. She really does not care.
“We’ve got some vanilla sponge cake,” she says, pointing to the cakes on display at the counter.
“I’ll take two,” I say, handing her my bank card.
Once I have my cake and my coffee in my hands, I find a table at the window and seat myself by the glass, peering across the road towards the hospital.
The hospital where Daxton Stanton just asked me to marry him. Twice. And last night, he called to tell me he loves me and to ask me to stay. Just like Owen and just like Wyatt. They all love me and they all want me in their lives. They don’t care what people think or what might happen with the hospital.
Which means I have messed up. I have messed up big time.
I very nearly threw away something special.
But maybe – just maybe – I have a second chance at this. I just need to make it up to them. To show them how sorry I am.
Especially as one of those alphas is the father of my child. I rest my hand on my very, very flat belly.
I eat the first piece of cake, then the second, letting the vanilla flavor sink into my tongue as I sit back in my chair and watch all the people hustling in and out of the hospital. Without realizing, my hands stray to rest on my belly.
What will this baby look like? Like Dax – mop of dark hair? Or Owen – fair with dimples in both cheeks? Or will they be like Wyatt – really damn smart?
I smile to myself. Despite the giant shitstorm that is coming my way – if sleeping with your step-brother was bad enough, getting knocked up by him is a million times worse – I’m not sure I feel so worried about it. If I was going to have an unexpected, totally unplanned baby with anyone, it would be with them.
And Daxton says he loves me. Shit, he asked me to marry him. He says he doesn’t care about the scandal. He wants us to be together. They all do.
It hits me square on the nose. I fucked up. I fucked up big time.
And if there is any hope of this all working out and the four of us finally being together, I need to make amends.
The question is how?
I don’t hurry home. Instead, I pick up my bag and go for a stroll around the city – something I haven’t done since I returned home here after Paris – hoping to clear my head and work out a way to make it up to Daxton, Owen and Wyatt.
I forgot how much I loved this city. Sure, it doesn’t have the glamor of Paris or the creative vibe of New York. But it does have the sunshine and the ocean, and the feel of the sun on my face and the smell of salt in my nose makes me want to draw and paint all sorts of things in a way France never did.
Then there are the people. The omegas can be snooty and the alphas can be … well alphas. But at least people smile in Rockview and wish you a good day.
I follow the smell of the ocean down to the harbor front and all the glamorous shops and soon I find I’m standing right outside Port Gallery.
If I’m going to stay in Rockview – and I hope I am – then I will need a job. I smile to myself again, resting my hand on my belly, then I step inside the gallery.
Today it isn’t empty. There is an elderly couple browsing the paintings on the far wall, and a glamorous older woman with striking white hair and black-framed glasses talking to a younger man about one of the sculptures displayed in the middle of the gallery. By the way she is talking knowledgeably about the piece, I’m going to take an educated guess that she is Sylvie – the gallery manager.
I stroll around the gallery waiting for her to finish.
The elderly man taps me on the shoulder.
“We need a young person’s opinion,” he says, his wife nodding beside him. “We want to buy something for our granddaughter. She turns sixteen this month and she is a very talented artist.”
“What a lovely idea.”
“It’ll be an investment,” the wife says, “something she can keep.”
“Which ones do you like?” I ask.
“Well,” the woman says, “he likes that big dramatic painting over there.” She points to a canvas full of dark violent swirls of black and blue.
“I think it has drama,” the man says.
“And I like this one,” the woman says, this time pointing to a much smaller canvas of a scene of the Rockview harbor.
“It’s so boring,” the man mutters.
“We’re never going to agree,” the woman says. “Perhaps we ought to think of a different present altogether.”
“Hmmm,” I say, “I think you can come to an agreement. They are both impressive pieces of art in their own right. I suppose there are a few things to consider. Does she prefer abstract or realism? Does she like dark or light colors? And will she have the space for that one?” I point to the giant canvas.
“Exactly,” the wife says.
“Which one do you prefer?” the man asks me.
I stare at the giant picture first. A few days ago, I’d have said this one. It seems to capture the hopelessness I was feeling, the darkness.
I turn and look at the smaller one. The artist has caught the Rockview ocean on a still day and the water is clear and smooth like a mirror, the light from the sun reflected in all directions. It makes me feel hopeful.
“This one,” I confess. If I was a true saleswoman, I’d have lied and said the first – it’s three times more expensive, the gallery’s commission would be three times as much too. But I have to be honest. I can’t lie to them. “I look at it and I feel content. Like everything will be okay.”
“I don’t think that’s a bad message for a young person starting out in life,” the wife says to her husband. He plunges his hands in his pockets and examines the picture again.
“You’re right,” he says, “it does make me feel that way. We’ll get it for Martha.”
“Can I be of any help? I’m Sylvie, the gallery manager,” the glamorous white-haired woman says, obviously now finished with the younger man.
“I think you can,” the husband says, “we’d like this one.”
“Thank you, sweetie,” the wife says, winking at me.
I wait around while Sylvie processes the order, takes the couple’s details and promises to have the painting delivered in time for their granddaughter’s birthday.
When they’re gone, she comes to find me.
“Thank you,” she says, “I hear I have you to thank for that sale.”
“I’m Harper,” I tell her, holding out my hand, “Harper Hall.”
Sylvie looks a little taken aback.
“The Harper we offered a job to but declined our offer because she was moving to New York.” She adjusts her glasses and purses her lips. “Or was that an excuse, because of, you know, Derrick?”
I take a gamble. “He is a bit of a slimeball.”
“He’s a giant slimeball, but he lets me run this gallery as I see fit and with very little involvement on his part, most of the time. It wasn’t my intention to have him interview you. He took that on himself. I apologize.”
“Apology accepted.” I square my shoulders and dig deep for a bit of bravery. “Does the job offer still stand?”
“Harper,” Sylvie laughs, “your resume is amazing, and you just sold a painting I’ve been trying to sell for months. Of course, it still stands.” She hesitates. “Unfortunately, I can’t do much about the Derrick situation.”
“I think you and I will work well together,” I say. “And together we can handle Derrick.”
“He comes to the gallery once a month,” Sylvie reassures me.
“Okay, then, when can I start?”
“Are you busy now?”
I consider the fact I’m still wearing the clothes I was dressed in when I vomited on the plane. I consider the fact I haven’t told my mom about my change of plans. I consider that I really ought to talk things through with Pack Stanton.
“No, I’m not busy,” I say.
“Great, then let me give you a tour.” Sylvie claps her hands together. “I’m so pleased to have you on board, Harper.”
Sylvie spends the afternoon guiding me around the gallery, explaining the different artists they have displayed – the ones that are more established and the ones that are up-and-coming. She talks to me about how she likes to scroll the internet, attend the art school exhibitions and even just stroll among the artists out on the harbor front looking for new talent.
I almost clap my hands in glee. Maybe this job could work out. Maybe it will be just as good as Paris or New York.
Of course, there is the little problem of a baby arriving in nine months’ time. But that’s ages and ages away. I don’t think there is any hurry to tell Sylvie just yet. We’ll cross that bridge – or giant belly – when we come to it.
Sylvie also shows me how to work the computer system and ring up sales and I’m just about to help her close up for the day, when the front bell rings.
Sylvie rolls her eyes. “It’s always the way. Just about to close up and in walks a customer.”
“Hello,” a voice calls from the entrance.
Not a customer. Derrick.
My stomach drops. Just when I was feeling good about this job.
“I thought you said he visited rarely,” I hiss at Sylvie.
“Very rarely,” she says with sympathy, “and I usually get advanced warning.”
She straightens her jacket, plasters an elegant smile on her face and strolls to the front of the gallery to meet its owner. With a lot less enthusiasm and speed, I trot along behind her.
“Derrick,” Sylvie says, resting her hand on his shoulder and kissing the air either side of his cheeks. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Derrick places his hands on Sylvie’s hips and plants two lingering kisses on her skin.
The action makes me shudder and I wonder how Sylvie stops herself from doing the same.
Derrick is the actual definition of slimeball.
“A last-minute decision,” he says, eyes landing on mine and a smirk forming on his lips. “We’re just about to take the yacht out – heading to Barbados for the rest of the week. Thought I’d come and check in on things first. Certainly wasn’t expecting to see you here, Harriet. That is a welcome surprise.”
“Harper,” Sylvie corrects, and is that my imagination or does she plant herself firmly between me and the alpha? “She’s decided to join our team after all. I’ve just been guiding her through how things work at the gallery.”
“That is good news,” Derrick says, producing a look I’m guessing he thinks is a smolder. “I was really hoping we could spend more time together.”
Sylvie laughs. “I plan to have her working hard, Derrick. There’ll be no time for that. Especially since Petra quit last week.”
“Working hard, heh?” Derrick winks at me.
Would it be a bad idea to punch my new boss’s boss? I have a feeling it would be, but, jeez, is it tempting.
“Actually,” Sylvie says, attempting to usher him to the door, “we were done here for the evening. We are just about to close up.”
“Excellent,” Derrick says, eyes not leaving me, “then you can join me on the yacht for a drink. We should celebrate Harriet joining the team.”
“Harper,” I correct.
“Such a beautiful name for such a beautiful woman,” he says.
I consider telling him where to shove that compliment when the gallery bell chimes again.
We all turn towards the door.
Only this time it isn’t a customer. And it isn’t a rogue gallery owner.
This time it’s two masked men.
Two masked men with guns.