Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
The call drops right after the words leave his mouth. I call him back twice, but he sends me straight to voicemail both times.
“Damn it, Harrison,” I mutter out loud, frustrated.
I send him a text, knowing that he’s going to have no choice other than to read it sooner or later.
Are you being serious?
How will you even make it in there tonight?
Harrison
Don’t worry about that.
Can’t wait to see you.
What if I decide I don’t want to go?
I’m left on read. And freaking out. Again. It’s three in the morning back in LA, which means—unless Emma’s gone out—she’s asleep. I try calling her, but it’s useless. She’s going to kill me, but I need to talk to her before I have a nervous breakdown.
911 this is an emergency.
Emma.
Emma.
Wake up.
I call her again. And again. Finally, my fourth call is picked up. She groans, and I can hear her shuffling around in bed.
“So, I’m freaking out,” I blurt. “I was talking to Harrison this morning, and you know how I’ve been telling him no every time he’s asked to go out? Well, he’s decided that it’s a good idea to go to The Anchor tonight and hope that I show up. On a Saturday.”
Am I going to ruin this before it even starts?
“I don’t know what to do. I’m scared to go, but I’m also scared that if I don’t go, that will be the end of whatever is brewing between us. What should I do? Please help.”
“Jay, it’s three a.m. I did not catch a single thing you just said. Take a breath. Start over. This time slower.”
“Harrison said he will be at The Anchor tonight, waiting for me,” I repeat slower, but no less anxious. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“I swear, this is the most romantic thing that I have ever witnessed.”
Her voice drags. But she’s firm. “You have to go. You can’t stand him up. It would be like... a worldwide crime.”
“Think of all the girls who wish they were in your position right now,” she adds. “And he’s chosen you.”
“But…”
“But nothing. It’s been three weeks since you met him. Give yourself a chance to move on. And I’m not saying go home with the guy—just try to trust him.”
“What if I get hurt again?” I ask, nervous.
The ultimate question. The one that’s stopped me from living my life for months—until I made the rash decision to move here.
“Then you’ll have me to help you pick up all the pieces again,” she says softly. “We’re already doing it, and look how well it’s working.”
“Fine. Let’s say I decide to go. I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Jay, you’ll be beautiful in anything. Be yourself.”
I sigh.
“I’m sorry I woke you. I wish you were here.”
“Stay strong. We’ll see each other soon. And if it’s any consolation, you’re not missing anything special over here,” she says sweetly. “Now go get ready. I expect an update when I wake up. You’re one lucky girl.”
The call drops.
I’m left alone. Just me and my very messy closet.
Nothing sticks out to me. I pull out a long black skirt, hold it to my waist, and look in the mirror. Too formal. Appropriate for work, but not cute enough for a date. I’d wear a dress if there wasn’t a seventy percent chance of rain.
I lay all three of my jeans on top of the bed. Dark to light—black, raw denim, and light wash. Next to them, I toss a few tops. Something here will have to work.
I don’t notice the mess I’ve made until I step back. It looks like my entire bedroom was ransacked. Luckily, I have five hours to pull myself and my closet back together.
I leave it as is and decide to start with a shower instead. I take my time, trying to rinse off some of the nerves. The warm water helps, and my thoughts try to organize themselves.
When I’m talking to him, I don’t associate him with the fact that he’s been one of the most famous actors of the last decade.
To me, he’s just Harrison.
Handsome, cheeky, frustrating British guy. I know he’s caring. I know he’s respectful. So what am I so nervous about? Going on a date is supposed to be thrilling—not so much that it’s going to give me a heart attack.
I’ve been under the boiling water for so long that my skin has turned lobster red. That’s my cue to get out of the shower. I wrap myself up in a robe and try calling Harrison again. No luck. I huff.
I towel off my hair, taming the excess water. I’ve never been nitpicky about hairstyles. It’s been wavy my entire life, without needing to do anything to it other than blow-dry. So that’s exactly what I do. Completely natural look. That’s the goal.
I look through my clothes again and finally settle on all-black. My solid V-neck corset top matched with the straight-leg jeans and some pointed, low heels.
I’m not sure at what point during the afternoon I fall asleep. I groan slightly and check my phone. It’s almost five—and I'm still in my pajamas.
I order the first taxi available. It’ll be at my door at 5:15 p.m. Fifteen minutes. Even if I’m fast, I’ll still be fashionably late.
I shoot up and put on the outfit I picked earlier in record time. Bathroom next. Light makeup, deodorant, perfume, and a quick mouthwash rinse just in case. It takes me six minutes flat.
I pull on my heels, throw a blazer over my shoulders, and grab the small black purse I’d gotten with Claire. I’m downstairs with two minutes to spare.
Traffic isn’t bad. I text Emma that I’m on my way, hoping she’s miraculously awake to help me calm down—she’s not. So, I spend twenty silent minutes intensely watching the little dot on Maps inch closer and closer to my destination.
I’m dropped off at the door. The Anchor’s gold letters crinkle under the streetlight, like they did that first day. But now, I know who’s inside. Joshua Harrison. Expecting me.
It’s busy.
Almost every booth is occupied. None of them by him.
The music hums, muzzled by overlapping conversations. Tony’s behind the bar, finishing up with a couple’s drink order. I walk over and take a seat.
“You came,” he says, surprised.
“He didn’t give me much of a choice,” I reply with a smile, glancing around again.
“He’s in the back.”
Tony nods toward a black door tucked behind Harrison’s usual spot.
“He’s been waiting.”
I make my way over, dodging beers, bar stools, and pool sticks. The black door blends into the wall seamlessly. I hadn’t even noticed it until now.
I push it open, and there he is.
Sitting on a stack of beer crates, hunched over his phone.
“I already told you I’m okay, Tony; I don’t need anything,” he mutters, not looking up.
His voice is different than what I’ve gotten used to over the phone. Deeper. Smoother.
He’s in black slacks and a plain white tucked-in t-shirt. His shoulders are slumped forward, stretching the fabric across his collarbone.
“Hey,” I say, closing the door behind me.
He lifts his head slowly. Those baby-blue eyes meet mine.
I’m shaking slightly.
He’s just Harrison, I remind myself.
“Thomas,” he says, getting up.
His gaze moves from the top of my head to the tip of my heels. Like he doesn’t believe I’m here. He stands there.
Still.
Not saying anything else.
“You okay?” I ask, offering a shy smile.
He shakes his head.
“Better than okay.”
Two big steps, and he’s in front of me.
He wraps me in a hug so tight, I stumble backward until I hit the wall behind us. I cling to him as if I’m holding on to dear life. His muscles flex under my hands. His t-shirt is the softest material I’ve ever felt.
I close my eyes and savor the moment. He smells fresh, his cologne lingering with small touches of leather and spice. It's delightful.
He pulls back a few inches. I keep my face buried in the crook of his neck. I know my cheeks are flushed in a deep shade of crimson.
His right hand comes up and gently tucks a piece of hair behind my ear.
He’s towering over me.
“You’re late,” he whispers.
“I’m here.”
“I thought you weren’t going to show.”
“How could I not?”
He leans back enough to force me out of my hiding spot. Our eyes lock, and everything around us disappears.
The music from outside goes silent. All that fills the space is the sound of our breaths. The air feels heavy—electrified—like a storm that’s about to break.
“Hi, love.”
“Hey,” I reply, shyly.
I try to look down to ease some of the tension flowing between us. He barely grants me a second. His fingers brush beneath my chin, lifting it so we’re locking eyes once more.
“You look beautiful,” he states. “Absolutely stunning.”
We’re still pressed against the wall. The space between our bodies is null.
He closes his eyes for a moment, and when they reopen, they’re a few shades darker.
I’m in trouble.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I whisper, the words barely making it out.
My heart is beating so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if he could feel it. I’m spellbound, afraid that if I move even the slightest bit, this moment will pass. And I don’t want to go anywhere.
He’s quiet too. Thinking. Or maybe overthinking, like me. Oh, how I wish I could hear what’s going through his mind.
A subtle smirk takes over his face. In a split second, his eyes move down to my lips and back up, telling me exactly what he’s wondering about. It’s so fast, I would’ve missed it had I blinked.
Part of me—a big part—wants to say forget the friendship, go for it. It’s been almost a year. But then my voice of reason kicks in. Lust over feelings is a risky gamble. Unfortunately for me, Harrison is not making it easy.
He’s respecting what I told him—that I wasn’t ready. His eyes, though, are screaming what he won’t say out loud. He’s hovering, giving me a silent choice.
My hands move gently from his back to his front, landing under his collarbone. He says nothing—I take that as a good sign.
The intensity of his gaze causes me to bite my lip. It’s then when my eyes, against all my willpower, betray me, dropping to his mouth. I look back up, and his subtle grin has turned into a full, smug smirk.
His left hand comes up to the wall. The other tightens ever so slightly around my waist.
Surely it wouldn’t be the end of the world to give it a try, right?
I’m itching to close the gap. I’m craving him.