16. Harper
HARPER
Imake it back to my suite before the sun is fully up.
Barely.
The corridor is empty and the stone floors are cool under my bare feet and I’m carrying my gold heels in one hand and my good sense in approximately none of them and I walk fast with my head down until my suite door closes behind me with a soft click.
I stand in the middle of the room in last night’s dress.
What did you do?
I had the best night of my life, that’s what I did.
Did I just answer my own question? Um, yeah, I did, and I’m not even going to try to lie about how much I liked it.
You know, aside from the fact that— okay, there are several reasons this is complicated and I’m not listing them right now because my brain doesn’t have that kind of bandwidth at six in the morning.
Shit. Fuck. I need to sit down.
I guess I forgot that I’m already sitting down on the edge of my bed in the south of France at six in the morning with my shoes in my hand and the specific, undeniable physical evidence of the best night of my life and I cannot think straight and that’s fine.
Totally fine. My brain will come back online eventually. Probably.
It was so good I can’t even be upset about it and that might actually be the most unhinged part of this entire situation.
Shower. Yeah. I need a shower.
I need a shower and a glass of water and approximately forty-eight hours alone with my thoughts before I’m capable of having an adult conversation about any of this. In that order.
I peel myself off the bed and make it to the bathroom.
The water is hot and I stand under it for a long time. Not thinking. Not processing. Just standing there letting the steam do whatever steam does because my brain has officially filed for early retirement and I’m not fighting it.
The soreness registers somewhere around minute three and close my eyes and try extremely hard not to smile.
Fail. I stand there in a very expensive shower in a vineyard in Bordeaux grinning like an idiot and I have absolutely no defense for myself. None.
I wash my hair. I condition it. I do all the normal responsible things a normal responsible person does after an extremely irresponsible night and by the time I turn the water off I have arrived at approximately zero conclusions except that I’m going to need coffee and I’m going to need it immediately.
I brush my teeth. I wrap myself in the thick terry robe on the back of the door and walk out into the suite starting to feel a little bit more stable.
“Well look who finally made it back.”
I practically jump, gripping the robe at my neck. “Jesus, Soph!” I catch my breath. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
She’s on her stomach across my bed, ankles crossed in the air behind her, chin in both hands, wearing an oversized sleep shirt and the grin of a woman who has been waiting for exactly this moment and enjoyed every second of the anticipation. “Your door was unlocked.”
“That doesn’t mean come in.”
“You’ve been gone all night, I was worried.”
“You don’t look worried.”
“I got over it.” She tilts her head. “So. Where were you?”
I cross to the vanity and start doing something, anything, with my hair. “I was out.”
“Out.”
“Enjoying the estate. The grounds are beautiful at night.”
“Harper. We all left the party hours ago except you and…”
I meet her eyes in the mirror. “You were awake?”
“Enzo and I had a late night slash early morning,” She waves a hand.
“Well, what were you two…”
“Stop deflecting,” she laughs.
I say nothing and focus very hard on detangling a section of hair that does not require this much attention.
Sophia rolls off the bed and appears behind me in the mirror, looking at my face with the focused attention of a woman who has known me for six years and has never once been successfully lied to by me. Her eyes go wide. Then delighted.
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t.”
“Harper.”
“I’m begging you.”
“WHO.”
I put the comb down and cover my face with both hands and Sophia grabs my shoulders from behind and shakes me exactly once.
“You’re glowing,” she informs me, voice pitching up. “You are literally glowing. Your skin is doing a whole thing right now.”
“It’s the shower products, they’re very good, you should—”
“Harper Brooks.”
“Sophia Thorne,” and instantly the memory of Killian between my legs flashes through my mind. I shake my head, physically shake my head to try to focus, but dammit, it’s not working.
She laughs, sudden and bright, and drops onto the little velvet bench behind me. “You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met and I grew up watching my mother lie to my father.”
“That’s a very high bar.”
“You clear it effortlessly.” Her voice goes softer. “Are you okay?”
The shift in her tone does what it always does. I look at her reflection and she’s looking back at me, not teasing anymore, just present. Real.
“Yeah,” I say. And I mean it, which is almost the strangest part of the whole morning. “I really am.”
She holds my gaze for a second. Nods. Lets it go, which is one of the things I love most about her. She always knows the difference between when to press and when to just be.
The grin comes back. She props her chin in her hand. “Good. So…”
I look at her waiting for her to finish. “So…what?”
“Was it good?”
My eyes go wide. “Sophia.”
“Like I don’t need to know who did what because, ew, but like on a scale of one to—”
“Absolutely not discussing this with you.”
“I mean, unless there was a barback last night I didn’t notice, there are only three possible,” she goes quiet and then gasps a sound, “HARPER!”
Oh, God. “I didn’t say anything!”
“You went red.”
“It’s warm in here.”
“It’s barely twenty degrees, Harper.”
I pick up the comb again just to have something to do with my hands.
Sophia watches me with the patience of a woman who has infinite time and nowhere to be, and after about ten seconds of aggressive combing I give up and drop back onto the bench beside her and she immediately tips sideways and puts her head on my shoulder and I let out a breath.
“One question,” she says.
“No.”
“Are you my new mom?”
I put my face in my hands again. She laughs until the bench shakes and honestly. Honestly. This is fine. The smile is back and maybe it just gets to stay today.
The chime from my phone on the nightstand cuts through the room, then another, two more in quick succession, and Sophia glances over.
“Oh, yeah. That’s been going off.”
“For how long?”
“An hour? Maybe longer.”
“Why didn’t you check it?”
“Because I don’t want to see any eggplants that could land me in therapy. You’re welcome.”
I reach for my phone. Notifications from Maddox that I clock and immediately set aside because I need to be emotionally prepared before I open those.
One from Asher. One from Killian that is just my name and a period, which in Killian’s communication style constitutes an entire paragraph.
I’ll deal with all of those later when I have coffee in my system and a functioning nervous system to go with it.
And then, below those, from an unknown number with a New York area code.
Four missed calls.
I stare at them.
The warmth drains out of me in one clean pull.
Below the calls, a text.
Unknown: Sweet pea, we raised you better than this. We know where you are. Call us back.
I go very still.
The sunshine is still coming through the windows. Sophia is still warm beside me. The vineyard rows are still out there in the morning light, silver-green and quiet. None of it feels the same as it did thirty seconds ago.
I know that number. I deleted it eight months ago with the deliberate intent of someone closing a door for good.
But I know that area code. I know sweet pea in my mother’s handwriting.
I know the exact flavor of that sentence, the passive menace dressed up as concern, the implication folded into it that I have done something wrong simply by existing somewhere they didn’t put me.
They know where I am.
“Harper.” Sophia’s hand finds my arm. Her voice has changed. “What is it?”
I set the phone face down on the nightstand.
“Nothing,” I say. Steady. “I’m fine.”
I’m not fine. But I’ve been not fine before with a lot less underneath me than I have right now. I got through all of it.
I’ll get through this too.
I just need a minute.
And coffee.
Definitely the coffee first.