Chapter 21 Hoeing As A Verb
Hoeing As A Verb
Harlee
If this man ruins my life, I’ll thank him for it.
That’s the thought echoing through my head as I lie flat on my back, grinning like I just pulled off something reckless and perfect.
The kind of moment you don’t interrogate too closely because it still feels warm in your hands.
Like if you ask too many questions, it might disappear out from under you.
I should be panicking.I should be doing the math.I should be spiraling into HR-flavored doom with bullet points and disclaimers and my mother’s ghost sighing dramatically in the corner.
But I’m not.
For once, I’m not clawing at the walls or rehearsing my exit strategy. I’m not bargaining with myself or minimizing what this was. I’m just here. In my body. In my bed. Letting the afterglow move through me without guilt.
Letting myself want him.
Moonlight slips through the half-drawn blinds, turning my room silver and soft.
I’m still in my oversized Howard tee, curls damp, socks mismatched and forgotten.
I haven’t moved in a while, partly because I don’t want to disturb the feeling and partly because my body feels lit up, like static humming just under my skin.
August James did this to me.
If I close my eyes, I can still feel the weight of his hand at my lower back—steady, grounding. The way his mouth lingered at my collarbone like he wasn’t finished saying something. Like he was committing me to memory.
“HQ,” I murmur into the quiet, half-laughing, half-wrecked. “You are down catastrophically.”
And the wildest part?
I’m not even slightly embarrassed.
I’ve spent years convincing myself intimacy was a liability. Something to be managed. Contained. Dosed carefully so you didn’t end up needing it. And then he showed up—all calm authority and unhurried confidence—and burned through every defense like it was dry brush.
Now I’m lying here, freshly showered and glowing like I got away with something. I want to crawl inside his hoodie and live there. I want to call Wynter and scream. I want to bottle this feeling and take a shot of it every morning until graduation.
And yeah, I know he’s my boss. I know the stakes. I know better.
I just don’t care tonight.
Because last night wasn’t just flirtation.It wasn’t just chemistry wrapped in bad timing.
It was something that settled into my chest and made itself comfortable.
And if he texted me right now?
I’d climb out the window barefoot.
My phone lights up.
I freeze.
A: You up?
Then, immediately:
A: You must be asleep.
A: Shit, I probably woke you.
My heart does a full Dancing With The Stars routine.
“Did I just manifest this man?” I whisper, clutching my phone like it might explode.
My thumbs hover. Common sense clears her throat loudly. I ignore her.
Me: Hi. Yeah. I’m awake. What’s up?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
A: Can’t sleep. Wanna meet me somewhere?
A: Promise it’ll be worth your while. ??
Heat coils low in my stomach—sharp, instant.
Me: It’s 2 a.m. What kind of trouble are you trying to get us into?
A: Nothing illegal.
A: Questionable judgment, maybe.
A: But I know you’ll like that. Who doesn’t want some fresh air?
I press my face into my pillow, smiling like an idiot.
Of course he does.This man clocks my bad ideas like a sport.
Me: Fresh air, huh?
A: Come outside. One Hour.
My stomach drops.
Me: Now?
A: See you soon.
I sit up so fast I nearly knock over my nightstand.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “He’s outside.”
I pull on leggings, grab the nearest hoodie, shove my feet into Crocs without dignity. I look like chaos. Whatever. If he can’t accept me like this, he doesn’t deserve Beyoncé.
Operation Don’t Wake Wynter is executed with surgical precision. I creep down the hallway, freeze at every sound, curse silently when I forget my keys and have to double back like a criminal retracing her steps.
When I finally slip outside, the night air snaps cold against my skin, sobering and electric all at once.
Across the street, his Tesla idles under a streetlamp, sleek and patient. Like it knew I’d come.
He steps out before I even reach the curb, hoodie up, eyes already on me—not scanning my body, not assessing. Just looking at me.
“Hey,” he says, slow smile already loaded, opening the passenger door. “I was starting to think you were gonna behave.”
“And yet,” I grin, climbing in, “you’re still here.”
“Always,” he says easily. “You don’t scare easy. I like that about you.”
That lands low and warm.Like he’s been watching me longer than tonight.
The door shuts, and warmth wraps around me. He pulls away from the curb, one hand on the wheel, the other settling on my thigh like it belongs there.
Not squeezing. Not wandering. Just present.
Like he knows exactly how much pressure it takes to undo me.
The silence isn’t awkward. It’s alive.
I watch him drive, dash light carving his profile into something sharp and unfair. His thumb moves in slow, absent circles that send heat straight up my spine.
“So,” I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, “you just… needed to see me?”
He exhales through his nose, a quiet laugh. “I got home. Took a shower. Sat on the edge of my bed for twenty minutes doing absolutely nothing.”
He glances at me—just once—eyes dark and intent.
“Then I was in the car.”
A beat.
“I didn’t want the night to end without you.”
That hits harder than the emojis. Harder than the hand on my thigh.
I swallow. “You were just gonna park outside and hope I sensed you?”
“Honestly?” His mouth curves. “Yeah.”
“Stalker behavior.”
“You came out.”
I did.
And we both know why.
But sure, let's pretend this isn't a soft launch to good trouble.
We drive until the city thins, until he turns into a quiet lot by the lake. He parks and cuts the engine. The world drops into a hush so complete it feels intentional.
His hand stays on my thigh.
“I come here when I need quiet,” he says. “Or space. Or when I don’t want to be impressive.”
I look out at the water, then back at him. “So… are we making out in this emotionally significant parking lot, or—”
He laughs, low and warm, shaking his head. “You think that’s why I brought you here?”
“Late-night mystery drive. Slow thigh caress. It’s giving strategy.”
He leans in just enough that the air tightens.
“Si yo te estuviera seduciendo,” he murmurs, Spanish slow and deliberate, the words curling like he knows exactly what they do to me.
I don’t catch every word, just the weight of them.
Whatever he said?
It wasn’t a suggestion.
My pulse stutters. “You’re dangerous,” I say, half warning, half invitation.
“Only if you let me be.”
“So why’d you bring me here?” I ask, softer now.
His smile shifts—loses the edge without losing the heat. “Because I didn’t want to be alone.”
No polish. No performance.
I lean in first.
The kiss lands slow, intentional—not rushed, not hungry. His mouth stays on mine like he’s giving me time to decide if I want this, and when I don’t pull back, his hand slides up, steady, anchoring me there.
It’s not a kiss that takes.
It’s a kiss that claims.
When it breaks, our foreheads rest together, breath mingling, the moment stretched thin and perfect.
“Ven acá,” he says quietly—not a command, not a question.
Just certainty.
He doesn’t pull me.He trusts I’m coming.
I climb into his lap, knees bracketing his hips, settling against his chest like my body already knows the shape of him. His arms wrap around me, solid and warm, holding without urgency, without expectation.
“You know this is a terrible idea,” I murmur.
He hums against my temple. “Yeah. That’s the part you keep smiling about.”
We stay like that.
“I’m not good at soft,” I admit. “I didn’t really get to be after my mom died.”
He listens intently.
“She was in a car accident,” I say. “One day everything was normal. The next… it wasn’t. People wanted the version of me who bounced back. Who didn’t take up space with grief.”
His hand moves up my back, slow and grounding.
“So I learned how to shrink,” I say. “How to be fine even when I wasn’t.”
He’s quiet—not retreating, just choosing honesty.
“When you talked about your mom,” he says finally, “I knew what that kind of before-and-after feels like.”
He doesn’t look at me when he continues.
“My dad got sick when I was a kid. Not long. Stage three brain cancer. He was in his thirties.”
A pause.
“One day he was just… gone from the version of life we knew.”
His hand tightens at my back.
“When the bills stacked up, my mom’s family stepped in. Moved him into hospice before I really understood what that meant.”
The night presses close.
“My abuela went every day,” he says. “Every single day.”
Then, quieter:
“The one night she didn’t… that’s when he died.”
The words settle heavy.
“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” he adds. “He died overnight. Alone.”
I don’t fix it. I don’t rush him. I just stay.
“I learned early not to need too much,” he says. “People leave. Money runs out. Life keeps moving.”
His thumb traces slow circles at my waist.
“So I did too.”
He exhales, like he’s surprised he said any of it at all.
“I don’t do half-way,” he adds quietly. Not a promise. A fact.
It’s not pressure. It’s clarity.
I press my forehead to his. “You don’t have to carry it by yourself.”
His arm tightens once—subtle, certain—like he’s proud I chose this.
We fall quiet again, wrapped together, the car warm and still. The kind of quiet you earn by telling the truth.
Eventually, sleep finds me.
I wake up warm.
Too warm.
August’s arms are wrapped around me, his body curved behind mine like instinct. Like even unconscious, he’s still choosing me.
Morning light spills through the blinds. He’s still asleep, lashes dark against his cheek, breath steady at my neck.
There’s no panic. No urge to run. No shame chasing me out of the room.
Just me, held in something real.
And for now?
That’s enough.