Chapter 3
Three
Harper
“These are really delicious,” Clara says, popping a miniature tart into her mouth, chewing, and swallowing far faster than it takes for me to make the hor d’oeuvres.
So fast, in fact, I feel a little sick.
Why do I spend so much time making this food, only for it to be devoured in a few seconds?
Probably because I charge two-fifty a pop, and Clara’s just made me over seven bucks in the minute we’ve been chatting.
Yeah.
That part.
Stomach settling, I smile at her. “I’m really glad you’re enjoying the food.” I wink at her as I put the finishing touches on my platter of tiny grilled cheese bites, each perched in an oversized spoon of creamy tomato and roasted red pepper soup.
My favorite—just don’t tell anyone.
“It’s delicious,” she semi-repeats through another mouthful of quiche.
“Good,” I say and heft up the platter. “But I do have to order you to stop hiding in the kitchen and go out there and let everyone tell you how fabulous you are.”
Her cheeks go pink, and her eyes slide to the side as she scoops up another quiche. “I don’t even know why I let Luke”—her husband and the man who sweetly went behind her back to hire me—“convince me to have a party.”
I nudge her toward the family room. “Because you got a kickass promotion and deserve to be celebrated.”
“It feels over the top.”
“You’ve worked what? Like twenty years to become a VP. That deserves a celebration. Plus”—I wink again—“jobs like this keep me in business.”
The anxiety bleeds from her face. “You’re right.” A beat. “On both accounts.”
“Darn right, I am. Now get out there and embrace your awesomeness, and if you do it without hiding in the kitchen for the rest of the night, I’ll make sure some extra quiches make their way into your freezer.”
Her eyes light up. “Really?”
“Consider it my gift, Ms. VP.”
She smiles wide. “You’re the best, Harper.” Then she exhales, smooths down her pretty turquoise dress that complements the bright blue of her eyes and marches back out there.
“Good girl,” I whisper, trailing after her and making the rounds. It’s inefficient to cook, plate, and serve, but despite Clara’s nerves, the party isn’t large—just a gathering of their close friends and family, everyone clearly excited for her.
Plus, no assistant means less overhead, which means more money in my bank account.
Running a small business is hard—my landlord just raised my rent and don’t even get me started on food costs rising (thanks, inflation), but the economy being what it is means that people aren’t throwing catered parties left and right.
I don’t blame them.
If times are tight and someone still wants to celebrate, people cut the extras.
I do too.
I can’t remember the last time I got my hair cut or my nails done.
Everything left over at the end of the month either goes to paying off my student loans and the debts left over from when my mom got sick or toward my business.
I would love to hire a permanent assistant, but the ovens need replacing first. And there are self-employment taxes, rising health care costs—the last being a nonnegotiable expense.
Part of the reason things are so hard right now is because my mom lost her insurance.
We paid out of pocket for a lot of things and… it still didn’t matter.
She died anyway.
So, on top of everything, I had to find the money for a funeral.
Who knew just burying someone was so expensive?
But I didn’t give up. And I’m slowly crawling my way out.
Because…hustling.
Because a woman always needs a backup plan, needs the ability to support herself, needs to always have a way out.
Even if, sometimes, it would be really nice to have a partner to share the load.
I can’t wait to see you again.
I pause my plating of the slices of delicious lemon torte, piled high with plenty of toasted meringue and breathe.
No shaky hands here as I carefully place the curls of crystallized lemon peel on top of that pillowy meringue.
Nope.
I will not let a man fuck this up for me.
Been there, done that. Got the souvenir heartbreak.
So did my mom.
Go us.
I push Leo’s voice aside, hating that I’m still doing it nearly two months later, hating that during these last eight weeks I’ve hung out with Luna and Faye and Kailey and Bri enough times to find out…
Leo has a girlfriend.
He couldn’t wait to see me again.
Then couldn’t wait to tell me our night was just a night.
Now he has a girlfriend.
Cute.
Laughter rings out from the other room and I jerk, though thankfully my hands are well-away from the dessert.
“Focus, Harp,” I whisper.
I blow out a breath and quickly finish with the pieces of crystallized lemon peel. Then I give the tray a final once-over.
“Good,” I murmur before lifting it up from the counter.
From there, it’s short work to pass out the desserts. Cleaning up takes longer, just because it’s only me doing it, and even though I always do my best to wash as I cook and prep, things just…accumulate.
So, the party is winding down, goodbyes ringing through the air as I’m finishing loading up my car.
I slam the trunk, roll my shoulders, and press my hand to my stomach.
It’s upset, just riding the edge of queasiness, and I try to remember the last time I ate.
Since that remembering does nothing but draw a blank, I commit to swinging by In-N-Out on the way home—a double-double with well-done fries and a Neapolitan shake sounds killer right about now.
“Harper?”
I turn, see that Clara has come out.
Frowning, thinking she should be putting her feet up and calling it a night, I hurry over to her. Maybe I forgot something?
“Here,” she says when I get close, pressing an envelope into my hand.
A quick glance shows it’s cash. “Oh,” I say, trying to hand it back. “Your hubby already took care—”
“I know.” She pushes it back. “That’s for you. Thank you for everything.”
“I—”
But my protest is cut off by her tight hug, her whispered, “For everything,” so I just hug her back and pocket the envelope.
“Congratulations again,” I tell her. “And thank you for being so wonderful.”
She steps back, smiles. “That’s my line.” Then she waves a hand. “Now, I’ve kept you here long enough. Go on. Get.”
I grin. “Night, Ms. VP.”
“Night, epic-caterer-who-makes-delicious-miniature-quiches-that-are-going-to-be-devoured-tomorrow.”
Laughing, I wave and head for my car then pull out onto the road and hit the highway.
But as the quiet hits me, so does the fatigue and the upset tummy…
And the upset heart.
Pathetic.
I stop at the In-N-Out closest to my apartment, and get that double-double, the fries, the shake. It smells delicious, and I can’t help but start in on it as I drive home.
But the more I eat, the less good it tastes.
And by the time I walk into my quiet, empty apartment, I feel sick again.
Probably because I’m hanging my coat on the hook right beside where I hung his jacket two months ago.
Because then I’m walking by the couch where he gave me the best kiss of my life.
And moving through the kitchen where I whipped up a midnight snack for us so we had strength for the next round, by the counter he’d swept me up onto and thoroughly distracted me…
before licking the chocolate spread off most of my naked body—
“Jesus, Harp,” I hiss, slamming the lid on those thoughts. “It was one damned night.”
Stomach churning, sick with how ridiculous I’m being, I give up on my dinner. I toss it, head into the bathroom and take a shower. It’s short and hot, fatigue sitting heavily on me as I go through the necessary motions. Then I moisturize—because a girl always has to moisturize—and brush my teeth.
Less than five minutes later, I’m in comfy pajamas, the covers pulled up to my chin.
But even though I’m exhausted, I toss and turn and stay awake.
Ugh.
I turn on a show, something boring that will make my empty bedroom (my empty life) feel less empty, and eventually—after a long, long time—it works.
I fall asleep.
Unfortunately, the last thing I hear before I nod off is,
I can’t wait to see you again.