5. Harper
5
“ W hat’ll it be?” I whipped around and asked customer number forty-seven on Tuesday morning.
“Flat Americano, extra hot.”
I called the order to Nic behind me who was on top of her game as usual, whipping up four drinks simultaneously.
Nicole had been working the coffee counter at the magazine for over two years now, and the clientele was as bitter as the day she started, so she claimed the day she offered me a job here when I returned to town two months ago.
Of course, I hadn’t walked in here hoping to land a job as the best barista in the tri-state area, that part came naturally. I walked in here with a solid portfolio featuring fifty of my best illustrations. I sketched a variety of cartoon images, but sports was my specialty.
Apparently, I was the only one who thought so. When I’d met with the editor of illustrations for The Bridge Lineup, he’d told me my sketches were uneventful and they were looking for invent ful.
An odd comment from someone who supposedly searched high and low for the artist of the sketch of Madison Square Garden featuring a sold-out arena during an NBA playoff match. My drawing apparently went viral and when I walked in and introduced myself as Harper Maxwell, the artist of the illustration, the man stared dumbstruck. As he was expecting a gentleman by the name of “Maxwell" —not a twenty-three-year-old female whose only work experience was a Starbucks and occasional graphic design through a freelance website.
The plan was always to come back to the city after I graduated from Buffalo State. I just imagined I’d come back more powerful, with demons long buried, head held high, and not a single regret.
Unfortunately, life didn’t work that way.
Instead, I’d lost my mother shortly after graduation to cancer and my father had been a handful to deal with after retirement.
The past year had been nothing but reliving memories alongside him and helping him cope. But as the year went by, Dad started retelling memories that I didn’t recall. I’d ignored a few until he started talking about things that were just flat-out wrong. When I talked to his doctor about it, he told us we could take this as the first sign of Alzheimer’s.
The mention of it had broken my heart more than I thought possible after mom. He was all the family I had left and now, I was starting to lose him too.
I considered pushing my move back to the city until I knew he was okay, but since it was only recently diagnosed and could take several years to progress, Dad insisted now was the time. “There’s no place in this small town for someone with your talents. Get back out there and start living.”
So, instead of hauling my butt back upstate after that glorious interview, I came down here to sulk with a cup of coffee and met Nic. She was as bright and spirited as any barista should be, and in the short time it took for her to whip up my latte, we became friends. She asked to see my sketches and was blown away. “Hell, I’d hire ya,” she’d joked. Considering I was unemployed and had already signed a sublet agreement for a small studio in Brooklyn, I came back with, “How are the benefits?”
A few days later, I was standing beside her, helping take drink orders while she worked her coffee magic behind me.
“Will that be all?” I asked fluidly with a sharp smile.
“That’s it, thanks,” the guy answered without so much as a glance at me.
I tapped my foot, irritated at the lack of respect around here for the people who quite literally make your day-to-day manageable.
“Sure ‘bout that? Can I interest you in making that Americano an extra-large? It’s only twenty ce—”
“No. Thank you. I’m good.” This time, he gave a wave of the hand, but his eyes were still on his phone.
“How ‘bout a bear claw? They’re my personal fav—”
“ Just the coffee,” he barked, finally a hard set of eyes shooting up at me.
Was that so much to ask for?
“I’ve got this one today, sir.” Frankie stepped around him to cover his tab and handed the man his coffee.
Rude number forty-seven shook his head and marched off, disappearing into the crowded lobby.
“You need to take a walk or somethin’, Harp?”
I sighed at my boss. “Usual Frankie?”
“Make it a double and throw in the bear claw for me this time, will ya?” He slipped a ten-dollar bill in the tip jar, as usual.
I typically packed up a fruit yogurt for the old man instead of the high cholesterol pastry he always insisted on, but today, I thought better of further pissing off the man that signed my paychecks. I bagged the pastry and took the espresso Nic handed me. But Frankie already started heading to his office, which meant… I had to follow him.
I groaned. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
She winked at me and I slipped out from behind the bar.
Frankie was one of my favorite people at the magazine. He was the head of building operations and one of the grumpiest customers we had. He first noticed my artwork when he saw my sketches featuring the daily specials on the blackboard. I started naming Nic’s concoctions with sports references and a sketch to go along with it. Today was Touchdown Tuesday, a triple shot espresso poured over a spoonful of sugar, a dash of cinnamon and topped off with a hefty scoop of foam.
A few weeks ago, Frankie found out how I really ended up working at the café and it had become his personal mission to get my work noticed—despite the sexist male club of illustrators. He insisted it was the only way to get rid of me, but I knew the discrimination against female employees in certain departments upstairs bothered the old man.
Every time I had something new I wanted to submit, I gave it to Frankie and he would pass it to the editors for me in a way that I couldn’t. And every time, it was denied.
Frankie asked me to consider submitting something as “Anonymous,” and if it were featured, I’d have all the proof I needed that my work was good enough to work with the big boys.
I didn’t love the plan; in fact, I hated it, and it was a hard no for me. When I spoke to Dad about it, he agreed with Frankie. “You could either sit and wait for opportunity to come knocking or go get it one way or another.”
But I held my own. “No. One day, something will be exactly what they want. And they’ll publish it. And hire me,” I had said.
“You’re extra…spirited today,” Frankie said when we reached his office. Circling his desk, he pushed aside the mail set in front of him. “What’s going on? Rough weekend?”
I shook my head and set down his coffee and claw. “Chipper as a woodpecker, Frankie.”
He grunted in response but thankfully didn’t push it. It had been two days since Troy dissed me once again, and I was highly bothered by it. Humiliated a second time, and I had no one to blame but myself for getting involved with him.
Even if it was for the sake of crossing him off my list.
“Harper, you don’t know that man. He obviously works somewhere in the building. What if he’s… your future boss or something?”
“It’s not like I threw his order at him.” I hated that the man had a point. I was, after all, here on a mission and needed to get it together. “Yeah, okay, I’ll chill out.”
He leaned back in his chair and released an exasperated breath. “You got anything new?”
I hesitated—because I wasn’t sure I should show anyone the sketch from Sunday’s practice. But it was too good not to share. I swiped my phone out of my back denim pocket and pulled up the last image in my gallery of my latest sketch. “Just this from over the weekend.”
His brows jumped. “What’s this?”
“Blades practice.”
His eyes shot to mine. “How’d you get it?”
I blinked, my throat tightening at his innocent question. How would one explain my stalking Troy Hartman at Finnegan’s on Saturday night and then sneaking my way into practice to apologize? “I used my imagination.”
Frankie cocked his head to go with his incredulous brow lift. “It’s very good.” He looked up at me. “Want me to send it in?”
I hesitated. Because the sketch was a little too detailed to be made up and I wasn’t even supposed to be there.
It was Troy Hartman centered, his jersey number, position and chiseled features all etched out in explicit detail while the rest were merely scene fillers in the background. I hadn’t even realized the depth of it until I looked at it again. Why was I so focused on a man I despised?
There was no question. This couldn’t get out. “No. I mean, probably not a good idea. It—it needs work anyway.” I slid my phone away and turned as he leaned back in his chair, watching me with amusement. “Gotta run, boss.”
“Stay perky,” he called before I closed his door.
Worst. Tuesday. Ever.
By five o’clock, I was ready to throw in the towel, tell Nic I wasn’t feeling well, and if she could cover the last hour on her own. I couldn’t get Troy and every intoxicating feature out of my mind. Why was he getting to me so much? I didn’t remember him ever having this much effect on me.
High school was hurtful. But it wasn’t like I thought we’d get married. He was my crush and I was insanely into him—until I wanted to bury him alive. But this weekend, I met a whole new side of Troy—one I wanted to know, like an itch I couldn’t make go away no matter how much I tried to ignore it.
It was that stupid kiss .
“Where are you today?” Nic nudged me from the side.
I released a breath, knowing Nic wasn’t a simple “I’m fine” response. “I just need to snap out of it. I need to go home, soak my feet, have a glass of merlot, and pass out.”
“That sounds amazing. I say we close up early, no one’s getting coffee at this hour and I’m sure Frankie won’t mind."
“Well let’s do it fast, I’m hearing some commotion at the security desk,” I warned her.
That was not out of the ordinary for The Bridge headquarters to have reporters, photographers and other media chasers stalking the doors of the building for the occasional appearance of athletes who came in for interviews or photoshoots.
“I’ll cash out. You go give Frankie the heads up we’re taking off,” I offered.
Nic scrubbed the last spot of grime off the steamer and threw in her towel. “Be right back.”
Ignoring the growing disturbance coming from the lobby, I focused on counting my twenties.
“I don’t care if you were the GM; no one gets in without an appointment.” Larry, one of our No-B.S. security guards, barked.
I chuckled to myself as my fingers worked quickly to scribble down the bill count before my mind wandered again.
Just who did this trespasser say he was? I shut the register and looked up. All the way across the atrium-shaped lobby, my eyes locked with ones that belonged to no other than Troy Hartman.
“H—her. I know her.”
Larry glanced over at me for confirmation. My mouth broke open as I took in Troy’s appearance. He wore a stained white t-shirt, ripped jeans and a baseball hat. I blinked to be sure I wasn’t just that more delusional today than I thought.
“Troy?” I whispered but doubted anyone heard me. Shit. I ripped off my apron and spun in the other direction.
“Hey, Harp,” Larry’s voice echoed across the lobby, and I turned back with a heavy breath.
“Harper Maxwell, I knew that was you,” Troy called like he hadn't seen me in years. “Can you please tell them who I am?” he slurred.
Oh jeez.
“We know who you are, man, but that doesn’t mean we’re letting you in the building without an appointment.”
I locked my jaw before slowly striding over to security. When I reached the arguing duo, I whipped back from the alcohol reeking out of Troy’s breath, hair, and clothes.
“Troy, what are you doing here?” I hissed.
His lazy grin made my insides twist. But not in any good way, in a way that made me wonder what it was about him I found so powerful yesterday and the night before.
He tossed an arm over me. “Boy, am I glad to see you. You work here?”
I blinked.
“Awesome, I need help finding the person who wrote this.” He pulled out a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his grey hoodie and held it out to me.
I stared coldly at him in response.
“Okay, allow me.” He pulled it open and held it up for me. It was the article from the magazine that hit the web the morning after the game. I’d already read it.
“Troy, you should leave. They’re not joking, it doesn’t matter who you are, they’ll have you arrested if you give them any problems.”
"Aww, babe, you still care." His smile grew wide and he leaned down, his weight heavy against me. I nearly fell backward.
“Hey, hands off buddy—” Larry pushed forward but I held up my hand, while the other just barely supported Troy’s massive upper body at my side.
“It’s okay, Larry. I’m just going to walk him out myself.” I pushed us both through the revolving door, with Troy’s weight practically pushing it for us. I considered hailing a cab and throwing him in it…and to hell with wherever he ended up…or what kind of pictures people would get of him in the process.
But it didn’t feel right. I glanced across the street at my Honda. I’d been lucky enough to get a decent parking spot this morning since the café opened before most of the rest of the staff showed up.
“Harper, I need to get back in there. Whoever this jerk is will just keep writing shit like this,” he spit out, words garbled and balance still completely off.
“Then I suggest you tighten up your game, Hartman.”
He frowned. “You’re mean.”
I was tempted to tell him I thought he did bring his game to practice Sunday afternoon but decided against it. Wouldn’t want pretty boy here to think I was watching him. When in fact, I wasn’t only watching…I was tracing every tight feature of his face and body.
I glanced back at the building and whipped out my phone to shoot a text to Nic.
Me: Had to run. Cash drawer is all set. Night.
I was likely to regret this after the way he’d treated me the other day. And well, everything else Troy Hartman had done to me. But I couldn’t bring myself to walk away.
The man was clearly going through something I couldn’t understand.
Grace…do it for Grace.
Grace was Troy’s mother. Also one of my mother’s closest friends from when we lived in Brooklyn.
I walked us away from the glass building while I considered my options. When it started raining, Troy spread his arms wide and lifted his chin to the sky. “Oh good…I needed a shower.”
“Jesus,” I muttered under my breath, pulling on his arm. “Come on, I’m across the street.”
“Oh, are we going to your place?” Troy asked when I opened the passenger door. I looked at his immense body compared to the snug front seat and decided it wouldn’t work. “Back seat.”
He helped himself into the backseat of my car, spreading across the entire length.
Between the weather and the traffic, it was an hour before I finally pulled up to Troy’s building. He’d mixed up the numbers of his address and I’d been circling until we found his street. No matter where you were in Brooklyn and what time of day it was, parking was always a mission and a half.
It was still coming down hard by the time I found a spot a block away. And, dragging him from building to building until he pointed to his, was no walk in the park.
“Mmm…this one.” He looked up at the tall newly constructed building. “Yeah…this one.”
“Great.” I released his arm and left him at the front door. Breathlessly, I offered, “Do yourself a favor—get over that article and stay away from the magazine. I didn’t see anyone snapping photos, but next time, you might not be so lucky.”
“Thanks,” he muttered, scanning me head to toe as if seeing me for the first time. “You came all this way, the least I can do is offer you a dry t-shirt.”
“I’m good.” I held up a hand and turned back to my car. The fucking nerve. Probably wanted to strip me naked and take off with my clothes.
I heard Nic’s voice in my head that he probably wouldn’t have let me keep my underwear.
I started back to my car and heard him call behind me. “I’m not, you know?”
I sighed and turned. “Not what?”
“A sophomore slump.” He stepped out from under the awning. “I was never good to begin with.”
Oh dear.
He dropped onto the step, splattering a small puddle.
The doorman pushed out the door for us. Concern etched on his face. “You need help?” He looked down at Troy, then at me.
Thank goodness. “Yes. Please, if you don’t mind. Can you help him to his apartment?”
“Sure thing.”
There were no questions asked, and Troy didn’t fight it when the man helped him to his feet and walked him to the elevators.
Thankfully, the rain slowed down as I walked back to my car in the dark. My feet ached. I was hungry, exhausted, and emotionally drained. But I was by Main Street Park for the first time in years and knew the view of the Brooklyn Bridge was just up the block toward the water. Rather than heading home to get dry, I found myself following the path of the cobblestone street until I reached the tiny beach with the glorious view, grabbing a hot dog from a cart vendor.
I’d only been here once with my parents when dad wanted to use the background for one of his sketches and I remembered asking my mother how long it would take to walk the length of that bridge.
She’d told me we’d find out one day.
When it was becoming too late to stick around the dark park and the painful memories started flooding back, I knew it was time to go.
Reaching for my keys halfway up the block, I frantically double-patted my empty pockets. “Oh no.” The keys…and everything else I had with me was in my car—locked.
No no no.
My sore feet barely dragged me back to the building, where I asked the doorman if I could use his phone.
Shit, what was Nic’s number? Five-four-one, no five one four…
I looked up at the doorman, who held a raised brow in my direction. “Kind of lost without cell phones…you just can’t remember anyone’s phone number.” I released an uneasy chuckle.
“You got roadside assistance?”
“Um…no”
“You should look into it, especially since you’ve got auto-lock on your vehicle.”
Thank you, Captain Obvious .
“Well, I can call someone to break it open for you, but it can’t be till morning.”
My stomach dropped when I thought about my only other option as I stood there, freezing in my wet clothes. I asked the doorman to call him for me so I could take him up on his offer for a dry shirt. And…a couch to crash on.
“Certainly. Hartman, right?”
I nodded painfully. No good deed goes unpunished.
“Mark,” he called to a man standing by the elevators. “Would you take this young lady up to Hartman’s unit? She was with him earlier and is locked out.”
The overly polite, uniformed gentleman silently brought me up to the floor level just before the penthouse, and I was pleasantly surprised to see that Troy hadn’t opted for the best. He would be the type.
I was led to the far end of the hallway with my squeaky wet shoes and pants that swooshed as my legs brushed.
The attendant unlocked the door and held it open for me.
“Thanks,” I offered awkwardly.
“Have a good evening.” He nodded before marching back to the elevator, leaving me with my heart beating against my chest before I slowly pushed my way in.
It was dark, quiet, and comfortably warm when I stepped inside. I flipped the foyer light switch, and a table lamp nearby flickered to life. It was covered with a black shade, so the lighting was dim and welcoming.
I removed my squeaky shoes, wondering why I was trying so hard to stay quiet when there was no doubt Troy was out cold. Turning slowly, I took in the surroundings. The ceilings were high. The apartment long as opposed to lofty. Three floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Brooklyn Bridge and, behind it, the bright skyline. There was a velvet gray sofa facing a wall where an enormous flat-screen hung and a smaller love seat at the far end, facing the open kitchen.
The walls were a modern shade of gray and the thick rug, which felt glorious under my icy toes, was a faded blue. I shivered at the sight of a large throw blanket on the loveseat. Then slipped out of my wet clothes and wrapped it around my shoulders.
After a decisive beat, I tiptoed down the corridor to his bedroom, which was slightly open. As suspected, Troy was spread out on the bed with his white down comforter covering merely one leg. His hair seemed silkier, and he was freshly shaven. I imagined he must have showered the minute he got home. His face appeared clean and there was a smoothness to it, despite the carved features. There was a sense of calmness in him that you’d never believe if you saw him just over an hour ago.
His broad torso moved up and down as he breathed. I found myself lost in the sound of it.
Blinking, I snapped myself out of the intoxicating human lying half-naked before me. I pulled open his drawers carefully until I found a pile of t-shirts and drawstring pants. I glanced back once more—doing a full-on double take—finding Troy turned with his behind peaking from under the covers.
His bare behind.
Oh. My. God. Troy didn't sleep half-naked . The man slept naked . My cheeks burned because, heavens, he's hot. That was one part I didn’t get to see the other night, and holy hell I'm glad I didn't because I'm agape .
Quickly grabbing a pair of pants and a t-shirt, I crept out of the room, threw on the dry clothes, and reached for his cell phone on his kitchen counter.
The only number I knew by heart was my dad’s, and there was no way I was calling him to tell him where I was and that I needed help.
I tried Nic again.
“Hello?” A voice that was definitely not Nic’s answered on the other line.
“Sorry—wrong number.” I hung up and tried switching the numbers again.
No luck.
Feeling defeated, I sat back on the smaller, far-end sofa and yawned. I set an alarm on Troy’s phone, knowing there was no way his hungover self was going to be up before me tomorrow morning. I planned to be out of here before he knew it.