Chapter 15 Not What You Think
Not What You Think
Cole
Harper’s halfway across the parking lot toward her car when the impulse hits me like a slap shot to the chest. Before I can second-guess myself, I’m calling after her.
“Harper.”
She turns, eyebrows raised, keys already in her hand. In the glow of the restaurant’s outdoor lighting, she looks like something out of a movie—bright blue eyes, hair catching the light, that small smile still playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Want to come back to my place?” The words are out before I can think them through properly, and I grin before she can react. “Not what you’re thinking. Promise.”
She tilts her head, skeptical amusement replacing surprise. “That sounds exactly like what you’d say if it was what I’m thinking.”
“Scout’s honor.” I hold up my hand in what I hope looks like an official Boy Scout salute. “I have a better offer than another night of Netflix and whatever late night snacks you’ve got in your fridge.”
She’s quiet for a moment, studying my face like she’s trying to decide if I’m being genuine or just really good at playing innocent. Finally, she shakes her head with a laugh that sounds like surrender.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the offer?”
“You’ll have to trust me and find out.”
She hesitates for exactly three seconds before that smile spreads into something more decisive. “Fine. But if this turns out to be some elaborate scheme to get me alone, I’m calling my cousin and she will hunt you down.”
“Noted and appreciated. Hop in. Your car will be fine.”
When she climbs into my truck, she tucks her purse carefully at her feet and buckles her seatbelt, still shooting me sideways looks like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I keep the drive light, asking about her favorite movies and telling her about the time Rex tried to steal an entire Thanksgiving turkey off the counter when he was a puppy.
“He actually got it halfway to his bed before my roommate caught him,” I say as we pull into my driveway. “Finn still brings it up every holiday season.”
“Smart dog. I respect his ambition.”
“Don’t tell him that. His ego’s already too big for his own good.”
The second we step through the front door, Rex comes barreling over like he’s been waiting all day for this exact moment. His tail is wagging so hard his entire back end is wiggling, and he immediately plants himself at Harper’s feet, looking up at her with pure adoration.
“Well, hello there,” she says, crouching down to pet him. Rex melts into her touch like they’ve known each other forever, leaning his full weight against her legs and making those soft little whining sounds he reserves for his favorite people.
“Guess you’ve passed the pup approval test,” I say, watching the way Rex’s eyes actually close in bliss when she scratches behind his ears. “He’s usually more suspicious of strangers.”
“I’m good with dogs. They can sense authenticity.” She’s grinning when she says it. I love her sarcasm.
Rex refuses to move from Harper’s side, so I have to bribe him with a treat to get him to go lie down in Finn’s room. He follows the treat reluctantly, shooting reproachful looks over his shoulder like I’ve just committed the ultimate betrayal.
“Roommate’s on vacation,” I explain as I shut the door on Rex’s dramatic sighs. “Rex gets jealous when he has to share attention.”
Harper straightens, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture draws my attention to the line of her neck, the way the soft lighting in my living room makes her skin look warm and touchable.
“So,” she says, “what’s the big mystery offer that’s supposedly better than Netflix?”
I grin and head to the hall closet where I keep the board games. “Patience.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting until I get back.”
I come back with an old, slightly battered box that’s seen better days but still holds some of my favorite memories from college. Harper takes one look at it and starts laughing.
“A board game? Seriously?”
“Not just any board game,” I say, setting it on the coffee table with more ceremony than it probably deserves. “The best board game ever created. Loser does the dishes.”
She arches an eyebrow, settling onto the couch across from me. “What if I win?”
“Then I do the dishes and make you dessert.”
“Deal.” She leans forward, studying the board as I set it up. “Fair warning—I’m extremely competitive.”
“Good. I’d be disappointed if you weren’t.”
We sprawl on opposite ends of the couch, the board spread between us on the coffee table. She is competitive—sharp-witted and strategic, teasing me mercilessly when she gets ahead and calling out my bluffs with the precision of someone who’s clearly played this game before.
“You’re cheating,” I accuse when she makes a move that’s technically legal but definitely bends the spirit of the rules.
“I’m being creative.”
“That’s exactly what a cheater would say.”
She laughs, the sound bright and unguarded. “Prove it.”
I lean closer to point out exactly how her interpretation of the rules is questionable, and our knees brush once, then again.
Neither of us moves away. She smells like something clean and warm with just a hint of vanilla, and I have to force myself to focus on the game instead of the way her lips curve when she’s trying not to smile.
“Your move,” she says, and I realize I’ve been staring.
“Right. My move.”
Midway through the game, she makes such a ridiculously bad bluff that I can’t help calling her out on it. She starts laughing so hard she has to cover her face with her hands, shoulders shaking with mirth.
“That was terrible,” she gasps between giggles. “I can’t believe I thought that would work.”
The sound hits me somewhere deep in my chest—warm and genuine and completely unguarded. I find myself studying the faint flush in her cheeks, the way her hair falls forward when she leans over the board, the curve of her mouth when she’s trying to suppress a grin.
My focus keeps slipping from the game to her, cataloging details I have no business noticing. The way she tucks her feet under her when she gets comfortable. How she bites her lower lip when she’s thinking. The little victory dance she does in her seat when she makes a particularly good move.
“Checkmate,” she announces twenty minutes later, leaning back against the couch cushions in triumph. “Looks like you owe me another dessert.”
“Guess I do,” I say, but I’m still watching her instead of moving toward the kitchen.
For a moment, the air between us feels different—heavier, charged with the kind of awareness that makes you suddenly conscious of how close you’re sitting.
She’s looking at me with something that might be curiosity, might be interest, might be nothing at all.
But it’s enough to make my pulse pick up.
The smart thing would be to get up, make the promised dessert, keep things light and friendly. The smart thing would be to remember that this is only our first real date, that rushing things is how you screw up something that could be good.
But looking at her now—relaxed and laughing, competitive streak on full display, completely herself in my living room—I don’t feel particularly smart.
I push off the couch with a smile that I hope looks more casual than it feels. “Alright. Let’s see if you like ice cream sundaes.”
“I’ve never met a sundae I didn’t like.”
“Good to know.” I head toward the kitchen, hyperaware of her following behind me. “Any allergies I should know about?”
“Just bad losers and people who put pineapple on pizza.”
“Well, you’re safe on both counts.”
As I pull ice cream from the freezer and start gathering toppings, I can feel her watching me move around the kitchen. It should make me nervous, but instead it feels natural, like this is something we’ve done dozens of times before.
Like maybe we could do it dozens of times in the future, if I don’t find a way to screw this up.