Chapter 12
Nate
I wake up to Harper's mouth on my neck and her hand sliding down my stomach with clear intent.
"Morning," she murmurs against my skin.
"Very good morning." My voice comes out rough as her hand explores. "Though technically it's noon."
"Three times," she says, nipping at my collarbone. "Four if you count the shower."
"The shower definitely counts." I catch her wandering hand, bringing it to my lips. "Going for five?"
"We should eat. Talk about... things." But she's pressing closer, legs tangling with mine.
"Things?" I'm kissing down her throat now, feeling her pulse race under my lips.
"Like where my clothes are. How this is going to work. Real life stuff."
I pause, pulling back to look at her. She's sprawled beside me, hair everywhere, and the sight makes rational thought difficult.
"Right. Real life." I trace her cheek with my thumb, trying to be responsible. "You probably want to keep your place."
"For now," she agrees, then pulls me back down. "But that's a later problem."
Twenty minutes later, we actually make it to the kitchen. Harper's perched on the counter in my shirt and nothing else, stealing bacon as I cook, while Duke watches with what I swear is judgment.
"So what happens now?" Harper asks, swinging her bare legs.
I flip the eggs, considering. "Now we figure it out as we go."
"That simple?"
"Why not? We wake up at whoever's place. We eat breakfast. We go to work. We see each other every day. No more avoiding, no more pretending."
She steals another piece of bacon. "I should probably get actual clothes at some point. Can't go out like this."
"Strongly disagree." I step between her legs, hands on her thighs. "You should absolutely go everywhere like this."
"Nate." But she's grinning, wrapping her arms around my neck.
"Okay, fine. Clothes. Your place. Acting like adults." I kiss her, tasting bacon on her lips. "But not yet?"
"Not yet," she agrees.
Duke's heavy sigh makes us both laugh.
"Even the dog thinks we need supervision," Harper says.
"The dog's right." I serve the eggs onto plates. "Food first, then we'll go get some of your things."
"Look at us being responsible adults."
"Don't get used to it." I hand her a plate. "I plan to be very irresponsible with you later."
"Promises, promises."
We eat in my kitchen, her still on the counter, me between her legs, talking about nothing and everything. Her toothbrush at my place. My clothes at hers. Whose bed is more comfortable (mine). Whose shower is better (hers). The mundane logistics of two lives becoming one again.
"I should call the Post," she says eventually, setting down her empty plate. "No point waiting until Monday."
"Want privacy?"
"No." She pulls me closer. "Stay. I want you here for this."
She dials, and I can hear David Reynolds answer. Harper takes a breath.
"Mr. Reynolds? It's Harper Lane. About the position..." She looks at me, smile spreading across her face. "Thank you so much for the opportunity, but I'm declining. I've decided on a different path. My life is here."
I can hear Reynolds trying to convince her, mentioning salary, benefits, prestige. Harper just keeps smiling.
"I understand, and I'm truly grateful. But my decision is final." She pauses. "Yes, I'm sure. Very sure."
When she hangs up, I'm looking at her with what's probably a ridiculously sappy expression.
"What?" she asks.
"You really chose to stay."
"I really chose us," she corrects, pulling me in for a kiss. "Now, about getting my clothes..."
"Or," I suggest, "we could just stay here a little longer."
"Or that," she agrees, and Duke sighs again as we ignore responsibility for just a bit longer.
We've got time now. All the time in the world.
By the time we make it to June's bakery—after stopping at Harper's house where she changed into jeans and a sweater while I tried not to get distracted by watching her—it's nearly two in the afternoon.
The lunch rush is over, but the usual gossips are still lingering over coffee before June shuts up shop for the day.
The bell chimes as we walk in, and conversation stops. Every head turns. Mrs. Morrison's coffee cup freezes halfway to her mouth.
"Well," she says, taking in our joined hands, Harper's thoroughly kissed lips, my inability to stop grinning. "About damn time."
The bakery erupts. June actually screams, vaulting over the counter in a move that shouldn't be possible in her frilly apron.
"Finally! FINALLY!" She's hugging Harper, then me, then both of us at once. "Do you know how many stress cookies I've made about you two?!"
"A lot?" Harper guesses, laughing as June squeezes her tighter.
"All the cookies. Every cookie has been a stress cookie." June pulls back, beaming. "Free pastries for life. Both of you. I'm so happy I could cry."
"You are crying," I point out.
"Happy tears don't count."
The bell chimes again and Maya walks in, takes one look at us, and fist-pumps the air. "Ha! Lucas owes me fifty bucks."
"You bet on us?" Harper asks.
"Everyone bet on you. The whole town has a pool going." Maya grins, joining June's attack hug. "I had this weekend. Lucas thought it would take until Christmas."
"There's a town pool about our relationship?" I'm torn between horrified and amused.
"Multiple pools," Mrs. Morrison corrects. "When you'd get back together, when you'd get engaged, when the first baby would come."
"Mrs. Morrison!" Harper's face goes crimson.
"What? It's Willowbridge. We have to entertain ourselves somehow." She winks. "I have February for the engagement, by the way. Don't let me down."
My phone buzzes. Bill's name flashes on the screen.
"Harper's article about your program just went live online," he says when I answer on speaker. "I need to speak with her about her writing."
"Is something wrong?" Harper leans closer to the phone.
"Wrong? Harper, this piece... it reads like a love letter disguised as journalism. It's beautiful. Raw. Completely inappropriate for a standard agricultural article."
Harper's face falls. "I'm sorry, I can rewrite—"
"Don't you dare change a word. This is exactly what we need. Human interest, real emotion. The paper's website is already getting record traffic."
"Though next time, maybe try to hide that you're in love with your subject?" He pauses. "Or don't. Apparently, it sells papers."
Harper looks at me, biting her lip to hold back a smile. "That's because it was."
"Was what?" Bill asks.
"A love letter. The whole thing. Every word."
Silence, then Bill's laugh booms through the phone. "At least you're honest. Get me a follow-up piece by Friday. Maybe try for slightly less obvious pining?"
"No promises," Harper says, and hangs up.
June slides a box of pastries across the counter. "On the house. For the entertainment value alone."
"We weren't entertainment," I protest.
"Six months of watching you two circle each other like idiots? That's better than cable." She grins. "Now go be disgustingly happy somewhere else. You're making my single customers jealous."
We leave with our arms full of free pastries and the sound of the town gossip network already spreading the news. By tonight, everyone in Willowbridge will know.
Good. Let them know. Harper Lane is mine, I'm hers, and we're done pretending otherwise.
***
Tuesday afternoon, two months into our fresh start, I'm building Harper's third bookshelf when Maya's car pulls up, Harper pulling up soon after, both cars loaded with boxes.
"Finally making it official?" I call from the porch, trying not to look as stupidly happy as I feel.
"My house has turned into an expensive storage unit," Harper says, but she's grinning. "And someone measured my book collection while I was sleeping."
"You have a lot of books. I needed data."
Maya rolls her eyes. "He's had half your stuff here for weeks, Harper. Just admit you live here."
It's true. Harper's migration has been gradual but steady—toothbrush, then pajamas, then half her wardrobe. I cleared one drawer, then another, then half the closet without discussing it. Built these bookshelves over the past three weekends while she was at June's or working.
"I can't believe you built all these shelves," Harper says, running her hand along the smooth wood.
"You needed a proper home for them."
"When did you even have time?"
"While you were at June's on Saturdays. Lucas helped."
"Lucas was in on this?"
"The whole town's been waiting for you to officially move in. Mrs. Henderson asked me yesterday if you'd changed your mailing address yet."
Maya snorts. "This town and its gossip network."
Harper chuckles, then looks at me. "You really want this? Me here all the time? Not just staying over?"
"Harper, I've wanted this since the day I came back to town."
Maya makes a gagging noise. "You two are disgusting. Where do these boxes go?"
We spend the next hour carrying in Harper's life—her books, her grandmother's quilt, the coffee maker she insists is better than mine. Duke supervises, tail wagging, already treating Harper like she's always been here.
"This is happening fast," Harper says suddenly, standing in what's now our living room, surrounded by boxes.
My chest tightens. "We can slow down. Keep your house longer—"
"No." She cuts me off. "I'm done with slow. I want this." She looks around—at Duke, at the farmhouse, at me. "All of it."
"All of it," I agree, pulling her against me despite Maya's exaggerated groaning.
Her books look perfect on the shelves I built. Her grandmother's quilt transforms our bed. Her favorite mug sits next to mine like it was always meant to be there.
"Welcome home," I tell her.
"Been home for a while," she admits. "Just finally admitting it."
Duke barks agreement, and Maya heads out with threats to tell everyone in town that we're officially living in sin.
Let her tell them. Harper Lane lives here now. With me. In our house.
Everything feels right. Finally, completely right.
***