Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
The first thing I notice when I wake up is the weight of his arm draped over my waist, anchoring me against him. His steady breathing rocks me gently, like a tide I didn’t know I was floating in.
For a moment, I just lie there. I close my eyes again and let myself sink into the quiet—into the comfort of his touch.
But then reality begins to hum beneath my skin. I’m in his bed, wrapped in his sheets, with only a couple more weeks left on my clock.
Tony’s words echo in my head.
What am I really afraid of? Having this or losing it?
My chest clenches the second I try to address those questions.
It’s not the first time I’ve woken up next to him. There have been a few moments—a date that ran long, movie nights that turned into sleepy couch crashes, and quiet carry-overs to bed. His place or mine, it’s not mattered.
Until now.
This feels different. Maybe it was the way he had actually asked me to stay over. It was intentional. Vulnerable.
I might not have known then, but this sleepover was going to mean something.
And it did.
Something as mundane as sleeping together, holding each other through the night, unearthed something I hadn’t let myself need.
“Stay over,” he’d said, calling back to tell me the driver was outside. “Go home, pack a bag. Spend the whole weekend with me.”
“You’ll get tired of me,” I’d joked, trying to ease my nervousness.
“I’m serious, Julia,” he’d answered softly. Maybe it was then, when he used my first name, that I subconsciously knew I was in deep trouble. “Don’t make me beg.”
“I think you might have to,” I said, getting into the car.
“Please.”
And so, of course, I agreed—because how couldn’t I when he was talking to me like that? He made dinner, cleaned up, and made us popcorn for the movie. He didn’t let me lift a finger.
He took care of everything.
He took care of me.
I understand now, as the light from the new day shines into his room, with his bare chest pressed against my back, why yesterday had felt so strange.
I had someone wanting to take care of me.
And for as long as I can remember, it’s always been the other way around.
I reach for my phone from where it sits on the nightstand. I still have a long list of messages from people with links to articles, photos, questions…
A fling or something more? The scoop on Joshua Harrison’s unexpected romance
Joshua Harrison and his new woman, Julia Thomas—What’s their story?
I wonder if the weird feeling of seeing your name online ever goes away. They’re all running wild with speculation, none of them getting close to the actual story—purely guesses and opinions.
Then I see the headline that makes my stomach twist, and my morning appetite disappears:
Will Joshua Harrison’s new relationship survive the spotlight?
They’re trying to answer a question that I haven’t even figured out myself.
I exhale sharply and toss the phone back onto the nightstand.
Behind me, Harrison stirs. His arm tightens around my waist, turning me to face him.
“Stop overthinking,” he mumbles, still sleepy.
“I’m not,” I lie.
He hums, clearly unconvinced, but doesn’t push. Instead, he kisses my forehead and holds me tighter. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by anything that might be waiting for us outside of this room. I wish I could say the same for myself.
“Trust me,” he whispers after a couple of minutes. “I will move heaven and earth to keep you safe.”
“I know,” I say, because I believe him. I do.
What he doesn’t know—and what I can’t bring myself to say––is that the press is the least of my concerns.
It’s this.
It’s how right it feels.
It’s that thing I was afraid of when we started. It’s happening—like it’s been brewing since I laid eyes on him.
And now I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop, hoping I’m able to piece myself back together.
He must sense my distress, because he lifts my chin gently and slowly presses a kiss to my lips. The kind of kiss that says things neither of us is ready to say out loud. It lingers like a promise.
He pulls back ever so slightly, lips hovering.
“Julia…” he whispers. “I—”
His alarm shrieks to life, splitting the moment in half. He groans, grabs his phone, and silences it.
“You called me Julia—again,” I murmur, watching him. “Twice in less than twenty-four hours. What’s going on?”
He pauses, like he’s trying to find the words to say whatever is in his mind.
“Nothing,” he says, not very convincingly. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“I am.” I say it like I mean it. I don’t.
“Let’s cheer up,” he says. “I’ve got something planned for us today.”
“I hope it involves staying inside,” I half-joke, burrowing deeper into the pillows.
“You know I’d keep you in bed for the rest of our days without a second thought,” he says, voice tinted with desire.
“That’s called kidnapping.”
“I can be your Stockholm Syndrome,” he fires back.
“I wouldn’t offer any resistance,” I say, throwing in a wink.
He smirks but pulls us both up anyway.
“What’s the plan?”
“We’re going on a picnic.” His grin could power a small city. I groan.
There’s nothing more exposing than a wholesome date in a wide-open space and a zoom lens.
“Don’t give me that face. It’ll be fun,” he insists. “Did you bring what I asked?”
“Yes, I brought my camera.”
A couple of months ago, I would’ve been nervous to even take my camera out. But lately, Harrison’s been giving me more and more reasons to use it.
Last week, I showed him the finished photos I took of my parents—the kind of moments that remind you that love isn’t always loud and focused.
He studied each one like it meant something. Like I meant something.
That’s probably what sparked the picnic idea.
He’s dressed and ready in about ninety seconds: black jeans, a white long-sleeve shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Easy and unfairly hot.
I, on the other hand, agonize over the two outfits I have. I settle on my pair of light blue jeans, a simple beige blouse and drape my white sweater over my shoulders just in case.
When I finally emerge into the kitchen, he’s waiting with the largest picnic basket I’ve ever seen. There’s probably a whole Thanksgiving dinner inside of it. Maybe two.
He catches my amused stare and smiles cheekily.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head. He’s like a walking Pinterest board. “I’m just not used to this, that’s all.”
He comes around, one of his arms looping around my waist. The other comes up to brush gently against my cheek.
“Not used to dates?” he asks, head tilting slightly.
“To a guy doing all of this—” I gesture around. “—for me.”
“If only you knew how many things I want to do for you,” he gives me a small peck on the lips before turning around to grab the basket. “Lead the way.”
I grab my purse and start toward the garage stairs.
Without warning, he gives me a playful slap on the ass.
“Damn…” he says behind me. “Those jeans…”
I blush, full-on pink, but I don’t bother hiding it. I roll my eyes and chuckle.
He drives us out of the city and into a sprawling park, bursting with flowers and a big green opening. A few families with the same idea sit close to the playground on the far end. Children’s laughter floats through the air like confetti.
The grass smells deliciously fresh, and for a second, I forget about our situation.
He opens the basket and pulls out your typical red-and-white checkered blanket like we’re living inside a rom-com montage. He spreads it as far as it goes.
“Ladies first.”
I kick off my shoes and stretch out, the sun warm on my skin. He lies next to me, propped on one elbow, eyes locked on me.
He’s assembled a small charcuterie board, fresh fruit, and chilled water bottles.
“You were right,” I admit, closing my eyes, absorbing as much vitamin D as possible. “This is nice.”
“Told you. Fresh air, no schedules, no phones—”
“You took mine,” I laugh.
“For your own good.” He wiggles it at me before tucking it away with his.
I’m about to throw back a cheeky retort when something catches my eye––movement behind a stretch of trees ahead of us.
My stomach flips.
“Josh—”
“I know,” he says calmly. He takes a sip of water, completely unbothered by the fact that we’ve been followed and are being spied on.
“You know?” I whisper, though they’re too far to hear us. “They’ve been watching us.”
“They’re always watching us,” he states, like it’s completely normal.
“And you’re not worried about it?”
“What would I be worried about?”
“The headlines, the assumptions—the fact that they’re probably analyzing absolutely everything down to the brand of water we’re drinking.”
“Joke’s on them. It’s actually vodka,” he says, with a straight face. “I switched it at home.”
“So scandalous,” I laugh, despite the tightness still coiled in my chest.
“They’re going to say whatever fits their story,” he shrugs. “Might as well give them something to talk about.”
“What does that mean?”
“Let’s give them what they came for,” he repeats, moving closer until we’re only inches away.
In the distance, faint but unmistakable, I hear the cameras clicking.
I focus on him. On the way he’s staring down at me with an indecipherable look. A look that’s been showing up more and more.
The one that makes butterflies take up residence in my stomach like they own the place.
“What now?” I whisper.
He comes down and drops a small kiss on my cheek, just inches away from my lips.
“You’re such a tease,” I murmur, heart hammering. “Inside and outside of the bedroom.”
He fakes offense, then finally closes the gap in the softest, most romantic way I’ve ever known him to. He’s gentle, but everything about this kiss has a charge of its own.
The way he inhales deeply before taking my lips in his again. And it hits me—this might be what the L word feels like.
When he’s done, he pulls back, licking his lips in the process. His eyes are dark. Hungry. Unreadable.
I forget how to breathe.
“How’s that for a tease?”
“Terrible,” I whisper, utterly wrecked.