Chapter Six
Elise usually loved mornings. Back in Los Angeles, mornings had been her time.
She’d start at her apartment in Silver Lake, a large sun-splashed loft tucked between bougainvillea-draped walkups with hardwood floors that creaked under her bare feet and huge windows that gave her a fantastic view of the city.
Coffee usually came first. Strong and black from the tiny artisanal roasters a few blocks down.
She’d take it back to her apartment where she’d sip on it on her balcony and watch joggers make their way around the reservoir while the rest of the city stretched awake beneath the hills.
After coffee, she walked—never ran, her ankles were too delicate—and always wound up at Griffith Park, where she pretended she was alone in the world, even when the mountain bikers whizzed past her.
Occasionally, she’d stop at Griffith Observatory, just long enough to breathe in the panorama of the city sparkling below and prepare herself for the avalanche of emails and deadlines waiting like tiny landmines.
But this morning was shaping up to be a full-blown irritation.
Not only was Harper in Positano, of all places, but she was waking up in one of the crew houses, stretching under the sheets, possibly naked, in a way that was all elbows and knees.
Her sandy blonde hair was probably all mussed at the back, like it used to be ten years ago.
Elise had a very clear image of Harper walking out of her tent, fingers working hard to detangle her hair, while she yawned so wide she nearly swallowed the desert whole.
Elise groaned. She needed a way to get that mental image out of her head before it permanently lodged itself in her frontal lobe.
Which was why she stepped out onto the tiny balcony that overlooked the glittering sea and planted her feet on the cool limestone before wobbling into downward dog.
There was no wind. Not even a lick. It was as if last night’s windstorm had never happened.
She stretched out the tight line of her spine and pretended she was able to clear her mind of Harper.
But then again, the more you tried not to think about someone, the more you did.
Unfortunately, another memory came rushing in quickly.
Elise was sure her brain hated her. Plastered in her mind like a movie was Etosha National Park.
Lightning had ripped the sky into shards.
Rain had hammered down like someone had shaken the clouds and wrung every last drop of moisture out of them.
The two of them sprinted for the jeep from the production tent.
Elise had been tasked with getting biltong for Jimbo, and Harper was just coming along for the ride.
Just as she had reached the jeep, Elise slipped on the wet ground, and Harper had grabbed her arm to steady her.
Both of them were drenched, panting from adrenaline, and acutely aware of just how close they were to each other.
There was a moment when they both stared at each other’s lips, but then Harper had let Elise go.
She had thrown herself into the jeep. Elise had followed, slamming the door behind her, and just like that, the moment was gone.
But the memory had never left.
Elise exhaled and folded into warrior pose, arms reaching to the sky.
She counted to five, then flowed into triangle pose and stretched out her sides before easing into a low lunge.
Her calves warmed on the sunbaked limestone, and for a glorious second, she felt grounded.
In control. There was no reason today couldn’t go off without a hitch.
They’d managed to do the rest of the introductions last night, minus the jasmine arch.
The post-introduction cocktail party had taken place in the room with the yellow sofas, which Elise had generously called the flashy room.
Megan had seemed happy. The ten contestants too.
And Elise had skillfully avoided Harper for the rest of the night.
Which meant that by the time she got to her bed, she was both physically and mentally exhausted.
Her alarm suddenly buzzed. “Shit,” Elise muttered under her breath.
She rose and squinted against the sun. The ocean was sparkly.
The boats careened across its surface; they barely looked like they were moving.
She considered a second coffee before finishing up and heading up to the villa.
The thought instantly lifted her spirits, or at least enough to give a kick in her step as she yanked open the sliding door that she had closed to keep the blessedly cool air-conditioned air inside.
But just as she stepped into the small living room, she nearly collided with air itself.
Harper was perched on one of the stools.
Elise’s knees wobbled like jelly, and it had nothing to do with the brief yoga session she’d just done.
“How the hell did you get in here?” she spluttered, snapping her head to the front door.
Had she not locked it? What kind of fool doesn’t lock their front door?
But then she remembered how tired she had been the night before.
It was late when she’d gotten in, and, yes, maybe there was the slightest chance she’d forgotten to lock it.
“Never mind,” she said quickly, pointing to the front door. “You have to go. Now. I don’t want to see you.”
“I don’t understand why you’re so angry,” Harper said gently, rising from the stool.
But she didn’t walk toward Elise. Thank goodness. Elise wasn’t above throwing a decorative throw pillow at her face if Harper took even one step closer. Especially after that question. Maybe she was a little angry. Fear disguised as anger, yes that’s what it was.
Well, Harper, maybe because you left the morning after we slept together, maybe because you slipped out of my tent before sunrise, leaving nothing behind but a cool dent in my pillow and your half-empty water bottle you ran back to fetch.
No note. No goodbye. No phone call. Just a ridiculous postcard six months later with a photo of you and Harry, smiling outside Fitzrovia Chapel.
Meanwhile, I tried to convince myself I hadn’t imagined everything that happened between us.
But Elise didn’t explain herself. If Harper hadn’t understood it back then, she wasn’t so sure she’d understand it now.
“Why are you here?” Elise asked, folding her arms tightly over her chest. She’d skipped the bra this morning and regretted it. Her nipple stand was out of this world.
Harper raised one eyebrow. That eyebrow. The same infuriating little lift she’d perfected years ago. The one that used to make Elise’s stomach drop straight to her dust-covered boots. “I needed the job,” she said plainly.
That was absolute bullshit. Two months ago—Elise remembered because she’d read the article after a Merlot-fueled Google spiral, the kind that only happened when a rom-com blindsided her into questioning her entire life—Harper had just wrapped up a National Geographic expedition documenting the migration routes of desert elephants in Mali.
“Why are you lying?” Elise asked as she rubbed her forehead. She wasn’t sure if it was itchy or if her muscles were spasming out. “You have a job. Your dream job. The job that you always wanted.”
Harper opened her mouth and inhaled softly. It had been ten years since Elise had last seen her, but she still knew her well enough to recognize the warning sign. Harper Angel was about to spew some polished half-truth.
Elise cut her off before she could do it. “Where is your ring? What happened between you and Harry? Are you divorced? Is that why you’re here?”
“That’s a lot of questions,” Harper said as her right hand automatically reached for her empty ring finger. She caught Elise staring and dropped both arms to her sides.
“Yes, well, I need a lot of answers,” Elise replied. Her legs felt strangely hollow, like someone had scooped out the bones. “And you better start talking before I call security and tell them you broke into my house.”
“The door was unlocked.”
“I don’t care,” Elise spat.
“Fine,” Harper said. She leaned with her back against the kitchen countertop and crossed one leg over the other.
Elise’s mind nearly hurled her into yet another memory: Harper in khaki shorts with long golden-brown legs dangling off the side of a dust-covered Land Cruiser, looking at Elise like she was the only person around for ten thousand miles. But she blinked the memory away so fast her eyes watered.
“Harry and I got divorced,” Harper said, her voice steady.
“Why?” Elise asked, not missing a beat.
“I think you know,” Harper said, staring so hard at Elise that she had to look away. “I think you’ve always known why it wouldn’t work out between Harry and me.”
Elise, whose gaze was fixed on the sunbaked tiles of the living room, shook her head. She wanted to argue and say, “Don’t pin this on me,” but no words came out.
“Maybe it’s the same reason you’ve been married and divorced twice,” Harper said, her voice far softer now.
She even took a step forward, which automatically made Elise take a step back.
It was imperative that they kept their distance from each other.
Elise couldn’t imagine what would happen if they didn’t.
She’d gotten a whiff of Harper’s shampoo yesterday during the whole debacle with the jasmine arch, and that had done enough damage already.
“My previous marriages have nothing to do with you,” Elise snapped a little too aggressively.
Elise couldn’t deny that Harper was partly right.
Elise’s first marriage, to Michael Lockridge, an indie filmmaker with devastating cheekbones and a Sundance ego, had crumbled within eleven months.
Elise blamed both their busy schedules. Her second, to Daniel Angus, a Michelin chef from Santa Barbara, who had won her over with his perfectly braised short ribs in red wine and porcini reduction, had ended only three months in when Elise realized he was sleeping with his sous chef.
They’d all died prematurely because of differences Elise had chosen to ignore.
Not because of Harper. Not because Elise had been trying to force a life with men.
“Are you sure?” Harper said. “Maybe they failed because you were trying to fit your life into a shape it wasn’t meant to ha—”
“Is that what happened to you?” Elise interrupted, though she knew the answer. Harper wouldn’t be standing in front of her, calm as a cat, asking her these impossible questions if she hadn’t already figured out exactly who she was. “Are you…” But she couldn’t get her lips to form the L word.
“Lesbian,” Harper thankfully completed the sentence for her.
She took a step forward, but this time Elise didn’t back away.
She didn’t have anywhere to go but the balcony.
Falling over the railing onto hard rocks suddenly sounded like a perfectly reasonable plan. “And yes,” she said. “I am a lesbian.”
“Well, I’m not,” Elise said so quickly that she wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince.
Harper? Herself? Or perhaps the tiny little voice in her chest that had been screaming gibberish all those years.
No, Elise decided. She was not a lesbian.
“I want you to leave. Please,” she said as she headed for the door and flung it open.
“There’s nothing I can do to change the fact Stanley hired you as photographer, but I do ask you, out of respect for me, to stay out of my way for the duration of the show. ”
Harper looked like she wanted to argue. She raised both of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows skyward. But then, to Elise’s huge relief, she gave the tiniest of nods, turned and walked out the front door.
Once the door shut, Elise leaned against it and allowed her legs to give out.