Harlow #4
“I didn't have many options,” she reminded. That wiped the smile from his face, and Harlow immediately regretted saying it. “I didn't mean—”
“You're right,” he said. “You didn't have anywhere else to go.” His tone wasn't angry, just factual.
“That doesn't mean I'm not grateful, Wade,” she said.
“You don't owe me gratitude,” he insisted.
“I think pointing a gun at Frank earned you at least a thank-you,” she said.
“That was fun, so no thank-you is required,” he said.
She stared at him. “You enjoyed that?”
“Little bit,” he admitted.
She looked down at her hands. “I've never done anything like this before.”
“Run away from your wedding?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Any of it.” Wade waited. “I've always done what I was supposed to do.” She picked at a loose thread on the blanket. “I went to the right schools, wore the right clothes, donated to the right charities, and hung out with the right people. My father planned everything.”
“Did he plan for you to marry Frank?” he asked.
“He especially planned my life with Frank,” she spat.
“You love him?” Wade asked.
Harlow looked over at him. “No.” The answer came so quickly that Wade's eyebrows lifted. “I never loved him.”
“Good.” There was that word again, with the same strange intensity behind it that confused the hell out of her.
Harlow's pulse kicked. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Saying what?” he asked.
“Good.” Wade held her gaze. For several seconds, neither of them moved, and then he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.
“Because any man who puts bruises on you doesn't deserve you loving him.” Her breath caught because he made it sound so simple.
It should have been simple, but nothing in her life had ever been simple.
She blinked rapidly and looked away before he saw the tears threatening her eyes, but it was too late.
He stood, and Harlow tensed automatically, causing him to stop.
That tiny movement nearly broke her, because he noticed that too.
“Can I come closer?” he asked. Her throat tightened, and she nodded.
Wade crossed the remaining distance slowly, and he sat on the edge of the mattress, leaving plenty of space between them.
His hand rested palm-up on the blanket as an offering, not a demand.
Harlow stared at it—big, rough, and callused.
It was the kind of hand that could hurt someone badly, but he was letting her decide whether it touched her.
She placed her hand in his, and Wade's fingers closed gently around hers, and Harlow stared at their joined hands.
“I don't know what happens now,” she whispered.
“Do you mean tomorrow?” he asked.
“No, I mean everything,” she admitted.
Wade was quiet for a moment. “Tomorrow we figure out what Frank knows.”
“We?” she questioned.
“Yeah,” he breathed.
“You don't have to do that,” she insisted.
“I know,” he said.
“My father could cause trouble for your business,” she said.
“Wouldn't be the first asshole to try,” he drawled.
“Frank could come after the guys in your club,” she warned.
“That'd be a mistake,” he mumbled.
“You don't understand how powerful these people are,” Harlow almost whispered.
Wade squeezed her hand gently. “And you don't understand how little I give a fuck.” Her eyes lifted to his, and she could see that he meant it. That should have scared her. Instead, something inside her settled.
“You barely know me. Why would you do all of this for me?” she asked.
Wade looked down at their hands, and when his eyes returned to hers, something had changed in them. “I don't know yet.” Yet. That single word sent warmth through her chest. Wade released her hand and stood. “Try to get some sleep.”
She nodded as he reached the doorway. “Wade?” He looked back. “Could you—” She stopped as embarrassment burned through her.
“Could I what?” he asked.
Harlow hated herself for needing to ask. “Could you leave the door open?”
His expression softened. “Yeah, honey.”
“And maybe—” She swallowed.
“What?” he asked.
“Don't go downstairs yet.” Wade stared at her for a second, then walked back to the chair and sat down.
“Get some sleep,” he said.
“You don't have to stay all night,” she assured.
“I know.” Harlow settled beneath the blankets. The exhaustion returned almost immediately. She watched Wade through heavy eyelids. “You're really going to sit there?”
“Looks that way,” he said.
“The chair can't be much better than the couch,” she countered.
“It's not,” he admitted.
“Good night, Wade,” she said around a yawn.
“Night, runaway bride.”
Her eyes opened. “I told you not to call me that.”
His grin appeared. “Go to sleep, Harlow.” She wanted to argue, but her eyes were already closing.
The last thing Harlow saw was Wade sitting in the chair beside the door, with arms crossed over his bare chest, watching over her.
And when sleep finally pulled her under again, she wasn't dreaming about Frank.
She wasn't dreaming about her father. For the first time in years, Harlow dreamed about running.
Only this time, nobody caught up with her.