Chapter Fodder #2
I set the brush down and section off the hair closest to her neck, tying the rest into a ponytail.
Then I take the scissors and a strip of her hair, and make the first cut.
“I called my boss today. I told him about the search and said it might go past the nineteenth of July, when I’m due to be back at work.
I asked for some additional time to stay and help out, and he agreed to take it week by week with Yates for now.
And I extended my reservation at the inn as well, just in case you need space. So, I’m not going anywhere just yet.”
Harper swallows. “Just yet.”
Our gazes remain locked in the mirror. The fact is, the more time I spend here, the more unfathomable it is that I even have another life.
A job. A house. Drinks with friends, calling my sister, sweating at the gym, driving to my parents’ place in the country once a month for dinner.
Visiting Billy’s grave. Plotting Harper Starling’s demise.
I might have buried the idea of getting revenge on Harper, but can I really drop my whole life in exchange for a new one in Cape Carnage?
And is that what she’d even want? She’s mine—that much I know in my marrow.
But what does that look like in a few weeks? A few months? A year from now?
I slide one arm of the scissors against her neck and cut the next lock of hair. “There are Sleuthseekers in town now,” Harper says before I can voice anything more about staying or leaving. “I saw three of them in Maya’s store.”
The sharpened metal chops through a strand, the waves drifting to my feet. Fucking three of them. I swallow a sudden burst of fury and cut again. “Did they see you?”
“No. I had my hood up and it seems like they still only have that one picture of me to go on. For now, anyway.”
“Where are they staying?”
“I dunno,” Harper says. “They were pretty corporate-y types, so I’m assuming the Capeside Inn. But from what they were saying in the shop, they’ll only be here for a week. I caught their names, though—Emma, Charlie, and Tylor.”
I rumble a low note as I continue cutting, the thought of driving these scissors into some unfamiliar person’s eyeball a brief and tempting fantasy.
I make a mental note to check the Capeside Inn’s guest registry as soon as I can.
I’m sure that’s something Harper would like to do herself, judging by the dejected sigh she heaves in front of me.
“So I guess I’ll be lying low for a few days,” Harper says, “but I thought I should take some extra precautions. Hence this . . . situation.” She waves a halo around her head, and I cut the next slice, then even out the subtle irregularities in the length of this first section.
“I guess if they’re passing that picture around town, someone still might point them in my direction.
But I figured it wouldn’t be a bad thing if I don’t match the photo at first glance, just in case they snoop around here while I’m outside. ”
“It’s a good plan,” I say, squeezing her shoulder. The tension in her features softens in the reflection, just for a moment.
“I hope so. Though I’m worried it might confuse Arthur when he sees me.
” She glances down at the sink and the worry is back, creased between her brows.
A familiar irritation spikes in my chest, that none of this would be necessary if Arthur didn’t keep her trapped here.
But before I can follow a spiral of unforgiving thoughts, she says, “Where did you learn how to do this, anyway?”
“I had a girlfriend once who was in cosmetology school. Guess I picked up some tricks when she was practicing.”
A look of absolute darkness flashes across Harper’s face, and I eat that shit up. Her jealousy is like fucking catnip. It’s a little chink in her armor, and all I want to do is wedge it open and climb inside.
“There were always mannequin heads lying around the house,” I barrel on.
“I guess the decapitated-head-in-the-bird-feeder situation makes a little more sense now.”
“I might have styled a few heads in my day. There was this one time that Gisèle—”
“Gisèle?” Harper echoes, turning enough to give me a single narrowed eye.
“I’m trying to cut straight here,” I say, repositioning her head to face forward. “Anyway, yeah. Gisèle. She was French. There was this one time that we—”
“Shut the fuck up, Rhodes.” Harper wheels on me and makes a swipe for the scissors. I hold them out of reach, my laughter filling the small space. Her acidic glare lands on my dimples and I swear I can feel them burning. “You dick. You’re trying to make me jealous.”
“I’m not ‘trying’ shit. I’m succeeding.” I laugh again when she makes another attempt to grab the scissors. A fucking adorable, irritated growl rumbles in her throat. “Hands off the weapons. I’m not done cutting.”
“Yeah, you are. Give those back—I’ll do it myself.” Harper makes one last lunge for the shears, but I’ve already slid my other arm around her waist, drawing her against me. “I bet her name wasn’t even Gisèle. It’s probably fucking Karen or Lauren, for fucksakes.”
I walk her backward until I push her up against the sink, burying my face against the warmth of her neck. “It was a long time ago. You don’t need to give a shit,” I say against her skin. “But I like that you do.”
I press a kiss to Harper’s surging pulse, tightening my hold around her waist when she shivers.
Her hands grip my arms in a way that feels like she’s doing more than just holding on.
Somehow, I get the sense that she’s letting go.
Maybe even letting me in. “Why would you like that?” she asks, her voice breathless when I kiss her neck again.
“Maybe it’s good for my ego.”
“I didn’t think you had any trouble with your ego, Mr. ‘I’ll drag you out of hell if you run from me.’”
I pull away just enough to frame her face with my hands, the scissors still dangling from a finger, a silver spear in the periphery.
But all my attention is on her eyes, those pools of resilience and fear, strength and vulnerability.
I thought I’d fallen in love before. When I look at Harper Starling, I know I was wrong.
“I’ll still drag you out of hell, if you need me to,” I say, brushing a thumb across her cheek, sweeping away the dusting of clipped hairs on her skin.
Harper’s hand lands on mine. She leans into my touch. “You already are,” she says.
When she pulls me into a kiss, I think maybe I’m not the only one who’s in love. Maybe she just needs more time to know that it’s real. Another chink in her armor. Another crack in her shell. But I can’t force those fissures in her shield. She’s the one who needs to break them open to let me in.
With one last sweep of my tongue across hers, I end the kiss, pressing my lips to the tip of her nose before I turn her around to face the mirror.
“Let me finish,” I whisper, gently pulling the elastic from her ponytail to free the next section of hair.
Cut after cut, it becomes less irregular, until the final result looks intentional.
My beautiful Harper, that defiance and determination shining brighter in her eyes.
We spend the rest of the day like a normal couple would.
We fuck in the shower. We make a meal together in the kitchen.
Harper puts Surviving Love on the television, and I pretend to cheer for every couple she hates until she jumps me on the couch and forces my confession.
She checks on Arthur as I do the dishes, and when she returns, we go to bed, wrapped in each other’s arms.
The next morning, I’m up before she wakes.
She doesn’t stir as I make my way to the dresser, where she’s made room on one side of each drawer for my clothes.
I take out the pair of dark gray work pants I know she likes but won’t admit it, and a T-shirt of technical fabric to cope with the suffocating humidity of early summer in Maine.
When I open the underwear drawer, there’s new lingerie on her side, the tags still present from the Starlight Boutique on Main Street.
A purple lace thong with a matching bra.
A red one-piece of mesh fabric. My cock instantly hardens with the thought of her nipple piercings gleaming beneath the thin fabric.
I glance over to the bed, where she sleeps soundly, and I make a mental note to talk to her about fucking her awake sometime.
Christ, if she’s into that, I might never recover.
I pick up a lacy black catsuit just to see how much it covers, but my attention snags on a jewelry box lying beneath it.
Harper rarely wears jewelry, and the idea sparks to life that I could buy her some if I knew what she likes.
But when I open the box, I realize I’ve made a mistake.
I pull out a damaged men’s TAG Heuer Autavia watch, the crystal shattered, the unmoving hands and a date of the twenty-fifth barely visible through the broken glass.
I flip it over. To adventure, the engraved script on the back reads.
It must have belonged to Adam.
It’s not jealousy that chips away at me when I place the watch back in the box and set the lingerie on its surface. When I close the drawer and turn to face my sleeping Harper, it’s only heartache that I feel. I know the grief and guilt that haunt her. And I know they never let go.
I drift silently back to the bed and kneel beside her, listening to the deep, slow breaths that pass through her parted lips. Then I press a gentle kiss to her hair and slip away.
The muted hints of dawn cast the ground floor of the cottage in a gray light.
I set up the stovetop coffee maker for Harper.
The image of the damaged watch still haunts my thoughts as I tear a piece of paper from the notepad next to the toaster.
I start writing, unsure if it’s too much.
Or not enough. But it makes me think of her.