Chapter 20 The Space Between Yes and No #2
And yeah, I’m definitely about to lose on purpose.
When she wins—and of course she wins—she doesn’t even gloat. Not really.
She just holds out her hand like she’s claiming a trophy. “That’s lunch next week, and my NYC fantasy secured. I want dessert too.”
“You’re insatiable.”
“You’re gluttony,” she shoots back, grinning.
We grab our things and step outside, the air cool enough to make you lean closer without admitting it.
She links her arm through mine like it’s natural, like we’re not two people trying not to name what we’re doing.
“So, about that New York trip…” I start.
She laughs, tipping her head back. “I was absolutely kidding. You can just order me lunch. Something vegan and unnecessarily complicated.”
“Noted.”
But I’m already looking up reservations in Manhattan in my head.
I open the car door for her and she slides in, still warm from laughter. The city lights smear across the windshield like gold thread as I pull off.
A few quiet minutes pass, and then she says, almost casually, like she’s dropping a pebble into water just to watch how deep it goes.
“My mom died in a car accident.”
My hands tighten on the wheel, but I don’t interrupt. I don’t make it about me. I just listen.
“It was Christmas Eve,” she continues. “Snowstorm. We were driving to New York for my birthday. I was knocked out in the backseat. Still had my coat on.” Her voice stays steady, but I hear the effort in it. “I woke up in the hospital.”
My chest goes tight.
“That’s… all I remember. And everything after that is just… flashes.” She exhales. “Since then, cars feel like cages.”
She looks out the window like the city is easier to face than me.
“People think it’s funny,” she says. “‘Girl, you still don’t drive?’ Like it’s a personality trait.” Her mouth tightens. “But every time I try, my whole body locks.”
I keep my eyes on the road, but I soften everything I can. Speed. Lane changes. Music. My own breath.
“So I walk,” she says. “I Uber. I take the train. Whatever keeps me from being behind the wheel.”
I want to reach over. Not to fix. Just to say I see you. I hear you. I’m here.
“You don’t have to explain that to me,” I say quietly. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
She turns her head just enough to look at me. The streetlight catches her face, soft gold, and her eyes are open in a way that feels like trust.
Her “But I want to” hits me somewhere I can’t name.
She extends her hand across the console—hesitant, then deliberate. Our fingers find each other.
I intertwine mine with hers. At the red light, I press my lips to her knuckles, gentle as if the moment might flee.
We drive in silence, connected palm to palm, until water glimmers ahead.
She straightens. “The lake?”
I give her a half-smile. “You’ll see.”
The car glides into a private harbor lot and settles into stillness.
I reach for the glove compartment.
Her eyes widen as I withdraw a length of black satin.
“August...” she sighs.
“What? A little suspense never hurt.”
“My lashes better survive this—“
“If they don’t, I’ll replace them. I’ll even put them on.”
“You’d sabotage them deliberately.”
“Without question.”
She mumbles something, but she’s already securing the blindfold, protecting her carefully done makeup.
I circle the car to her door. Her hand finds my forearm as I help her out, her sneakers crunch against concrete.
Standing behind her, I touch the knot at her nape.
“Ready for this?” I ask.
“If I fall, I’m taking you down with me.”
“Trust me,” I murmur against her ear. “We’ve arrived.”
She responds with a silent nod.
I loosen the blindfold carefully.
She blinks into focus, her mouth falling open.
Before us, the yacht bathes in dock light, a table set at the bow, candles dancing in the evening air.
Her gaze returns to mine.
“August...”
I extend my hand.
“Let’s go,” I say. “I want to adore you properly tonight.”
We walk the dock side by side, the water whispering against the wood, the night crisp and clear. The yacht’s glow spills around us, as if we’ve stepped into another world.
Harlee stays quiet, but it’s not avoidance—it’s her mind working.
At the gangplank, I steady her. She hesitates on deck, scanning for a trap.
There isn’t one.
She pauses at the table, eyes flicking over every detail before coming back to me.
“You planned all this?” she asks in a low voice. “For me?”
“Of course,” I say.
Her gaze hunts mine, searching for the punch line.
Then she leans back, narrowing her eyes, making a calculation.
“Why?” she asks, tone sharp. “Why risk everything on me? You don’t know me that well, August.”
There it is: not insecurity, but a warning.
Her eyes hold mine. “I could fuck your life up.”
I release a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Leaning forward, elbows on the table, I lower my voice.
“I know you,” I say. “Not every scar, not every story, but enough.”
She lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed by sentiment.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” I reply. “And that’s why I’m cautious. But still oh so curious.”
She studies me, hunting for arrogance or bullshit.
“You built an empire by not being impulsive,” she says.
“I built it by reading risks,” I correct. “And you’re a risk.”
She quirks a half-smile.
“But you’re not reckless,” I continue. “You’re precision wrapped in attitude.”
She laughs under her breath, partly annoyed that I see her so clearly.
“I’m still figuring things out,” she admits. “I don’t want to start something I can’t finish.”
“I’m not asking for a finish line,” I say. “I want to know if this is more than a fling.”
Her expression softens, just a bit.
“I don’t know yet,” she says. “But it’s not just sex.”
Relief washes over me, slow and deep.
“All right,” I nod. “That’s enough.”
She sips her champagne, gaze sharper now.
“And you?” she asks. “Is this real for you? Or rebellion with bomb-ass pussy?”
I laugh, partly surprised.
“Harlee,” I say, “I knew I was in trouble when I started looking forward to your bad moods.”
She smirks, trying to read me.
I reach across the table and take her hands. “No games,” I tell her. “You get under my skin. I don’t want this to end because we can’t name it.”
Something shifts in her chest, visible in her eyes.
“I’m not ready to name it,” she says. “But it’s more than I planned.”
That’s enough.
I stand and gently lift her hand. “Dance with me.”
“To what?” she asks, wary.
I tap my phone. 'Hold Me' by Janine drifts through the speakers.
Her smile deepens. “Okay. I see you.”
I draw her close, moving with the boat’s gentle rock, candlelight flickering around us.
No words, just motion.
Her forehead rests against my chest. I kiss the top of her head, quiet and reverent.
My hands settle at her waist, then her hips—steady, gentle, asking only what she gives.
She leans back to look at me, lashes still perfect, mouth soft.
I grin. “Glad the blindfold didn’t ruin those lashes.”
“You’re lucky,” she murmurs.
We sway until the night feels like a cocoon.
Then she lifts her chin and kisses me.
Not long. Not dramatic. Just intentional.
A kiss that tastes like trust.
When she pulls away, her eyes are glossy, as if she’s surprised by the moment too.
She doesn’t speak.
Neither do I.
Because we’ve already said it all.
In the end, we step off the boat, and she keeps my hand locked in hers all the way to the car.
Once we’re inside, she stretches her hand across the console, palm facing up, as if it’s become instinct.
I slide my fingers between hers. The radio is off.
All that fills the car is the low roar of the engine and the soft rhythm of her breathing.
At the midpoint of the drive, I look over. She’s not dozing; she’s simply here in the moment, with nothing to conceal. Her hand still grips mine as though she’s choosing this with each passing minute.
When we arrive at her apartment building, a chill has settled in the air. She hugs her jacket closer, and I hop out to open her door—naturally. She steps onto the pavement and threads her arm through mine. We walk up the steps together, silence between us that feels well deserved.
Standing before her door, she turns to face me. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“For what?” I ask.
“For not giving me reason to regret tonight.”
My chest tightens. “You thought I might?” I counter.
She shrugs, her eyes dropping momentarily. “Not expecting exactly. Just… bracing myself.”
I want to tell her she can lower her guard around me—that I see her, and I’m not going anywhere.
But she moves forward, her fingers catching on the front of my bomber jacket, curling around the zipper like she needs something tangible.
Then she kisses me—gentle, unhurried, every bit as deliberate as it feels.
Her hands slide up to my jaw, drawing me closer as though she’s terrified the moment will vanish. I loop my arms around her, holding her steady, showing her just how much I mean it. The kiss grows deeper, steady and controlled, yet fiercely alive.
When she breaks away, her lips hover near mine, her warm breath brushing my skin. “Want to come up?” she murmurs, as though she’s weighing her own words.
If I follow her upstairs now, I’d turn all her trust tonight into something purely physical, something it doesn’t warrant. Damn, I want to. Every inch of me wants to. Instead, I brush a kiss across her forehead and let it hang between us.
“I do,” I say softly. “But I don’t think we should cross that line again tonight.”
She stays still, her gaze locked on me, then nods, as if she begrudgingly admires my restraint. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I know.”
“I’ll wait,” I promise. But I won't make it easy.
She steps back, unlocks her door, and turns in the glow of the hallway light, looking like the best choice I’ve ever made. “Goodnight, August.”
“Goodnight, Harlee.”
I don’t budge until the door clicks closed. Even then, I stay rooted for a beat longer, as if my hands still rest on her waist, as if my chest still cradles her head.
Not an ending—just the beginning of something I’m determined not to break.