Chapter 47 Leave It On The Table #2
“I’m trying to be realistic,” he says, voice even but edged. “Moving across the country changes more than a zip code. A year there means a year your life shifts without me in it. That’s not a blip.”
His words keep coming. “How do you expect me to balance that? Flying back and forth every weekend? Burning half your paycheck just to stay connected?”
“And what’s the alternative?” I snap. “Let my roots here stop me from planting anything new? Stay because it’s safer for you?”
“There’s a difference,” he says, eyes flashing, “between growing together and growing apart.”
“That’s not what this is.” My voice trembles, but I hold it steady. “A year in LA doesn’t mean tearing us out. It means giving myself sunlight.”
He studies me, silence thick and heavy. “If that’s sunlight,” he says finally, quiet and cutting, “why does it feel like shade from where I’m standing?”
Something sharp twists in my stomach. His eyebrows lift, disbelief layered with irritation. “Right—because you don’t always think that far ahead.”
The words hit hard.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” My voice drops, dangerous.
He exhales, grabs a wine glass, sets it down with a clink too loud for the room. The cabinet closes with precise control before he looks at me again. “I’m being honest,” he says evenly. “Which I’m allowed to be.”
“Honest,” I bite back, “or telling me what to do with my life?”
His jaw ticks, arms crossing. “I’m saying you lead with emotion instead of thinking about the bigger picture.”
The air thickens. My heart races, breath too fast.
“What am I not thinking about?” My hands curl into fists.
“This.” His hand cuts through the space between us. “You don’t even know Burbank. You’ve never been there. And now you’re ready to uproot your life for the first offer?”
“Wynter did it—”
“?Carajo, Harlee! You’re not Wynter!” His voice cracks through the room.
“And your point?”
“My point,” he snaps, “is you don’t have to grab the first shiny thing thrown at you. There will be other offers. Ones that don’t blow up your life.”
My face burns. “You don’t think I can do it. You don’t believe in me.”
He steps forward, hands tight at his sides. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “You’re comfortable calling this a bad decision, because it's not one you came up with.”
His eyes go darker. If I wasn’t so wound up, I’d see the hurt there, but all I see is red.
“You only seem fine with my choices when they match yours,” I push, my voice climbing.
“Don’t pretend this is impulsive—I’ve been applying for months.
This is my second offer. And I’m not turning it down because it doesn’t fit your perfect little plan. ”
He drags a hand over his beard, rough enough to leave it mussed, his breathing heavy now. “Fine,” he says, low but fierce. “If you’ve thought it through—what do you expect me to do? Follow you? My life is here. I’m not uprooting everything because you want to chase a job.”
It knocks the air from my lungs. I stumble back into the love sac, the plush catching my hip. My hands grip the edge like I need the grounding.
“But I’m supposed to give up my shot at a career because you’ve already got yours?
” My voice shakes, equal parts fury and hurt.
“What about my future? What about me finally saying yes to the things I want?” I blink hard against the sting in my eyes.
“Or was all that talk about supporting me just bullshit to keep me happy and quiet?”
August’s eyes flare. “?Qué carajo estás diciendo? Bullshit? After everything I’ve done to support you?” His voice is louder now, sharp enough to cut.
“You’re supporting me right now by telling me not to take the biggest opportunity of my life?” I shoot back, stepping around the couch like I need the extra room to breathe.
“I’m supporting you by making sure you don’t burn your whole life down for a maybe,” he fires back. “You think they’re gonna care about you a year from now? You’re just another name on payroll, Harlee. I care about you—I’m the one who’s here when the shit hits the fan.”
“And I’m supposed to throw my dreams in the trash so you can feel secure?” My voice breaks, but I shove past it. “Newsflash, August, you’re not the only thing in my life worth fighting for.”
“Don’t twist this!” He’s pacing now, big strides that eat the space between us before he stops short, hands braced on the counter like he’s holding himself back from slamming a fist. “You make it sound like I’m the bad guy for wanting the life we talked about!”
I stumble on the edge of the rug, catching myself on the back of the couch. My pulse is a drumline in my ears. “The life you talked about. Maybe I don’t want to be boxed in by your definition of ‘together.’”
His laugh is sharp, humorless. “Boxed in? Baby, I’ve bent over backwards to make sure you had room to breathe in this relationship.”
“Then let me breathe!” I yell, and the sound ricochets off the kitchen walls, leaving a thick silence in its wake.
He’s staring at me now, chest heaving, jaw locked so tight I can see the muscle jump. “Careful,” he says quietly, but there’s nothing soft in it. “You’re talking like you’re already gone.”
I swallow hard, the fire still burning in my chest, but my throat feels tight. “Maybe I am.”
His eyes widen—shock, hurt—like I just slapped him. For a second, I feel a sick satisfaction at shaking his composure.
“Whoa. What? I never said any of that. Harlee—” His voice dips, almost pleading, but I’m too far gone.
“What about what I want?” My voice ricochets off the floor-to-ceiling windows. “It’s my life—mine. And I’m not putting it on hold because you’re unwilling to adjust.”
His jaw flexes. “Ain’t nobody adjusting just for you to change your mind in five minutes,” he says, voice low and dangerous, before turning away, shoulders tight.
Something in me snaps. I cross the room, heat rolling off him, pastries and cologne in the air—normally a weakness, now gasoline on the fire.
“Don’t you walk away from me.” I grab his arm. He turns, close enough that I can see the faint sheen of sweat along his temple. Our eyes lock, the storm in his dark gaze a mirror of mine, and for a breath, I’m not sure if we’re about to fight or kiss.
He doesn’t back away, and neither do I. His breath is warm against my cheek; my pulse hammers in my throat.
The air between us tastes electric, sharp with everything unsaid.
For one dangerous second, I feel myself leaning in—just enough for my chest to brush his—before reality crashes back.
We’re not leaning in to close the distance; we’re squaring off to win.
“Is that what this is about?” My voice is low, sharp. “You’re throwing my uncertainty back in my face? You said it was okay to try everything!”
“It is,” he grinds out. “But let’s be real. This isn’t your forever job—it’s a stepping stone. Uprooting your whole life for something you might hate? That’s not just risky, Harlee. That’s irresponsible for us.”
Us. The word lands heavy. My eyes burn, but I refuse to blink.
“So I should just pass because you’ve decided I’ll quit before I start? You travel for work all the time—what’s the difference?”
“No, joder, it’s not the same!” His voice jumps, and when his hands drag through his hair, my eyes catch on the flex of his tattooed forearms—something I shouldn’t be noticing right now.
“My travel is part of my job. Clients all over the country. I’ve adjusted my schedule for you.
Living in two different states isn’t the same as me flying out for a few days. ”
“Accommodate my needs? The fuck?” My fists curl. “Because I don’t want to sit here like a houseplant waiting to be watered, that’s a problem?”
He tilts his head back, jaw sharp under the light. “I run a multimillion-dollar company and still give you every spare moment. That’s all I meant.”
“A fact you’re throwing in my face.”
“Because it’s relevant! I never asked you to wait around. I’m saying if you think it’s bad now, imagine when we’re across the country.”
“Oh, so planes don’t exist?” My voice wavers, small but sharp. “You mean you’d be too busy to come see me.”
“Harlee, come on, let’s not—”
“No, August. Since you want to dictate my career, explain why I should stay in your house, living your life, just because you’re scared I might hate my job.”
He exhales hard, eyes narrowing. “Esto es ridículo. We’re arguing about hypotheticals.” He steps closer this time, enough that my back brushes the island. His voice drops, heat in every syllable. “If you move to Burbank… we won’t make it.”
The words hit like a punch. I stumble back fully into the counter, hip catching the edge. “So you wouldn’t even try?”
Silence. His jaw works, eyes conflicted, but when he speaks, it’s final. “No. I wouldn’t.”
Air rushes from my lungs. “You wouldn’t even try?”
“Harlee,” he says evenly, “this isn’t a summer internship. You’re talking about starting a whole new life somewhere else. A future I thought we were planning together.”
“Our future?” My voice spikes. “So it can only be your future? Everything else is secondary? What about my dreams?”
He scrubs a hand through his hair—again—and my eyes follow the motion like muscle memory, even as anger pulses hot in my veins. “This feels impulsive. Not like you.”
“Not like me?”
“You’re careful, thoughtful. Now you want to uproot your life for a job you just heard about?”
“Maybe I’m tired of being careful. Maybe I want to take a risk.”
“This isn’t a risk, Harlee. It’s fucking reckless.”
The word slaps me. “So I’m supposed to stay in your world, by your rules?”
“That’s not fair. I’ve never tried to control you.”
“Haven’t you? What is this, then? Telling me I can’t take a job because it doesn’t fit your plans?”
“Our plans,” he snaps. “We had plans.”
“Plans change, August. People change. I thought you’d get that.”
He shakes his head. “I get that you’re not thinking clearly. This isn’t you. This isn’t us.”
“Maybe this is me,” I say, voice trembling. “Maybe it’s who I’ve always been, and you just never noticed.”
He recoils, like I hit him again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
His eyes flicker—hurt, resignation. “Maybe I don’t.”
The space between us is still charged, like one wrong move could flip us from this fight into something reckless and physical. I hate that my body still reacts to him like this.
“I need air,” I mutter, shoving past him. I grab my things, slide on my crocs. Part of me waits for his hand to catch my wrist, to pull me back. But he just stands there, watching with those dark, unreadable eyes.
As I wrench open the door, his voice follows—soft, unsteady, cracking on my name. “Harlee…”
I freeze, fingers tight around the cold metal knob, heart pounding hard enough to shake me. For a beat, hope stirs—fragile, reckless—that maybe he’ll say the thing to close this distance, to undo the crack splintering between us.
But the silence that comes instead is heavier than any words.
I step into the hallway, the echo of my footsteps stretching behind me like a warning.
When I glance back, he’s still there—barefoot in his living room, shoulders rigid, jaw locked, eyes pinned to the floor like if he meets my gaze, he’ll shatter.
The faint scent of pastry and cinnamon bark still hangs in the air, but the sweet’s gone. All that’s left is the aftertaste.
Something’s shifted—clean break or slow unravel, I don’t know. All I know is the thread between us just snapped, and I’m not sure either of us can tie it back together.