Chapter 10 #2
But all I can think about is Harper Beaumont lying on her floor with cold tiramisu, calling me at eleven-fifteen at night because she needed someone who wouldn't tell her to breathe through it.
And I realize, with uncomfortable clarity, that I'm smiling.
I force my expression back to neutral and pull up the CulinaryVision files, reminding myself that this is business. This arrangement is business. Harper Beaumont is a strategic asset—a tool to manage the board, stabilize the acquisition, control the narrative.
That's all.
The fact that I ignored Natasha's text because I was thinking about Harper is a coincidence. The fact that I may have enjoyed our call tonight means nothing.
I signed up for this. I agreed to this arrangement. It's not like I care about Harper Beaumont. And after the screwed-up way she barreled into my hotel suite, business, and life, most times, I barely trust her.
…Right?
* * *
Trusting or not, less than twenty-four hours later, I'm standing in my penthouse living room, watching movers carry my new employee’s boxes through my front door.
My executive assistant Gina had been horrifyingly efficient when it came to this move, it turns out. She'd arranged movers, coordinated with Harper's building, and even had fresh flowers delivered to the guest room "to make Mrs. Kade feel welcome."
When I'd pointed out that Harper wasn't actually Mrs. Kade, Gina had given me a look.
"For the press, sir," she'd said. "Also, it's polite."
Now Harper is here, directing movers, wearing jeans and an oversized sweater that differs from her usual office look…and is somehow more dangerous to my equilibrium.
"That one goes in the bedroom," she's saying, pointing to a box labeled "BOOKS & PLANTS." "The kitchen boxes can go—oh, hi, Victor."
She's noticed me standing here like a statue.
I blink. “Beaumont.”
"Nice place." She looks around, taking in the space. "Very... clean."
"Is that a compliment or an insult?"
"Yes."
A mover walks past carrying a box that's making ominous plant-related sounds. Another follows with what appears to be approximately six hundred cookbooks.
"How many books do you own?" I ask.
"Enough." She grins. "Don't worry, I'll keep them in my room. Won't mess up your feng shui or whatever billionaires call interior design."
Before I can respond, another mover appears carrying a small plant that looks half-dead.
"Where does this one go, ma'am?"
Harper winces. "That's Herbert. He's been through a lot. Just... anywhere with light?"
The mover looks at me, and I motion in the general direction of a nearby window. He sets Herbert on the sill and flees.
"Herbert?" I ask.
"He's a succulent. They need names."
"Do they?"
"How else will they know you love them?"
"I'm fairly certain plants don't—You know what, never mind."
Harper's phone buzzes, and she checks it, a frown deepening on her pretty face.
I take a step forward. “You good, Beaumont?”
"Fine. Just my sisters being... my sisters." She types a quick response and pockets the phone. "Where did you say the guest room was?"
"West side. Down the hall, second door."
"Great." She grabs a box labeled "DEFINITELY NOT EMBARRASSING STUFF" and heads in that direction. "I'll try not to disrupt your whole Ice Prince aesthetic."
"I don't have an Ice Prince—" But she's already gone.
I stand in my living room, surrounded by the evidence of Harper Beaumont's existence—boxes, plants, the faint smell of whatever floral perfume she wears that's making my space feel suddenly less empty—and realize I've made a terrible miscalculation.
By 8 PM, the movers are gone, and I'm in my home office trying to work while being acutely aware that Harper is somewhere in my apartment.
I can hear her moving around. The soft pad of footsteps. The sound of boxes being unpacked. At some point, music starts playing—something upbeat.
I try to focus on the acquisition proposal.
We need a new strategy, a better offer, something that will convince CulinaryVision's board that StreamEats is the right choice.
But I keep hearing Harper humming along to her music.
The sound drifts through my apartment like an invasion—warm and unconscious and entirely too comfortable.
Finally, I give up and head to the kitchen for coffee. Where I find Harper standing at my espresso machine—which cost $3,000 and has approximately forty buttons—looking at it like it's a bomb she's been asked to defuse.
She's changed clothes since the movers left.
Clad in flannel pajama pants covered in little cartoon cats, her soft light caramel hair is down now, loose waves falling past her shoulders, and her red-painted toes are bare against my heated marble floors.
She looks... soft, rumpled.
"Need help?" I ask.
She jumps, spinning to face me, pressing a hand to her chest. “Jesus, you’re quiet. What you do, practice walking silently or is it just a CEO thing?"
"Natural talent."
"Creepy talent." She motions to the machine, and I notice her nails are painted the same soft red. "How does this thing work? I've pressed six buttons and all I've gotten is steam and judgmental beeping."
I cross to the machine, forcing myself to focus on the controls instead of the fact that she smells like lavender and something sweeter—vanilla, maybe, or honey.
"What do you want?" I ask, my voice coming out strangled.
"Coffee. Regular coffee. Not fancy espresso or whatever. Just... coffee."
"This machine doesn't make regular coffee."
She stares at me, hazel eyes wide. "What kind of person doesn't have regular coffee?"
"The kind who invested in a professional espresso system."
"For your home."
"Yes."
"Where you live alone."
"Your point?"
She shakes her head, and a strand of hair falls across her face. "You're exhausting.”
I'm about to respond when I realize how close we're standing, close enough to notice the way her flannel shirt falls slightly open, revealing the thin strap of whatever she's wearing underneath.
Close enough that if I leaned forward just slightly—
I step back, focusing on the espresso machine.
"I'll make you something," I say, pulling out two cups from the cabinet above her head. My arm brushes past her shoulder.
"Thanks," she says quietly.
I start the machine, the familiar hiss and gurgle filling the silence between us, as the scent of fresh espresso begins to bloom in the kitchen—dark and rich and grounding.
Harper leans against the counter beside me, watching with open curiosity as I work.
"You're very precise," she remarks.
"It's espresso. Precision matters."
"Is that your answer for everything? Precision matters?"
"It's served me well."
"That sounds lonely."
I glance at her sharply, but she's not looking at me. She's studying the machine, her expression thoughtful rather than pitying.
The espresso finishes pulling, and I hand her a cup. Our fingers brush as she takes it, and I feel the warmth of her skin against mine for just a moment before she pulls away.
She takes a sip. "Okay, that's annoyingly good.”
"I know."
"Do you always say 'I know' when someone compliments you?"
"Yes."
"That’s—Actually I don't know if that's confident or insufferable."
"Can't it be both?"
Her lips curve into a smile, and we stand there in my kitchen—my formerly pristine, unused kitchen—drinking coffee at 8 PM like this is normal.
Like she hasn't just upended my entire existence by simply existing in my space.
The city lights are starting to come on outside the windows, and the kitchen feels different now—warmer, somehow, with Harper in it.
She's left small signs of her presence already. A box of tea on the counter. A dish towel draped over the oven handle that definitely wasn't there this morning. The faint scent of her perfume mixing with the espresso.
"So," Harper says finally, breaking the silence. "Ground rules?"
"I was going to suggest the same thing."
"Great. I'll go first." She sets down her cup, and I notice the way her fingers curl around the ceramic—delicate but sure.
"I do my own cooking. And I’d prefer that you or your housekeeper or whoever arranges things in here not touch the ingredients.
I'll keep my stuff organized, but I need space in the fridge and pantry. "
"Done."
"I'm a morning person. Like, offensively early. I'll try to be quiet, but no promises."
"I'm usually up by five anyway."
Her eyebrows rise. "On purpose?"
"To work."
"That's concerning, but okay." She continues. "I video call my sisters on Wednesdays. It's loud. I apologize in advance."
"Guest room is soundproofed."
"Of course it is." She takes another sip, and a drop of espresso clings to her bottom lip. She licks it away, and I force my gaze back to my own cup. "Your turn."
"Don't rearrange my space. Everything has a place."
"Noted. Though your space could use some rearranging."
“Beaumont.”
"Kidding. Mostly." She grins, and I notice the small dimple that appears in her left cheek. "What else?"
"If you need something, ask. Don't just... take things."
"I'm not a raccoon, Victor."
"I'm just clarifying boundaries."
"Fair." She studies me, her gaze direct and unflinching. "Anything else?"
There's a lot else.
Don't smile at me like that.
Don't exist in my space in those ridiculous cat pajamas with your hair down and your adorable feet bare and your body smelling like something I could scoop up with a spoon.
"That's it," I say instead.
"Okay then." She finishes her espresso and rinses the cup—without being asked, I notice. Even does it properly, the way it's meant to be done. "I'm going to finish unpacking. Thanks for letting me stay here. I know it's not ideal."
"It's fine."
"Liar." But she says it gently, almost fondly. "Goodnight, Mr. Kade.”
"Goodnight."
She leaves, and I'm alone in my kitchen that now smells like lavender and espresso and feels fundamentally different.
The warmth of her presence lingers—in the air, in the faint scent of her perfume, in the rinsed cup she left in the sink.
My phone buzzes. Text from Christian.
CHRISTIAN: Heard Harper's moving in. Roman and I are taking bets on how long until you admit you're in over your head.
CHRISTIAN: I give it two weeks. Roman says three days.
ME: Neither. This is a business arrangement.
CHRISTIAN: Sure it is. That's why you're texting me at 8 PM instead of working like you always do.
CHRISTIAN: Good luck. You're going to need it.
I pocket my phone and return to my office, where I proceed to accomplish exactly nothing for the next two hours because I keep hearing Harper moving around my apartment.
The soft pad of her footsteps. The occasional laugh at something on her phone. The sound of boxes being opened and closed.
And underneath it all, the lingering scent of lavender.
I sigh, heading back to my home office.
This is sure to be a very long two months.