7. Harrison
7
HARRISON
I wake, hoping to escape running into Daisy if at all possible.
And then I arrive downstairs to discover her naked on my balcony. “I do not need this shit,” I mutter to myself, and even after she stands up and I realize she’s not nude—she simply appears to be, thanks to taupe leggings and a matching bra—I remain pissed off.
I bet every goddamn surfer outside is doing a double take and then a third. I’m surprised car crashes haven’t occurred, bikers haven’t collided, small aircraft haven’t fallen from the sky. Seriously…it’s just a matter of time.
She walks in before I can demand it of her, thank God. “Good morning, sunshine,” she sings, taking a seat at the counter. Apparently, she’s cold quite often. I can once again see her nipples clear as day.
I grunt something unintelligible in response, trying not to look at her as I make my coffee. “Start wearing more clothes when you’re doing yoga. I don’t need people asking questions about the naked woman on my balcony.”
She rolls her eyes. “First of all, I’m not naked. Secondly, I’m not doing yoga. Third, if the neighbors did notice they’d obviously think this was some kind of monetary situation, and I sort of like being thought of as a sugar baby.”
I set my mug down on the counter slightly too hard. I’m irritated and also…something else I don’t want to put words to. There shouldn’t be this stirring in my gut when she suggests whatever’s going on here is sexual. “This might come as a surprise, Daisy, but I don’t want to be thought of as a man who has to pay for female companionship, especially from someone who’s barely legal.”
She laughs. “I was kidding, obviously. No one is going to think you’d need to pay for it. You could get laid ten ways from Sunday anytime you wanted with anyone you wanted.” She starts walking toward the stairs. “But I’m not interested in wearing more clothes, so learn to live with it.”
I can’t even come up with a response.
Mostly because I’m still stuck on her saying I could get laid by anyone I want.
Jesus fucking Christ. I absolutely have to get her out of my home.
Work has been awkward since I returned. Daisy’s presence in my life makes it the closest thing I’ve got to a comfort zone, but it’s still uncomfortable as fuck.
Six months ago, I was the golden boy—the youngest partner and the top-earning one—and then I put half of our stuff in storage and shipped the rest overseas, sold our house, and quit my job, all to save a failing marriage. The office threw me a London-themed goodbye party, complete with tea cakes and tiny flags, and off I flew, halfway across the world.
Daisy’s carping about a few drinks when she has no clue how hard it was to get where I am now. To return to my old firm with my tail between my legs admitting I’d failed, after I’d already handed off every client to someone else. It doesn’t matter what excuse I gave about why I’m back: all anyone can see is that I fucked up. It’s all I can see too.
I know she means well—even as a little kid, Daisy had a big heart. She’d weep over the three-legged dog that came to the beach. She’d hand her lunch to the first homeless guy she saw at the wharf. But the one thing she can do to improve my situation is to leave me alone, and I can’t keep waiting for her to realize it.
I’ve been giving it some thought, and while I appreciate what you’re trying to do, I also really value my privacy. You need to go back to your mom’s house. Things with Scott will work out.
Daisy
Hmmm…let me think.
Okay, I’ve thought. And I’m staying.
If you need a place to stay, I’ll help you find something. I’ll even pay for it.
Will it be an oceanfront home looking over the Horseshoe? Because I’m kind of liking it right where I am.
Look, I work from home in the evening, and that information is privileged. I can’t make calls if you’re there listening. You need to leave.
I’ll go on the balcony while you make your calls *if* you’re actually making calls, which I doubt.
My calls can take hours. You’re not going to want to sit out there for hours.
Sure I will. Wearing my most revealing clothing. If the neighbors ask why I’m there, I’ll tell them you make me stand outside when I’ve been a bad, bad girl. They’ll understand.
And there it is, once again—my muscles tensing, a thrill up my spine, all the blood in my body flowing south, exactly where I don’t want it, over someone it shouldn’t flow for at all.
I snarl as I shut down my phone and return to working on behalf of the handful of clients I’ve gotten back since I returned to the office. The work is dull, but then again…it was always dull. The most exciting client I’ve got at present is a guy who wants his neighbor’s tree house torn down. And it’s still preferable to dealing with Daisy, but eventually, I’ve got to go home.
She’s curled up on the couch under a blanket, watching TV, but pauses her show when I walk in. “You’re home late,” she says.
I look at my watch. “It’s only nine .”
“You left at seven-thirty, Harrison. You can’t possibly think that’s a reasonable number of hours to work.”
I throw my keys on the counter. “I can see where that might seem excessive to someone currently working zero hours.” I grab a glass and uncap the bourbon, which she watches with a brow raised.
I exhale wearily. “Don’t start. You yourself pointed out what a long day I had. I need this to decompress, or I’ll never fall asleep.”
I take a long sip, relishing the heat as it flows through my chest. Already I’m better, more level.
“Some people would argue that if you need to slam bourbon at nine at night to decompress, there are other things about your life that need changing.”
My tongue prods my cheek. “Some people would argue that no twenty-one-year-old should be as uptight and judgmental as you are. How has some lucky guy not locked you down yet? ”
She turns away, but not before something flashes across her face. I can’t begin to imagine why that hurt her. She isn’t even old enough to be locked down.
I take another long sip. “It was a joke, Daisy.”
“I know,” she replies, but she’s more subdued than she was before.
Guilt squeezes my chest, and again—this is bullshit. I don’t need to feel excessive guilt about an innocuous statement made to the woman who’s blackmailing me.
“Did you eat?” she asks. “There’s chicken tikka in the fridge. Doesn’t that make you glad I’m staying here?”
I sigh. Jesus Christ…why won’t she let this go? “No. And I need you out of here by tomorrow.”
“I need a million dollars and a breast reduction,” she replies. “And those aren’t likely to happen either.”
I flinch, wishing I’d never even noticed she has breasts, but since I have…why the fuck would she want a reduction? Her breasts are a gift from God, a gift millions of women would pay good money for, and it would be a tragedy to—
Stop, Harrison. Stop thinking about her breasts, in any capacity.
I get the chicken out of the fridge, and a minute later, when I’ve pulled it from the microwave and the whole kitchen is redolent with the smell of tomatoes and garam masala, I’m suddenly famished. I unknot my tie, roll up my shirtsleeves, and groan as I take my first bite.
“Thanks,” I grunt as she walks over to the counter. “But you don’t have to cook, you know.”
She bites down on a smile. “I thought it would help convince you not to make me sit on the balcony for hours while you take your work calls.”
“You’re fully dressed, for once, so apparently I wasn’t the only one bluffing.”
She rises, pulling her sweatshirt off and standing in front of me in nothing but leggings and a bra—blue again. “Not bluffing at all.”
She sashays outside, her hips swaying, and leans suggestively over the railing of the deck as she calls to someone out on the street.
I grab my phone, the chicken, and my bourbon, and walk quickly to my room. I swear to God that I will not think about her bent over in those pants. I definitely won’t think about those pants pulled down to her knees.
But if it did happen, it would be nothing I could stand to admit, even to myself.