Chapter 3
THREE
ANOTHER COMFORTING PAT on the arm, another faux smile. Shit, she could give damn lessons on gritting teeth and accepting familial sympathy. A “grr” seemed appropriate.
“You keep your chin up,” Aunt Mabel said. “He’ll find you soon.”
He being the white knight, saber drawn, ready to save her from spinsterhood. Did knights have sabers? Probably not. Besides, if anyone asked, spinsterhood didn’t seem too shabby. Though being subjected to a lifetime of pity… Hmm, that went in the con column.
Stretching her smile until the octogenarian was gone, she breathed out and spun to lean over the bar.
“Jack Daniels on the rocks.” Her order tumbled out fast. “Wait—” What was she thinking? “Forget the rocks and make it a double.”
The bartender’s smile told its own story as he went to fill the order. His wasn’t of pity but for sure it reinforced her pathetic aura. Before her instinct to throw something at the bartender’s head took hold, a voice rose behind her.
“Harper.”
Her eyes closed in resignation.
Shit.
Shit.
Did she say shit?
Damon was a meteor on course to strike. No avoiding or escaping it. Fate had a sick sense of humor… she would have appreciated the alcohol first. Was that too much to ask?
A deep breath and another fake smile, she twirled one eighty degrees to face the speaker.
“Damon,” she said, quashing an impulse to hiss like a triggered feline.
Just shy of six foot, Damon resented the dusty blond hair and fine features that gave him a boyish look. The suit was perfect, though not professionally tailored. Hmm, how much of his money had Charissa spent?
“You look great,” Damon said.
Did he mean that? She should appreciate that he took the time to check her out, even if it was by rote. Whoa, wait, why? Why should she appreciate it? Because that was how women were conditioned from birth.
Check her out, don’t check her out, who the hell cared? She just wanted the agony of awkward embarrassment to end.
“Where’s Charissa?”
And still he was checking her out. Or… he was taking a last look at what he could’ve won and congratulating himself on the reprieve of pulling that lever one more time.
Charissa was a better prize. Harper wasn’t naive enough to think otherwise.
On her best day, she could never be described as graceful.
Someone may think her height of five six and petite stature would lend itself to elegance.
Yeah, no, her and sophistication never met. Ships in the night and all that.
On the other hand, Charissa was sleek and absolutely flawless. A perfect prize. A woman women envied because it was just so… effortless.
Shut up. Comparison is the thief of joy. Huh, if that was true, she’d been robbed hourly since birth. Joy? What was that.
Focus. “She’s talking to Adara,” he said with a time-passing head-bob many folks would recognize.
Geez, this was awkward. Small talk. Okay, uh, how did a person shoot the shit with their smarmy ex?
Be polite. Make your momma proud and all that.
She mustered a, “That’s nice.”
Bring back Aunt Mabel, please, pretty please. At least she was practiced at handling that class of torture.
“Your father offered to put us up at the house, until we get settled again.”
Her father had… Holy shit, he didn’t—that was why this slimy warthog was making the effort to talk to her. She should’ve known. Absorb the outrage. Shrug it off. Meant nothing.
Jerk.
“Settled, yes,” she said, bile rising in the back of her throat. “Right, sure.”
What a rookie move. Where was her forethought? This should’ve been anticipated.
Damon despised confrontation, he much preferred to stab someone in the back and walk away. He’d never come over to chat just to be nice, of course he wanted something.
For at least a year before the affair was uncovered, Charissa lived at the Scott house with Adara. A six-bedroom house wouldn’t be nearly big enough to avoid the happy couple if they moved in.
“I told him we can’t accept without discussing it with you first.”
Oh, yeah, ‘cause he was known for being so gracious. This wasn’t his idea. Damon didn’t care about her comfort or convenience, or anyone’s comfort or convenience. This was Adara, she’d put money on it.
“So you came over here…” she said, fighting an impulse to grind her teeth within her frozen smile. “We haven’t spoken for a year, and you came over here to ask if you could move into my house?”
“Your father’s house,” Damon said. Like that distinction mattered when it came to sharing a kitchen. Why did they have to live in such an expensive city? “It’s not out of line. It was my house too.”
He lived there with her. With her. Damon lived there with her, as her partner.
Not that she’d say that. Davis Scott, her father, liked to keep his daughters close and rewarded them for complying.
Adara would move out after she was married.
At this rate, Harper would be in that house until her dying day.
“Are you coming back to the firm?” she asked, mentally crossing her fingers.
“I never left the firm,” Damon said.
Just her.
Right.
Seeking her whiskey, she fumbled for the glass on the bar behind her. Snatching it up, she took that medicine with the ferocity of an asthmatic sucking on an inhaler. Instant death averted.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I think everyone’s past this now.” Damon’s hand came toward her in a move too reminiscent of the aunt’s conciliatory pat. Nope. No way. She veered aside, going around him, putting her back to the room, forcing Damon’s back to the bar. Ha! Escape would be easier from that angle. “Harper…”
The pity was coming. It was coming. Brace for impact. Brace. Brace. Brace. She didn’t want to flinch, but holding her head high was becoming more and more difficult. Her stupid ex was about to feed her a “there, there” speech.
In the corner of her eye, Charissa approached on an intercept course.
What the fuck? Glancing down, she half expected to be naked. This was the worst nightmare of her life.
Damon’s pity and Charissa’s gloating at the same time? Who was capable of enduring that without losing their sanity?
“Sorry I’m late.”
A masculine voice materialized behind her.
Damon’s demeanor changed. Pity gone, offense tensed him. Oh, he wasn’t happy. Check out the snarl.
Something touched her elbow, a warm hand. Huh. A quick glance over her shoulder and, yep, confirmed, there was a man standing behind her. Not just behind her like that’s where he happened to be, but actually behind her.
“Bastian Hunt,” the voice spoke again.
The hand left her elbow and reached around, offering itself to Damon. The voice, the hand, both belonged to this stranger at her back.
“Damon Twaddle,” her ex said, accepting the shake.
Oh, well, the guys had been introduced. Great! Good for them, maybe now someone could clue her in.
Wary, Damon seemed confused, for which he could be forgiven, hers might be contagious.
“What…”
Another glance back, their eyes met, and her words disappeared.
This guy was maybe six three, hair thick, dark, damp. And he knew something. Something she should know too. Except she didn’t.
His square jaw ticked like maybe her bewilderment was amusing. Laugh it up. Was he a jerk? One asshole was enough. Damon filled that quota all by himself. No supplements or understudies required, thank you.
The edge of his index finger glided down her temple and… it hit her. She gasped. This was the guy, the stranger from downstairs!
Oh. Oh. Oh!
“What’s going on?”
Charissa’s voice flared by Damon, snapping her attention to the couple. The curious Charissa tucked her hand into Damon’s elbow, laying intrigue on the man at her back.
This Bastian Hunt was still there. The wall of his form solid against her spine, he was definitely with her. But… why? What was she missing?
“Harper?” Charissa asked. Kudos, Charissa’s smile was almost genuine. Almost, but not quite. “Who is your friend?”
“Bastian Hunt,” Damon said, a little spaced out.
What was going on? He hadn’t been that drunk a minute ago and she’d never known him to take drugs. Living with Charissa may have driven him to it, especially if she was eviscerating his savings.
“Nice to meet you both,” Bastian said. “My apologies but I have to steal Harper. I have some groveling to do. I promised I wouldn’t be late and I let her down. I’m lucky she puts up with me.”
When his fingers linked between hers, she didn’t resist him relieving her of the liquor or leading her through the room onto the dance floor. She even let him hook both hands around the back of his neck and slide his own onto her waist.
“We have about a minute and a half to get our stories straight.”