Chapter 47 Leave It On The Table
Leave It On The Table
Harlee
I’m curled in my usual spot, a soft knitted throw draped over my knees, my phone resting in my hands as if it’s always belonged there.
The chess app glows against my skin, pieces sliding across the board in quiet, ruthless strategy.
I’m deep in it—calculating moves, waiting for my opponent halfway across the world to blink—when the air in the room shifts.
I glance up.
August strolls in fresh from a run, trouble wrapped in grey cotton.
Sweat darkens his beater, clinging in glints and shadows, and the sharp mix of warm afternoon air and exertion hits me before he says a word.
He toes off his sneakers with easy precision, the kind that makes me wonder if there’s anything in his life he fumbles.
He glides to the fridge, hips and shoulders moving to whatever bass leaks from his headphones. Too smooth. Too good. Like poetry that knows it’s poetry. My chest warms, but there’s a faint pinch in my jaw I don’t name.
He circles the couch and leans down, lips puckered in a silent c’mon. I tip my head back, eyes closing as I kiss him, my arms sliding around his neck. The scent of him—clean soap layered with sweat—wraps around me, fogging my brain.
Then he squeezes my boob, grinning, and pulls back just long enough to slip his headphones off.
“I’m going to shower,” he says, low and tempting. “Wanna join me?”
My mouth curves slow. “Absolutely.”
One steamy shower later, we’re in the kitchen—August commanding it like a personal stage. He’s shirtless now, hair damp and curling at the edges, moving between the island and the stove with a level of focus that feels almost unfair.
Pie filling, sliced fruit, flaky pastry sheets spread out like an artist’s palette. Every reach makes the muscles in his back shift under the warm light. I lean against the counter across from him, chin in my hand, pretending I’m just here for the food.
Watching him cook for me has become a lowkey turn-on. Maybe because he does it with the same confidence he does everything else.
“It’s like you’re trying to trap me with sugar and sex so I never leave,” I say, stealing a strawberry from his cutting board.
He looks up with that lazy, dangerous smile. “Damn. Caught me.”
“Please.” I laugh, brushing sugar from my fingertip. “You were on full demon time an hour ago. You know exactly what you’re doing.”
He slides a warm, golden pastry onto a plate and nudges it toward me. “I hear no complaints.”
“Who said I was complaining?” I bite in—buttery, sweet, perfect—and the sound I make earns a low groan from him.
“Keep that up and I’m putting you back in the shower,” he warns, coming around the counter. His hand settles at my waist, thumb brushing my hip like it’s nothing.
Everything feels easy. Warm. Like we’re sealed inside our own bubble.
Then my phone lights up beside me.
Unknown number.
The bubble pops.
I answer before I can think too hard about it. “Hello?”
“Hey Harlee, it’s Imani from EchoHouse. How are you today?”
Her voice is warm, instantly disarming.
“Imani! Hey, I’m good,” I say, smiling into the phone.
She’s fresh back from her honeymoon, joy spilling as she talks beaches and room service. I lean against the counter, tracing sugar dust on my plate, grinning the whole time.
Across the island, August keeps moving, plating pastries and sliding something back into the oven. Every so often, his gaze flicks up, as if he’s tracking my energy without even realizing it.
“I won’t keep you long,” she says. “I just wanted to see if you were still interested in joining our team.”
Oh. My. God.
“Of course,” I breathe.
“Wonderful,” she says. “Because we’d love to offer you the position—Assistant Finance Director, entertainment division.”
My hand flies to my chest. “Yes. Absolutely. Thank you.”
She laughs, promises to send the offer letter, starts rattling off details I barely register because my brain has snagged on the salary number.
There’s a soft clink of metal against marble from August’s side of the counter. Not loud enough to mean anything. I file it away anyway.
We hang up. I set my phone down with hands that won’t quite stop shaking.
“Babe?” My voice wobbles, like saying it out loud might make it real.
He’s already watching me, towel slung over his shoulder, head tilted.
“I got the job.”
In two long strides, he’s around the counter, lifting me off the floor and spinning me as laughter and pride spill out of him.
“That’s amazing,” he says, breath warm against my ear. “I’m so proud of you.”
When he sets me down, his hands cup my face, eyes bright. “Congratulations. I knew you had it.”
“I didn’t.” I laugh. “I thought they forgot about me.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” he teases, kissing my nose, then my mouth. “So… what’s the offer?”
“She’s sending it over. I kind of stopped listening after ‘offer letter.’”
He throws his head back and laughs, kissing me again before leaning against the counter to watch me buzz around the kitchen. Music hums low from the speaker, and before I realize it, I’m moving—hips rolling, skin still humming from the shower. His eyes track me, warm and amused.
“Look at you,” he says, voice soft with a faint edge I almost miss. “My little dancing queen.”
I stick my tongue out, but standing still feels impossible. Like all this joy would have nowhere to go if I stopped.
Across the counter, he wipes his hands on a towel, watching me a beat longer than before. Still attractive. Just… not as easy.
The email comes through mid-twerk. I laugh and drop onto a stool, breathless. When I open it, my pulse kicks. The words blur, then snap into focus.
“Babe…” my voice stretches, soft but heavy. My phone suddenly weighs a ton in my hands. “It’s here. The offer. I… need to talk to you about something.”
He’s already looking at me, but his hands keep moving—folding the towel, setting it down with care. “How much are they paying, baby? Better be some zeros on that thing.”
The smile’s there, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. When he catches my face, it fades. “What’s wrong?”
I take a breath. “They need me to relocate to Burbank within thirty days.” My voice stays steady, even if I’m not. “That means leaving Chicago at the end of next month.”
For a moment, the music is the only sound. His jaw tightens once. “Can’t you negotiate that? People do it all the time.”
“I already tried,” I say. “It’s non-negotiable. First year, three days a week in office. I can choose the days, but…”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. His gaze slides away for half a second too long. “Damn. That sucks. I know how bad you wanted EchoHouse.”
The words land wrong. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs, relaxed in posture, not in tone. “They can’t seriously expect you to drop everything and move across the country.”
“They can,” I say, heat sparking. “And I can. They’re covering relocation and housing.”
“That’s nice,” he says, waving a hand. Too sharp to be casual. “But relocation’s a drop in the bucket. There’s way more you could negotiate.”
“For you, maybe.” My voice lifts. “For me? This is huge. It’s EchoHouse, August. This changes everything.”
I start pacing, phone clenched in my hand. “This isn’t just a job. It’s my dream. Everything I’ve worked for. My want.”
His arms fold across his chest. Closed. “You’re not seriously considering it, are you?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I shoot back. “It’s an incredible opportunity.”
“There’s more at stake than EchoHouse,” he says, jaw tight.
“Like what?”
“Us.” Quiet. Firm. “Burbank is across the country. You’d be dismantling your whole life.”
The word stings. “Throwing everything away? You’ve always told me to chase opportunities.”
“I still believe that,” he says carefully. “But we were talking about moving in together. And I don’t live in LA.”
“You don’t,” I say. “But maybe LA could be a vibe. Trying new things, right?”
His brows lift, disbelief flashing. “This isn’t a new restaurant, Harlee. This is our life.”
“I know that,” I say, heat rushing up my neck. “But this is my career. I can’t pass up EchoHouse because it’s inconvenient.”
He steps closer, voice dropping. “Inconvenient? We’ve been planning a future here. And now you’re ready to blow that up for a job?”
“I’m not blowing anything up!” I snap. “Why can’t you see this as growth? You’re the one who’s always told me to go after more.”
Hurt flickers across his face. “Of course I want you to grow, but—”
“But what?” I cut him off, pulse pounding. “But only if it fits into your plans? Only if it doesn’t inconvenience you?”
He recoils, tone sharpening. “You know that’s not what I mean.”
“Then don’t patronize me,” I snap. “Don’t act like I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve thought about this. I’ve weighed the pros and cons. This isn’t a whim.”
The kitchen island stretches between us like an ocean.
“Wait.” His head tilts, eyes narrowing. “So, you have thought about it. Then why is this the first time I’m hearing about it?”
“I mean—yeah. Wynter and I have talked about LA our entire lives. Of course I’ve thought about living there.”
Something in him finally breaks.
“So, tell me, Harlee,” he says quietly, the words cutting anyway, “are you building a future with me… or with Wynter?”
The question lands like a slap.
“Excuse me?” Heat floods my chest. “That’s not fair. You’re making it sound like I’ve been living some secret double life.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.” His jaw tightens. He doesn’t blink.
“I’m telling you it’s not like that,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “But you’re so busy feeling blindsided you won’t even listen.”
“Maybe because this is the first I’m hearing that LA isn’t just a fantasy,” he fires back. “You’ve been planting roots there in your head, Harlee. And I didn’t even know.”
I step closer, frustration tangling with hurt. “Planting roots? I’m talking about one year. Three days a week in office. Not a lifetime. Why are you acting like I’m ripping everything out here?”