Chapter 12 Harry
Harry
Two weeks without her soft skin beneath my fingertips has been torture.
I’ve imagined it, can’t stop imagining all of it—how she felt wrapped around me, how she looked when she shattered, how her voice cracked when she moaned my name like it meant something.
Every night, I lie there, haunted by the memory of her against that goddamn tree.
I think about the way her nails bit into my shoulders, the heat of her despite the slight chill that morning, the soft and desperate noises she’d made when I was inside of her.
I try not to.
But I fucked her against a tree as if I were a man half my age, as if I couldn’t help myself, and the wanting is worse now.
It’s not easier, it’s not dulled, it’s not quelled like I’d hoped it would be the first time I touched myself with her in my head.
It’s grown into something gnawing and raw and constant now, and I keep finding myself walking through the house like a man on the verge of violence.
But it doesn’t help that we see each other too frequently to truly put her out of my mind.
We try not to. At least, I do. There’s a silent agreement, I think — some unspoken truce where she avoids the house in the mornings, and I don’t go near the garden after five.
But it doesn’t work. I still see her slipping into the kitchen through the sliding glass doors, her feet bare and a robe slipping off her shoulder.
I still see her moving her folding chair out back every hour or so when she’s reading and chasing the setting sun in the evenings, claiming the yard like she belongs here. Like she’s always belonged.
And I hate that it feels like she does, hate how natural it looks, how right it feels. But more than that, I hate myself for letting it all happen.
Because Matthew found George.
Croatia, then Greece, then India. And now he’s in Thailand, of all places. He’s still running, but he’s not smart enough not to use his card every time he gets somewhere new — and Matthew’s tailing him. He found his hotel, found him, before he managed to slip out of his grasp again.
I’m still trying to decide just how badly I’ll throttle my son when he’s back in my reach.
He left her, and still, every time I so much as glance at Elena, it still feels like she’s his.
Like I’m trespassing. And I know it’s irrational, I know that she doesn’t technically belong to anyone, but it doesn’t stop it from burning like acid in my esophagus every time she looks at me with those wide brown eyes.
It’s like she’s watching me as if she’s waiting for me to pick up where we left off, and I just… can’t.
But I can’t stop wanting to.
The buzzer sounds throughout the house, making me nearly jump out of my skin in my desk chair, but it’s a small mercy. It’s a distraction, at least.
I flip up the small, built-in monitor on my desk.
The screen shows a live feed of a black car idling outside the property's gates with the driver's side window rolled down.
A head of slicked-back blonde hair and wire-frame glasses appears as Nathan, one of the property managers for the Switzerland project, leans slightly out.
I pinch the skin between my brows to keep from actively screaming and press down the button on the speaker. “It’s eight in the morning,” I say, only the slightest hint of irritation creeping into my voice.
“I emailed you last night.” The words come out as a faint puff of smoke, a cigarette materializing over the edge of the open window. Little clumps of ash fall onto the pavement below as he flicks the filter. “Said I needed to stop by.”
“Did it occur to you that I wouldn’t see that until I looked at my computer this morning?”
“Considering how late you’ve been working recently, no, it didn’t.” He ashes his cigarette again. “It’s important.”
I huff out my irritation. “Put that out somewhere that isn’t my lawn,” I grumble, hitting the Open Gate button before shutting the monitor into the desk.
The home office blurs around me, rich wood and creaking leather left behind as I force myself to my feet.
I hadn’t even bothered to make myself presentable this morning — just a quick shower and fresh lounging clothes, my long-sleeve white shirt and grey sweats failing to scream business casual.
The sun warms my face as I make my way down the hall, large floor-to-ceiling windows to my left and rooms upon empty rooms to my right.
I stop dead at the top of the stairs.
The sound of the microwave closing and loud beeps from each press of the buttons makes me bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming.
She’s in the fucking house.
But then the front door opens and the alarm chirps once throughout the house, and I force myself to move again, hoping at least to intercept before Nathan walks right into her.
It’s not that he doesn’t know — of course he does, every does by now, but it's the inevitable conversation that I’m desperate to avoid.
And, of course, I’m not successful. Why, for once, would something go right?
My bare foot hits the wood floor at the bottom of the stairs, my head snapping toward the kitchen.
Nathan’s already made it through the foyer and stands in the doorway between them, his brows knitted as he watches her rummage through my refrigerator like a raccoon.
I knew slacking on the grocery deliveries to her little cottage would come back and bite me in the ass, but the temptation, the knowing that she’d end up in the house occasionally and I’d see her, was enough to make me far too lax about it.
And the tight little shorts and oversized shirt she’s wearing as a sad excuse for pajamas don’t help it any.
Elena nearly drops the glass of orange juice in her hand as she turns back to the microwave, spotting Nathan in the doorway. “Holy—Uh—Hi?”
“Elena,” I say coolly, crossing the space as quickly as my legs will take me while still seeming somewhat casual.
The scent of roses hits my nostrils, and I pluck the glass from her grasp before my sudden intrusion startles her more, setting it safely on the counter beside her.
“This is Nathan Locke, one of the property managers on the Switzerland build.”
I wrap an arm around her waist from behind and pull her gently against me, her back to my chest, biting back the shiver that threatens to overtake me as her rear presses against my groin. Christ. She stiffens, only slightly, before remembering exactly what we’re supposed to be.
“Nathan, this is Elena. My wife.”
Nathan blinks once, twice, before nodding either to me or to himself. “Right, of course, my apologies,” he says, offering his hand and setting his briefcase on the counter. “I was in Switzerland during the wedding, unfortunately. I… heard, though.”
Elena swallows, her throat working just slightly as I press my nose against the side of her head. “Shake it,” I whisper, so low I’m not even entirely sure she’s heard me.
But her hand darts out, giving him a firm shake, and I squeeze her gently in approval. The obedience of it sends blood pooling exactly where it shouldn’t.
“Hi,” she says again, but this time it's accompanied by that grin I’d seen a handful of times at events she was running or when she’d signed the original contract — people-pleasing, practiced, and fake.
“Nice to meet you. You must be one of the men keeping Harry locked in his office twenty-four-seven.”
An almost startled laugh slips from him. “Apologies for that, it’s been quite hectic lately. I imagine it’s not easy to settle into married life when your husband needs to constantly dip out for calls or meetings.”
“Or when property managers turn up unannounced before I’ve even begun work,” I add, shooting him a glare as I press a kiss against her temple.
“I told you, Harry, I emailed.”
“And look what good that’s done,” I say dryly.
The microwave beeps behind me, chirping its finishing song, and Elena goes to twist from my arms. I stop her, tightening my hold just enough to be insistent.
Her body warmth bleeds through the loose shirt, heating my fingers, and the little flush crawling up her neck tells me she can absolutely feel exactly what having her rear pressed against me has elicited.
“What, exactly, was important enough to warrant a visit?” I ask.
“Right.” Nathan clears his throat, his gaze flicking between us, lingering on the way I’m holding her.
“The weather out there the last few days has been a nightmare. They’ve had to push back the foundation work again as of yesterday evening — mudslide, apparently.
There’s no structural damage; it happened at the very edge of the property, but it’s cut off the road going in.
Site’s inaccessible until it’s cleared up, three weeks, maybe four. ”
I huff a breath out my nose. “We’re already behind. We can’t wait another three weeks.”
“I know,” he says, flicking open his briefcase and slipping his tablet free. “I didn’t want to authorize a pivot without checking with you first.”
His screen flickers to life, and a handful of images wait to be opened. I click the first, opening an image of the gate to the site, mud and sticks and parts of trees reaching nearly waist-high. “Fuck.”
“Is there not another entrance?” Elena asks casually. Her hand reaches out for her orange juice, but I grab it before she can, placing it in her hand.
“No,” I answer. “We’re going to add in a back entrance, but that’s further down the line. We don’t have the tarmac laid for a road to it yet. Plus, the fence is still up back there.”
Her brows knit. “It’s just a chain link fence. Remove it now.”
“We’d have to get a gate put in immediately,” Nathan counters. “Otherwise we’ll have rogue Swiss teens wandering the site at night.”
Elena shrugs. “So put a gate in. Lay the tarmac. Clear the route for the back entrance. If you’re going to do it anyway, what’s the harm?” She sips at her orange juice as if that’s the most nonchalant suggestion in the world.
“That’s at least two months down the line, darling.” My throat tightens, just a hair, at that word slipping out far too easily. “We’d be jumping the gun only to have it finished by the time they can access the front gate again—”
She turns in my grip, orange juice nearly sloshing over the rim of the glass, and narrows her gaze up at me.
“I doubt it would take three to four weeks to get at least a dirt path and a gate put in,” she says.
“Then you can at least get supplies and trucks in. What else are they going to do, twiddle their thumbs for a month? You might as well.”
“She’s got a point.”
My gaze snaps to Nathan.
He flicks to the next image, the trees already cleared for the path to the eventual back entrance.
“It wouldn’t take long. We could get everyone on that, get it sorted now instead of waiting, and then once we’re back in, resume work.
It’s smarter than putting the workers on furlough for a month, and a hell of a lot cheaper. ”
“I—” The words leave my brain before they can properly form, playing through every reason why that’s a terrible idea — except, there isn’t one. She’s right. She’s right.
She shrugs and twists fully out of my arms, leaving me standing there staring at the space where she was, and pulls open the microwave. “Just an idea.”
I lean against the kitchen counter, tapping my fingers in a rhythm that doesn’t flow, my brain stalling. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, yes, have them do that,” I say, meeting Nathan’s gaze. “Let me know once we’ve got people back on site and we can decide how to split them.”
Nathan powers his tablet back down and slips it into his briefcase. “Can do.”
I watch over my shoulder as Elena takes a bite of what looks like some kind of cheese and ham pastry, reheated and melted, before thinking better of it the moment it practically scalds her mouth. “Was there anything else?” I ask Nathan, not bothering to turn back to him.
“No, sir.” The latches on his briefcase lock. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Mhm.”
I don’t watch as he goes. I don’t watch as his shoes echo on the wood floor, or as the front door chimes when it opens, or as the sound of it latching shut filters through the foyer and kitchen.
I’m too busy watching her.
And the way she’s watching me.
Light brown eyes hold mine like a vise, a million words unspoken behind them, her reheated pastry lying on its plate beside her. She doesn’t open her mouth, but her nostrils flare, her jaw tightening ever so slightly, and I know she wants to speak.
“Say it.”
She shakes her head. “No.”
I turn fully, leaning back on the counter opposite her, and cross my arms. “Why?”
“No point,” she says. “And it’s already awkward enough.”
She’s not wrong. We can both feel it, anyway — both know what she wants to say, what she wants to push. And after solving a problem that would have taken me hours, if not days, to come to terms with, I almost want to let her.
So I do.
“Dinner tonight,” I say, pushing off the counter and opening the fridge, half to give myself something to do with my hands so I don’t just grab her again. “Be ready by seven.”
She pauses with her glass raised halfway to her mouth. “What?”
“Dinner. Seven.” I force myself to choose something — leftover salmon, apparently — and close the fridge. “Wear something nice, we’ll go into the city.”
“The city?”
“Mhm.” The snaps on either side of the tupperware pop open easily enough, and I grab a fork from the drawer. “We can helicopter in.”
“That’s—”
“As a thank you,” I clarify, watching the salmon flake apart as I shove the side of the fork into it, “for figuring out a fix to that problem so quickly. You saved me a lot of time, and probably a shit ton of money.”
She blinks at me, her pretty, full lips parted and hanging open. “So you just want to spend all that money taking me into the city instead?”
I shrug. “If you’d rather hide away in your cottage, you’re more than welcome to. Just thought you might want to get off the property for a bit. What you did deserves more than just a compliment and a ‘thank you’, if you ask me.”
She stares at me, her hand tightening on the edge of the counter, the glass clutched in her hand like she’s considering either chucking it at me or letting it drop.
“Let me take you out,” I add carefully, the words dripping from my tongue. I don’t miss the way her thighs clench, the way she leans and hooks one ankle around the other. “You’re my wife, after all.”
She downs half her orange juice in one gulp.
I bite back the smirk threatening to break free.
“Fine,” she huffs.