Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
HARLOW
Stepping into the parlour, I flip the light switch on, illuminating the room. In the corner, the grand piano commands attention—a beautiful instrument I’ve longed to play since my arrival. Its sleek black surface gleams under the soft overhead light, and I’ve often wondered if anyone in the family can actually play it. I suspect it’s more for decoration, as neither Sterling nor Robert has ever mentioned any musical talent. To be honest, my brief conversations with Sterling have rarely strayed into personal interests. It feels like whenever we're in the same space, the air crackles with tension and an intense attraction. Small talk is the last thing on our minds.
Maybe stepping in here wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had, but I’ve spent the last four days alone, driving myself crazy thinking about Sterling, and I need a way to channel my frustrations. Playing the piano seems like a better way to do that than going for a swim. I’d rather avoid the temptation of being practically naked in the pool with Sterling again. That’s if he ever decides to show his face.
Besides, writing lyrics and crafting melodies is cathartic for me, and after playing the piano at The Cosy Chord the other day, I’ve decided I’m not going to repress that part of me anymore.
As I settle onto the piano stool, my fingers hovering over the keys for a moment, the familiar feeling of anticipation bubbles up within me, providing me with a much needed distraction.
Pressing my fingers lightly against the keys, I start with a gentle melody, something soft and introspective. The sound fills the room, and for a brief moment, I forget my worries, lost so completely to the music.
Then I feel it—someone watching me intensely, and I know without looking up that it’s Sterling.
The same familiar thrill rushes over my skin and my fingers stumble over keys, caught off guard by the way his presence shifts the atmosphere, the connection we share snapping to life as I glance over at him leaning against the doorframe. His arms are crossed as he watches me with a brooding kind of intensity that has my pulse quickening. Dressed in tailored black trousers, a white shirt rolled up to his elbows, with his tie loosened around his neck, he’s the perfect combination of masculinity and effortless beauty that draws me in like gravity, making it impossible to look away. Knowing that the engagement party is tonight, I briefly wonder why he left so early given it’s only just past ten o’clock.
“Don’t stop,” he murmurs.
“But shouldn’t you be–”
“Please, Harlow. Play ,” he demands softly, his gaze piercing yet contemplative as he pushes off the doorframe and approaches on bare feet.
The slight creak of the floorboards beneath his weight echoes in the sudden stillness of the room as he settles beside me on the piano stool, our knees nearly touching. I can feel the heat radiating from him as I press my fingers against the keys, forcing myself not to glance at him. I can sense his curiosity in the way he studies me, and it makes my heart race as I play once more.
"What are you playing?" he asks after a while, his voice low and smooth like the melody that lingers in the air between us. I’m acutely aware of how close he is, the scent of his cologne mingling with the fragrance of polished wood and ivory keys. “I don’t know this melody, is this something you wrote?” he asks.
I hesitate, my instinct to retreat kicking in. I’m so used to being belittled by my mother that my immediate reaction is to leave, to protect myself from the pain of being ridiculed for my art. With Blake, whilst still nervous, I’d felt a surprising sense of calm, and that’s probably because he’s a musician too, but also because I’d played a tune that wasn’t mine. This is way more personal since the melody is something I’ve written.
“Harlow?” he insists, reaching for me, his fingers barely grazing against my wrist, before dropping away.
“Yes,” I finally admit, biting my lip. “I wrote this.”
“It’s beautiful,” he replies, his tone gentle as I risk another glance at him, his gaze shifting from an almost pained kind of longing to a curious interest.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Will you play some more?” he asks.
“I think maybe I should–”
“Because I just need a moment to figure something out,” he interjects.
“Figure out what?” I ask as a strange, unreadable expression passes over his features.
He lifts his hand, rubbing the back of his neck, the muscles in his forearm flexing and relaxing beneath his skin as he does so. I’ve always found a man’s forearms and hands attractive, especially when they’re as strong and as veiny as Sterling’s are. Arm porn , I muse, then internally berate myself for even going there.
“If I can do this …” he says pointedly.
“Do what?”
“Be in the same room as you and not want to pull you into my arms and kiss you until both of our knees are weak,” he blurts out, his arm falling back to his side.
“You want to kiss me?”
“I want to do much more than that, Harlow, but I’m trying very hard to respect your wishes,” he admits, and I don’t know what’s more devastatingly attractive, the fact that he’s holding himself back and respecting my wishes–which are shaky at best–or the smile he gives me that reveals those two beautiful dimples in his cheeks.
“Then I guess I should distract you, huh?” I reply as I begin to play once more.
“Hmm,” he hums, both of us aware that we’re stepping into flirtatious territory, and neither of us doing a damn thing to stop it.
After a minute or so, I can feel Sterling leaning closer, each note seeming to draw him in like a thread weaving us closer together. He begins to tremble, his fingers curling into fists as I let the music swell.
“Sterling?” I question, confused by his physical reaction, by the way he seems to study me.
“Keep playing,” he replies, his voice rough as his fingers grip his thigh.
“Okay,” I reply softly, pouring my emotions into the melody. I’m fully aware that this is dangerous, that I should get up and leave, but yet again I can’t seem to bring myself to do that.
“Did you play this for Blake?” he asks after a while, and there’s a note of jealousy in his voice that should be a huge red flag, but only makes me feel more desired.
“You know about that?”
“Ben told me. So did you?”
“I played an Elton John song, so no I didn’t play this for Blake,” I reply softly.
“Do you ever share the music you’ve written with others?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
I shake my head, a faint laugh escaping my lips as my fingers move over the keys. “Honestly, no. I usually keep it to myself. My music is…”
“Personal to you?” he offers.
“Yes, very much so.”
He shifts slightly, turning to face me as his knee brushes against my thigh. “Then why are you sharing it with me?”
“Because you were the first person to truly see me and not make me feel like my dreams are pointless, or worse, that I’m just not good enough.”
He takes a breath, and I can feel the tension between us charging the air with something electric. “You have this light, Harlow, a vibrancy. It’s hard not to notice. Fuck, you’ve no idea how you affect me.”
Not entirely sure how to respond to that without giving in and throwing myself into his arms, I continue to play, letting the music flow around us both as the room fills with a rich, resonant sound. I don’t sing, mainly because I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to share the lyrics given how personal they are. For now, I just allow myself to be swept away by the melody, soaking up Sterling’s attention as he listens intently. Then, as the final notes drift into silence, I rest my hands in my lap, and wait.
“That was… Wow, Harlow!” Sterling breathes, his expression a mix of admiration and something deeper, something that sends my pulse racing as our gazes clash. For one long, heart-pounding moment we stare at each other, but when he leans closer, I shift away from him, putting space between us.
“Do you play?” I blurt out.
“I’m guessing chopsticks don't count?” he replies with a rueful grin.
“Not really, no,” I agree with a light laugh. “What about Robert?”
He shakes his head, his smile dropping “Definitely not. To be able to play a musical instrument you need to be able to feel a variety of emotions, and my father is only capable of hate, loathing and disgust.”
“That sounds ominous.”
Sterling scrapes a hand through his hair and lets out an even breath. “I could lie to you and say that the issues I have with my father are mine alone, but I’m not going to do that, Harlow. He hurts people, and he gets a kick out of doing it.”
“Are you talking about your mom?”
He nods, and without thinking about it, I reach for his hand and place mine over the top. It’s meant to be an affectionate gesture, one to show solidarity and support, but the second our hands meet that spark that always lingers between us burns brighter.
“Not just her,” Sterling replies, turning his hand beneath mine so that we’re palm to palm.
“Has he hurt you very badly?” I ask, my breath catching as he weaves his fingers with mine, and brushes his thumb over my knuckles.
“Put it this way, Ben’s dad has been more of a father to me than my own over the years,” he replies. “I’ve always been a disappointment, and I’ve certainly never lived up to my father’s expectations. He has gone out of his way to make sure that I know exactly how he feels about me, and none of it is good.”
“I’m sorry, Sterling. I didn’t think he was that kind of man.”
“Believe me when I say, my father is adept at manipulation, at making himself look the pillar of the community when deep down he’s a master of deceit. He uses charm to mask his cruelty, playing the role of the perfect father and husband in public, whilst behind closed doors he’s cruel and unyielding. It’s exhausting to navigate the facade he maintains, and even more exhausting to constantly question my own worth in the process.”
“I had no idea. I’m so sorry,” I repeat.
“You’ve nothing to apologise for. Just, please , be cautious when it comes to trusting my father.”
“Should I be worrying about my mom?”
“I wish I could tell you that he’ll make her happy, but truthfully there will come a time when he’ll break her just like he broke my mother. Just like he breaks everything he touches.”
“That doesn’t feel good to hear,” I admit, because whilst my relationship with my mother is far from perfect, I don’t want her to get hurt.
“From what you’ve told me, she hasn’t been the best mother to you either. Perhaps they deserve each other.”
I know he’s right, and I hate the fact that despite everything she’s done and said to me over the years, I still miss the mom I used to have. I wish I didn’t care about her the way I do, but I can’t help it. Instead I ask, “So why are you still here? Why haven’t you returned to your life in New York?”
“I thought by now I’ve made that pretty obvious, Harlow. There’s only one reason that I’m staying, and that reason is you.”
“Sterling, no,” I reply as firmly as I can muster whilst withdrawing my hand from beneath his. “You need to go back to your life in New York, to your job…” I pause, realising that I don’t even know what he does for a living. There are a lot of things I don’t know about Sterling.
“Don’t tell me no,” he counters roughly, catching my wrist as I stand, deciding that it’s probably time I left before things get too heated between us.
“We’ve been through this already,” I reply, looking down at him, and resisting the urge to run my fingers through his hair. “Besides, even if our parents weren’t married and we could be together, I still don’t really know anything about you. So what does that tell you about us?”
“It tells me that we’ve been wasting time avoiding each other when we should’ve used this time to get to know each other better.”
“I don’t even know what you do for a living!” I blurt out, my voice rising in pitch as I struggle with my conflicting emotions. One minute I want to throw myself into his arms, and the next I want to put a stop to this once and for all.
“I work in the arts,” he replies. “Next question.”
“I’m not playing this game,” I reply, trying to tug my wrist free from his grasp.
“Next question, Harlow,” he demands, reaching up for me with his free hand, and grasping my hip as he tugs me closer until I somehow end up trapped between his legs and pressed up against the piano, his muscular thighs preventing me from leaving as he looks up at me.
“I told you I’m not playing this game,” I repeat, folding my arms across my chest and turning my face away from him.
“Would you rather we don’t talk at all?” he asks, his hand squeezing my hip before coasting downwards and sliding around the back of my leg, cupping the point where my arse and thigh meet. His fingers wrap around the fleshiest part of my leg, centimetres away from my core. The only material between us is the thin cotton of my joggers, and panties.
Fuck .
“Fine. How was the engagement party?” I ask, treacherous heat building in my core.
“It would’ve been a hell of a lot better if I had you by my side. But we both know that would’ve been a mistake because, apparently, I can’t keep my hands off you,” he says, his fingers flexing against my thigh. “Next question.”
“What’s your favourite colour?” I blurt out, hoping to move on to safer topics.
“I told you before, berry red.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Right now I’m pretty sure my cheeks are berry red as I recall the intimate part of my anatomy he likened to the same colour that night we slept together. A smile pulls up his lip as he notices the stain of colour creeping across my skin.
“Anything else you’d like to know?”
“How long have you been best friends with Ben?” I ask, clearing my throat and rapidly changing the subject as I look down at him.
“Since we were toddlers.”
“And what about Drix and Dalton?”
“They're older than us both by about five years so we didn’t really start getting close until Ben and I were in our late teens. We bonded over whisky and fast cars, whilst our dad’s bonded over business and the billions they had in their bank accounts.”
“And how long have you lived in New York?”
“I don’t live there anymore, Harlow. I live here, with you .”
“You can’t just drop everything for me, Sterling. You’ve built a life there–” I begin, but he cuts me off with a shake of his head.
“I’ve been living in New York, that’s not the same thing as having a life there.”
“What do you mean by that? You have friends, right? What about your work colleagues? Your apartment? You can’t just not go back.”
“I told you I was a loner, and I meant it. I can count on one hand the friends I have, and all of them are here in Princetown. Besides, my apartment is on a year’s lease. It has three months left. I have no desire to return there.”
I huff out a breath, hating that he’s been so isolated, so alone. “And your work?”
“I can do that wherever I live.”
“What is it that you do exactly?”
“I told you, I’m in the arts.”
“That’s very non-specific.”
He shrugs. “I deal with paintings.”
“So you’re an art dealer.”
“Pretty much,” he agrees.
“So why choose New York?”
“It was as good a place as any.”
“Sterling,” I warn, sensing that he’s keeping things from me. “Why do I feel like you’re hiding something?”
“Would you prefer it if I said what’s really on my mind?” he counters, his gaze heating dangerously.
“Perhaps not,” I mutter, trying to ease myself out of his hold, but he just stands, the stool toppling over behind him from the force as he braces his hands either side of my body on the lid of the piano.
“Because the truth is, no matter what excuses you come up with about why we shouldn’t be together, I’m not letting you go. I refuse,” he says, inching closer.
“Sterling…”
“You can try to tell me that we don’t know each other well enough, and to that I would say that we have years to get to know each other because, again, I’m not letting you go.”
“This is–”
“You can tell me that this connection between us is wrong, and I will answer it the same way each time: you’re mine, and nothing and no one is going to change that.”
“Yours?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not–”
He growls, actually fucking growls as he reaches up and cups my throat, his long, thick fingers holding me with a possession that should scare me, but doesn’t. Why doesn’t it? I honestly don’t have an answer to that, all I know is that I feel his dominance in this hold, his absolute determination to make me understand that he’s not backing down, that he wants me, and there is something incredibly attractive about that. I’m the object of his attention, his desire, and for most of my adult life that hasn’t been the case.
“Once again, let me make something perfectly clear. I don’t care that our parents are married. You are not my sister, Harlow. You are the woman I want, irrespective of how that may or may not affect others.”
“Stop this. Stop it right now,” I say, trying to push him away but he leans over me, the action making me sit on the keys, the random, disjointed notes only adding to the intensity of the moment.
“No, I won’t. You wanted honesty, you’re going to get it,” he replies, sliding his hand from around my neck to the back of my head as grabs a fistful of hair, tugging on it so that I’m forced to look up at him. “I want you. There is nothing that you can say or do that will change that fact. I want there to be an us.”
“And what about what I want?” I ask, my breath hitching not from fear, but from excitement.
“You want me, at least be honest about that,” he states.
I do. I really, really do.
“No,” I say instead, and maybe my defiance isn’t just a knee-jerk reaction to his chest-beating possessiveness, maybe it’s because a part of me wants to see what will happen if I push his buttons. Maybe I want his hand back around my throat and that gleam of possession in his eyes.
“Liar,” he bites out before slamming his lips against mine and claiming my mouth in a searing kiss.
God this kiss.
It makes me weak.
Every protest I had, every argument against why we shouldn’t be doing this, why we can’t be together evaporates. This kiss is passionate, yes, but it’s also filled with so much more than lust for one another, there’s a sweet kind of forgiveness, a heart-thumping kind of honesty, and a deep kind of understanding.
“You are becoming everything to me, Harlow,” he admits against my lips.
For a fraction of a second, my heart stops beating. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me,” he replies, pressing another soft kiss against my lips.
“Sterling…”
“I mean it, Harlow.”
“But you don’t know me, not really,” I protest softly.
“I know you,” he replies, shifting back slightly. “I know that I can’t look at you without wanting to bury myself deep inside of you because that’s the only time I’ve ever felt at home. I know that you’re an incredibly talented artist. I know that your voice bewitches me every time I hear you sing. I know that you’re a gifted pianist who hides her talent from everyone because your mother has only ever made you feel like you’re not good enough. I recognise the pain you carry from a parent who hasn’t loved you the right way, because I feel that too.”
“Sterling, don’t,” I whisper.
“I know that you hide your light because if you didn’t you’d outshine everyone around you. I know that you’re so selfless that you will forgo your own dreams and desires to protect your mother’s ego. I know that you have tried so hard to fight this connection between us because you’re afraid of hurting people who don’t deserve it. But I also know that the way we feel about each other is stronger than fear, that I have faith we can make this work somehow. I know that you’ve never felt seen, not truly, not for everything and all that you are.” Palming my cheeks gently, he adds, “And I know that I see you, that I want you.”
“But–” My chest heaves as heat rises up my chest and neck.
“So, while I may not know your favourite colour or the names of the friends you grew up with,” he says, cutting me off. “I do know you. I know the parts that matter the most, and please believe me when I say that you are worthy of affection, of support, of encouragement and kindness. You don’t have to settle for anything less than real connection, and you no longer have to feel the rejection of selfish men who don’t truly see you. You deserve to be desired, to feel cherished in every way, and I want to be the man to give that to you. I want to be the one to show you that. Me .”
“I don’t know what to say,” I reply softly, feeling overwhelmed, still not entirely believing his words despite everything he’s said.
“You don’t have to say anything, you just have to believe me,” he replies before pressing his hips against mine, palming my cheeks and kissing me breathless.