Chapter 8
Harper
My eyelids feel heavy, and I dread the thought of opening them. A dull ache pulses in my head, while my stomach churns as if it’s been filled with acid. The door creaks open, but I keep my eyes shut until Gina’s shrill voice pierces through the fog, making me wince and fight the urge to retch.
“Gross. It smells like puke in here.”
I manage to squint at her and raise my middle finger in a silent salute of disdain.
Gina kneels beside the bed, her energy grating against my misery. I loathe her for being so annoyingly cheerful, especially after all the alcohol she avoided last night. “I owe you, Harp. So much.”
“I’m going to collect,” I rasp, my voice raw and painful.
It’s hard to tell if the scratchiness comes from the hangover or the amount I threw up, but either way, I feel like death warmed over.
“You have to get up. Come on. Chop chop.”
I grab a pillow not currently under my head and hurl it at her. “Go away.”
“You have a visitor,” she says, catching the pillow effortlessly. “Oh, and you probably want to swish some mouthwash. And clean up that makeup situation.”
Dragging myself out of bed, I reach for her for support as I nearly topple over. “Your friends are borderline alcoholics, you know. Who takes shots like that and isn’t freshly legal to get into bars?”
I toss an empty water bottle from the nightstand aside in frustration.
Gina just laughs, which irritates me further.
Hungover Harper is definitely not Pleasant Harper.
She helps me change into something somewhat presentable before guiding me into the bathroom.
I gulp water straight from the faucet and then grab the mouthwash.
The lingering taste of alcohol makes me gag, forcing me to rinse again with water.
“There you go,” Gina says, wiping away the remnants of mascara or eyeliner—honestly, I can’t tell anymore—from my cheeks. “You look… less like death.”
“I hate you so much right now.”
She laughs again. If I had any strength, I’d threaten to give her a black eye for her wedding day, but we both know it would be an empty threat. Right now, I lack the energy to be menacing.
I stumble down the stairs and find Ford standing in the doorway. The memory of our kiss—a passionate, electric moment—flashes into my mind, quickly followed by the recollection of hugging the toilet for a good portion of the night.
He smiles at me, and damn, he looks good. Really good. I’ve never seen a man pull off jeans like he does. “Let’s sit outside. I think the cool air will help you.”
I’m too exhausted to argue, so I follow him outside, wincing as the bright sunlight hits me. “Who turned up the sun today?”
“Rough morning?”
“I think I might die. I told Gina this, but I’m pretty sure her friends are alcoholics.”
His deep, rumbling laugh wraps around me like a warm blanket. “You didn’t see your sister in her prime. She could have drunk them under the table.”
“What are you doing here?” The question slips out sharper than intended, but my brain is too foggy to filter my thoughts. All I want is to curl up in bed and sleep the day away.
“Bringing your equipment home.”
“Oh, right. Thank you.”
He lifts a paper bag and hands it to me. The greasy aroma wafts from inside, making my stomach twist with indecision. Eating it could be either a brilliant idea or a terrible one. “Breakfast burrito. You look like you could use it.”
I need something to settle my stomach. This is a good idea, as long as I can avoid throwing up in front of him again. “Thank you.”
I take a bite, chewing slowly while gauging my body’s reaction. Ford watches me intently, his gaze unwavering. When my stomach doesn’t protest, I take it as a good sign.
“How much do you remember about last night?” he asks.
My stomach drops for a different reason. I could lie, claim I don’t remember leaving the party, but I don’t want to deceive him. “I remember taking advantage of your kindness before my stomach rejected everything I drank.”
“You didn’t take advantage,” he replies.
“I practically mauled you.”
“It wasn’t like that. Aside from the mad dash to the bathroom to pray to the porcelain gods, it was nice.” He reaches behind us and grabs a coffee I hadn’t noticed. “Cinnamon latte. Figured it was better to get food in your system first.”
Taking a sip, I almost moan at the warmth sliding down my throat. “You know, if you keep acting like the perfect man, I might get used to having you around.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“Well, I do have to go back to Pittsburgh at some point, so kind of.”
Ford’s smile crinkles the corners of his eyes, and my heart skips like a scratched record.
I touch my lips, still tasting the ghost of our kiss beneath the mint of mouthwash.
His eyes follow the movement, and I drop my hand quickly.
Behind him, the framed photo on the wall catches my eye.
Ford and Asher on either side of me at graduation, arms slung around each other’s shoulders.
I look away, my jaw tightening at the memory of Asher.
“Ford, good, I was going to call you,” Dad says as he steps onto the porch. “Harper, honey, are you okay?”
“Just hung over from Gina’s alcoholic friends,” I reply, finishing the last bites of the burrito.
“Well, yes. Why would you think you could keep up with them? You aren’t exactly our party child.”
Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad. I want to explain why, but the words won’t come. And I’m not supposed to say anything.
Ford jumps in to save me again. “Did you need something, Mr. Wallace?”
“Harold, please. And I may have accidentally broken a piece of the arch last night after you fixed it. Any chance you can take a look?”
“Of course. I’ll head around back in a minute.”
“Thanks, son.”
After he walks inside, I lean against the railing. “He likes you.”
“He just needed a favor.”
“No, he asked you to call him by his first name.”
“So?”
I laugh, wincing as pressure builds behind my eyes. “He never once told Asher to call him Harold. And he called you son.”
“Maybe we can make that a reality sometime.”
All he does is wink before heading around to the back of the house, leaving me speechless. For someone who usually seems aloof, he has a way of opening up to me.
But that’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? In high school, we spent time together even without Asher around. Ford’s a great guy, and I always thought some lucky woman would snatch him up.
It seems, though, that he might see me as that woman. And I hate how much I don’t hate the idea at all.