Chapter 12 #2
“Funny. I’m not the best, but I can play,” I shrug. I look at my watch—I still have twenty minutes left of my lunch break. “Let’s have a go. Loser takes a shot.”
“Aren’t you going to get in trouble for drinking during work hours?” He stands.
“It’s not like I’m going to get drunk off a shot,” I say, stepping in until there’s barely an inch between us. “What else could we bet on? Loser gets undressed? Oh! We could play strip.”
“You’re already distracting me, and we haven’t even started. Why do I have a feeling this isn’t going to be fair at all?”
He sets up all the balls, grabs a cue for himself, and hands me one.
“I never break.”
Truth be told, I’m an excellent breaker. But where’s the fun in revealing all my secrets up front?
He hits the cue ball with expertise, delivering a clean break, but nothing sinks.
The table’s wide open. A few are lined up like they’re begging to go in. Still, I play dumb. I fumble with the cue, adjusting my grip like I’ve forgotten how to hold it. I keep the charade up until I’m certain he thinks I’m struggling.
“Sorry, I’m a bit rusty,” I lie, innocently.
“May I?” he asks, leaning his stick against the wall and coming up behind me. Exactly where I want him.
I nod. He positions himself beside me, his left hand guiding mine on the cue, while his right settles on top of my own.
I shift, just enough to press my backside flush against his. I wiggle a little against his crotch. He doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t mention it—but a muffled groan vibrates through his chest. He’s talking. I’m nodding. I don’t know what he’s saying; I’m too focused.
I move again. This time, noticeably. There’s no doubt I’m purposefully grinding against him.
He pulls away. “Julia…” he warns.
I don’t look at him. I take my shot. The ball goes in gracefully.
“You are a great teacher,” I say, spinning to face him.
He’s standing stiff as a board. Literally. And now using the pool cue as a makeshift modesty screen.
I try not to stare. If I get too distracted, my whole plan can backfire. I’m too competitive for that.
I walk toward him. He backs up, palms covering his crotch like he’s guarding a secret.
I chuckle.
I’m strippers, as my dad calls them—how appropriate for this moment. I sink three more balls. I almost have my fifth, but it hits the side and bounces out.
“You’re a little liar,” he says, composure regained. I shrug. “I don’t think I’m that good at teaching.”
He nails two balls with ease. And just like that, he’s back in the game.
If I want to win, I need to bring out the big guns.
I undo one more button on my blouse and saunter over to the other side of the table, leaning low right in his line of vision.
He looks up enough to catch the edge of my black lace bra.
He takes his shot. Misses.
“Too bad,” I mock.
He comes over and traps me between the table and himself. I try to keep a straight face, but the corners of my lips are traitorously bending into a smile.
He reaches for my blouse, slowly buttoning it back up. His fingers graze my skin as he goes, and goosebumps bloom across my chest. I close my eyes for half a second.
Then I shove him away. It’s game time.
“Sorry, Harrison. It’s time to finish this.”
To not have played in months, I’m giving him a show. I’m even surprising myself. All I have left is the eight ball.
“Top right corner,” I call.
I take a deep breath, hit the cue ball with some spin, and the black ball of victory goes right in. I drop my stick on the table and do a little dance.
Harrison grabs my waist from behind and spins me until I’m facing him. The tension is palpable. His eyes flick between mine and my mouth.
The air practically sizzles.
“You played dirty,” he whispers.
I’m pressed against him. One of his hands trails up my side, grazing my ribs, along my neck, until his fingers curl around my jaw.
“Don’t be a sore loser,” I say, my voice low. “Take your shot.”
And I want him to.
Not the alcohol kind.
“I want a rematch,” he says. His eyes roam carelessly.
If I give in now, I won’t make it back to work. He knows it.
It’s impressive how much self-control this man has when all that’s running through our heads is ripping our clothes off and doing it right here on the pool table.
“I have…” I trail off, his gaze derailing my thought. “…work.”
I untangle myself from his hold and turn towards the bar. I force myself to inhale twice, slow and deep. I’m about to combust.
It’s not a win until the loser pays the price.
He follows me, settling into his usual barstool. Watching. I scan the labels and pick the one I hate the most. Absinthe. I pour a shot and slide it over.
“You better pay Tony for this,” I say. “I’m sure he’ll enjoy knowing you got your ass kicked.”
Harrison smirks. He lifts the small glass up to his lips and downs it like it’s water.
His reaction is underwhelming. No scrunching of the face. No signs of disgust. No sticking his tongue out. Nothing.
Damn. What a man.
I head back to the table to tidy up. I’ll have to run to make it in time.
“Leave it,” he calls over. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Good. I’ve got to go,” I say, coming over to him. I lean down to kiss his cheek.
Something goes off-course because I kiss the corner of his lips instead.
Way to go, I think to myself.
His eyes are as big as dinner plates. Ignore. Run. Abort mission.
“Talk later,” I mumble, bolting for the door, my body still aching from his touch.
“Come on! How long until you’re ready?” he says. “I’m outside.”
His voice echoes from my phone, which is sitting on the bathroom sink while I finish my hair. I’m going for effortless. Which, ironically, takes effort.
Light-wash straight-leg jeans, a white top, and a plain gray cardigan. My hair is clipped back by dark brown sunglasses.
“Tourists don’t have drivers,” I tell him, grabbing my small red crossbody purse. I slip on my white trainers and head downstairs.
“True,” he finally replies.
“I’m here,” I say, and hang up.
He’s waiting by the door. Who knew he looks even sexier with casual clothes? He’s in navy jeans and an untucked white T-shirt, with a soft blue sweater draped across his shoulders. His hair flows backward from the sides of his cap.
“I bought these,” he says, holding two disposable cameras. “I thought maybe you’d like to teach me. Show me your vision.”
He hands me one and kisses my cheek—just like that, another one added to the growing collection.
He’s so thoughtful, my eyes get watery. The gesture is small, but it hits hard. My first camera looked like this one.
“I love them, thank you,” I say, smiling. “What’s the plan then?”
“The plan is to see as much of London as we can in one day,” he says, taking my hand. “Follow me!”
And we’re off.
We take the subway into the city. Thankfully, it wasn’t too crowded. Harrison insists we have to feel like real tourists, so we buy tickets for the Big Bus London and climb straight to the open top deck. It’s not fully sunny, but the breeze feels good.
The day unfolds like a movie montage. I don’t think about work or deadlines or even what time it is. Just the man beside me, who makes ridiculous faces in every photo and leans into the tourist bit like he was born to embarrass me.
We check off the London Eye, Big Ben, and Trafalgar Square. We make it just in time to see the Changing of the Guards at Buckingham Palace.
We have lunch on one of the benches outside of the Tower of London, overlooking the river and the majestic Tower Bridge. We eat some expensive fish and chips from a food truck. It’s greasy, and a bit salty, but we chalk it up to be part of the experience.
The bus drops us off at Bond Street. It’s the London version of Fifth Avenue in New York City. Flags drape from polished storefronts. The displays are breathtaking. Every top-tier brand you can think of is here.
“Do people even shop in these?” I ask, genuinely curious. “I doubt your run-of-the-mill tourist can afford this.”
“I’ve never shopped here,” he shrugs.
We pass a jeweler, and I slow down. “Everything is stunning.” A necklace catches my eye. It’s a white gold, heart-shaped locket on a thin, elegant chain. It reminds me of the one my mom wore when I was little. It got lost during my high school years.
“It’d look good on you,” he says, nodding toward it.
“I could never,” I laugh. “I could go on an all-inclusive holiday for that price.”
We wander toward Hyde Park. Gray clouds start to stretch over the sky. The sun dips, taking the warmth with it, but the park’s still lively. I take out my camera and snap a photo of Harrison in front of the Joy of Life fountain.
Fitting. Bronze figures dance in the spray, free and careless. Maybe this is what it means to live in the present. That’s what I’ve been forgetting.
I haven’t let myself experience the joy of life in so long.
Tiny droplets of water land on my face. I think we both assume it’s from the fountain because we stay there, enjoying the peacefulness. But then another falls. And another.
The rain starts slow. Then, as if the sky flips a switch—
It pours.
I turn to Harrison. Water is cascading off the brim of his cap. I burst out laughing. There’s something about this moment. About the feeling of the rain starting to wet my clothes, covering everything around us. The heightened smell of the grass. It’s liberating.
I close my eyes and tilt my face up into the storm.
Harrison grabs my hand and takes off running. I stumble behind him, soaked sneakers slapping the path. We find some shelter under the wide arms of a tree. I lean against the trunk. He leans against me.
Everything starts moving in slow motion.
He pulls off his cap. His wet hair sticking to his forehead. He rakes a hand through it, shaking it around like a Golden Retriever would, and then slicks it back. That’s all it needs to fall back into place.
Right now, under this tree, he is the best sight I’ve seen all day.
His white t-shirt clings to his chest like he’s just wrapped up a charity car wash. All I want to do is rip it off.
Then he looks at me.
My knees go weak. I grip his arms. He flashes that signature Joshua Harrison smile.
I stare at his lips. One small, teeny, tiny taste. That’s all I want.
His hand comes up to brush my hair away from my face. I don’t know at what point my mind goes dark. I don’t know where all my rational thoughts go.
All I know is I swing my arms around his neck and press my lips against his.
It’s slow. Curious. Liberating—to finally do what I’ve been wanting. He responds right away. A gentle push and pull.
His hand finds my cheek, keeping me in place. I nip his bottom lip, tugging, greedy for more. He exhales, and I can tell there’s something holding him back.
I pull away, just enough to catch his eyes. Every cell in my body is screaming not to stop. But I need to know what’s going through his head.
It’s less than a second. Whatever he sees in my gaze is enough to break all of his chains.
He crashes back into me. Hunger replaces hesitation. He’s in full control, and I’m along for the ride. He bites. I moan. So he does it again.
Every movement of his lips says I’ve been waiting to do this. The urgency that lit the fuse begins to settle. He’s no longer kissing me out of restrained lust. His touch softens, turning careful.
Meaningful.
All those feelings start turning on alarms in my head.
I’m freaking out. But I don’t want to stop.
We’re gasping for air. The more I feel his lips, his tongue battling out with mine, the more I’m convinced I’m not going to be able to live without this. I’m going to need this just as much as breathing.
He’s the one who breaks away first.
“One more,” he says, coming back for one last peck before facing me.
I’m flushed and dizzy. Legs like noodles after a marathon.
“I’m sorry. That was…” I trail off, brain buffering.
I look around. No one is in sight. Apparently, we’re the only people deranged enough to make out in a torrential downpour.
“Don’t apologize,” he grins, adjusting his pants. “You taste like heaven.”
I groan, burying my face in my hands.
“You’re overthinking it.”
“A little,” I admit, rolling my eyes. “I’ll be okay. It wasn’t that good anyway.”
“Right,” he says dryly. “Never again.”
I smile. We both know better. This changes things. And yet, he doesn’t mind playing my games a little longer.
I can do casual, I lie to myself.
The park lamps flicker on, casting amber light across the navy-blue sky. I shiver and pull my cardigan tight. Harrison reaches for his sweater, but it’s soaked through.
“I think it’s time we drop the tourist act and head home before one of us gets pneumonia,” he says, pulling out his phone.
Within ten minutes, his driver—whose name turns out to be Arthur—picks us up and whisks us back to my place.
Harrison hops out and opens the door for me. Ever the gentleman.
“You’re leaving?” I ask, fishing out my keys. “It’s still early.”
“I think it’s probably the best idea.”
“I’m tired of thinking so much about things,” I say, biting my lip. He notices and turns his head playfully. “We could order takeout, watch some TV… I’ll be good I promise.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.
I step closer, grab his hand, and tug him toward the building. He doesn’t resist.
“I’ll even throw your clothes in the dryer while we shower,” I say with a wink as we round the corner to my apartment.
He groans behind me.
“Jay,” a voice says.
I freeze. The keys in my hand rattle slightly. Harrison catches up and frowns, glancing from me to the man standing outside my door.
Out of all the people that could have flown in from LA, this is the one person I least expected—or wanted—to see.
“Noah.”