Harlow #3
They'd left the clubhouse after Butcher promised to have several of the Savage Bastards start looking into Kane Logistics and Donnelly Meridian.
Harlow wasn't sure how she felt about a motorcycle club investigating her father, but she'd stopped pretending she didn't want answers, because she did—even if they destroyed what little remained of the life she'd known.
She couldn't unknow what she'd seen in Frank's office, and if her father was involved, she needed to know that too.
Sitting around waiting while other people figured out her future wasn't an option anymore.
So when Wade offered her a job, she accepted immediately—maybe too immediately, judging by the look he'd given her, but she didn't care.
For the first time in her life, Harlow had a job that Richard Kane hadn't arranged, and that mattered to her, even if her new boss was apparently allergic to filing cabinets.
She picked up another receipt. “This is from four months ago.”
“Okay, so?” he asked.
“So, it was in the box marked June,” she said.
“Probably happened in June,” he defended.
“The date says March.” Wade shrugged, and Harlow stared at him. “Get out.”
His eyebrows rose. “This is my office.”
“Not anymore,” she insisted.
A grin slowly spread across his face. “Already taking over?”
“Somebody has to,” she hissed.
“I've managed fine without your help,” he challenged.
“You have a liquor invoice folded around a takeout menu,” she chided.
“I was hungry.” She threw a balled-up receipt at him, and Wade caught it against his chest. “Violence in the workplace. I'm gonna have to write you up,” he teased.
“You said you're HR,” she reminded.
“I am,” he agreed.
“Then I'm filing a complaint against you,” she said.
“For what?” he asked.
“For just existing,” she said. Wade laughed, and Harlow tried not to smile, but failed.
That had been happening far too often around him, which was dangerous.
Not because Wade had done anything to make her afraid of him—quite the opposite, and that was what worried her.
She was getting comfortable—too comfortable around him.
Less than two days ago, she'd been preparing to marry Frank.
She should've been devastated, heartbroken even, but she wasn't. She felt relieved—free. Sure, she was terrified of what came next, but she wasn’t heartbroken.
There was nothing to mourn about losing Frank. The life she'd had before him—maybe.
The more distance Harlow put between herself and that life, the more she questioned whether it had ever truly belonged to her. She lived in her father's house, drove her father's car, and spent her father's money. Even her future husband had been her father's choice.
Harlow looked around Wade's tiny office.
It wasn't impressive. There was one battered desk, two unused filing cabinets, a computer that looked to be at least five years old, and a dented mini-fridge that sat in the corner of the room.
Yet sitting there surrounded by Wade's disastrous receipts, she felt more like herself than she had inside her father's mansion.
Maybe because nobody had told her she had to be there—she'd chosen it.
“You disappeared on me,” he said.
Wade's voice pulled her back. “What?”
“You were somewhere else,” he said.
“Just thinking,” she breathed.
“That’s dangerous,” he teased.
She rolled her eyes. “Don't you have something to do?”
“Watching you work is something to do,” he insisted.
“That's creepy,” she mumbled to herself.
“I’m supervising,” he said.
“Still creepy,” she insisted.
He pushed away from the doorway. “You know how to do inventory?” he asked.
“I have a business degree, Wade. Of course, I know how to do inventory.”
He tossed a clipboard onto the desk. “Come on then, college girl.”
Harlow narrowed her eyes. “Don't call me that.”
“Better than runaway bride?” he asked.
“Marginally,” she griped. He grinned, and she followed him into the stockroom.
Harlow quickly discovered that inventory with Wade was less about counting bottles and more about arguing. “You're missing four cases of beer,” she said, after counting them three times.
“No, I'm not,” he insisted.
“The sheet says forty-two,” he said, pointing to the clipboard.
“Right, and there are thirty-eight, which means that you are missing four cases,” she said. “That means your inventory records are wrong.”
Wade leaned against a stack of cases. “You're getting really worked up about this.”
“Because numbers are supposed to match,” she insisted.
“Why?” he asked.
She stared at him. “Why?”
“Yeah, why?” he asked again.
“Because that's how numbers work!” His mouth twitched. “You're doing this on purpose.”
“Doing what?” he asked.
“Trying to make my head explode,” she said.
“Little bit,” he admitted.
Harlow slapped the clipboard against his chest. “Count your own damn beer.” Wade caught her wrist. The movement happened quickly—too quickly, and Harlow froze.
So did Wade. His fingers immediately loosened, but for one terrible second, he wasn't Wade—he was Frank.
She was back in the horrible relationship with him, remembering how her back hit the car as Frank's fingers dug into her wrist. She heard his threat in her head.
You will walk down that aisle. Harlow jerked away from Wade, and the clipboard hit the floor.
“Harlow.” She backed into the shelving, as her heart slammed violently in her chest. Wade didn't move. “Hey.” She couldn't answer. Fuck. She hated this, and she hated Frank. But most of all, she hated herself for letting him scare her now without even being present.
“Harlow, look at me.” She forced her eyes up. Wade stood several feet away now with his hands open at his sides. He wasn’t approaching her and was being careful not to touch her. “It's me.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“You sure?” he asked.
She nodded too quickly. “Yeah.”
“Breathe,” he whispered.
“Don't tell me to breathe.” His eyebrows rose, and somehow, that familiar expression helped.
Harlow sucked in a shaky breath, then another. “Better?”
“A little,” she said.
“I'm sorry,” he breathed.
“You didn't do anything,” she insisted.
“I grabbed you,” he said.
“You were stopping me from hitting you with a clipboard,” she reminded.
“Wouldn't have hurt,” he assured.
“You don't know that. I'm stronger than I look,” she teased. That earned the smallest smile from him.
Harlow rubbed her wrist, and Wade noticed. His face darkened. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, you didn't,” she insisted.
He nodded slowly, but he still looked angry. “Are you mad at me?” she asked.
“What? Why would I be mad at you?” he asked.
“Because you look pissed,” she pointed out.
“I am, but not at you,” he insisted.
She already knew the answer to her question, but she still needed to ask. “Are you mad at Frank?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he admitted.
Harlow sighed. “I hate that he can still do this to me.”
Wade's expression softened. “He hurt you, and that doesn't disappear because you climbed out a window.”
“I wish it did,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her body.
“Me too.” She bent down for the clipboard, and Wade reached for it at the same time.
Their fingers brushed, and Harlow tensed.
It wasn’t from fear this time, but something else—something she couldn’t quite name yet.
Their eyes met, and Wade slowly straightened.
So did she, and the stockroom suddenly felt much smaller.
She remembered the clubhouse porch and what he said to her.
If you still want me when this shit settles down, you won't have to ask twice.
She still wanted him, which was completely ridiculous given what had just happened between them. Nothing had settled down—not even close. Wade apparently remembered too because his eyes dropped to her mouth and Harlow's pulse jumped.
“You're doing it again,” she whispered.
“Doing what?” he asked.
“Looking at my mouth,” she said.
“Hard not to,” he admitted.
Heat curled low in her stomach. “You said—”
“I remember what I said,” he growled.
“Then stop looking at me like that,” she whispered.
Wade's gaze lifted to hers. “You want me to stop?” he asked. She wanted to tell him no—absolutely not. She wanted to tell him to kiss her, but she was a chicken.
“Yes, I want you to stop,” she breathed. Coward.
One corner of his mouth lifted. “You hesitated.”
“I did not,” she insisted.
“Definitely did.” He stepped around her, and Harlow released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Wade stopped beside her, just close enough that his shoulder brushed hers.
“Just so we're clear, runaway bride.” She glared at him, and he leaned slightly closer. “When I finally kiss you, you're not gonna have to wonder whether I meant to or not.” Her entire body heated as Wade walked away.
Harlow stared after him. “Asshole,” she muttered. His laughter carried back from the hallway, and she smiled despite herself. God help her, because when it came to that man, she was a complete goner.
The bar opened at four, and by six, Harlow understood why Wade had questioned whether she could pour whiskey into a glass. Bartending looked significantly easier from the customer side of the bar.
“You over poured,” Wade shouted over the music.
“I did not,” she insisted.
Wade picked up the glass she'd just poured. “This is supposed to be one shot.”
“It is,” she lied.
“This is damn near two,” he growled.
“The customer won't complain,” she countered.
“The owner will.”
Harlow glared at him. “Do you want me to learn or not?”
“Yep,” he said.
“Then stop hovering,” she insisted.
“I'm training you.”
“You're breathing down my neck,” she spat.
His eyes flickered. “Could breathe somewhere else.” The way he said it sent heat across her skin as she thought about all the places she wanted him to breathe on.
She pointed at him. “Behave.”
Wade grinned. “No promises.”
A man sitting at the bar laughed. “Never thought I'd see the day.”
Wade looked over. “What?”
The older man lifted his beer. “Somebody finally bossing you around in your own damn bar.”