Chapter 19
Harper
My phone is already buzzing with messages from my team. Jessica confirming the final headcount. James updating me on the celebrity arrivals timeline. Amber sending photos of the auction items being delivered to their display cases.
Everything is falling into place, but I can't shake the anxiety clawing at my chest. This isn't just another event. This is my chance to prove Hayes & Company belongs in the big leagues permanently.
I slip out of Cole's bed quietly, not wanting to wake him. He has his own responsibilities today as the Renegades' captain and host. But as my feet hit the floor, his hand catches my wrist.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice rough with sleep. “How are you feeling?”
“Terrified. Excited. Ready to throw up.” I sit on the edge of the bed. “All of the above.”
He pulls me down for a kiss. “You're going to be incredible today. Nothing will go wrong.”
“Famous last words,” I say, but his words give me a boost of confidence.
“I'll see you there,” he says. “Try to eat something.”
“I'll try.”
The Plaza at six AM is chaotic. Vendors stream through service entrances, florists arrange centerpieces, and the auction house staff positions items in their display cases.
I'm everywhere at once, checking lighting, adjusting seating charts, and confirming that the sound system can handle tonight's crowd.
“Harper,” Jessica appears at my elbow with a clipboard. “The celebrity chef just arrived for the cooking demonstration. He wants to know about kitchen access.”
“Take him to the prep area. Make sure he has everything he needs.” I check my watch. “What about the string quartet?”
“Setting up in the pre-reception area now. James is handling their sound check.”
“Perfect. And the auction paddles?”
“Distributed to registration. Amber's overseeing check-in.”
By four PM, the transformation is complete. The Grand Ballroom looks like something out of a fairy tale, all soft lighting and elegant gold accents.
Auction items gleam under spotlights. A week in Tuscany, courtside Knicks tickets, original artwork, and the crown jewel, which is a private dinner cooked by a Michelin-starred chef in the winner's home.
I’m walking out of the changing room, changed into my floor-length burgundy gown, when my phone buzzes.
It’s a text from Cole. You look stunning from across the room.
I scan the room and spot him at the end of the ballroom, looking devastatingly handsome in a black tuxedo. He's talking to a group of sponsors, but his eyes are on mine.
The butterflies in my stomach settle slightly. He's here. We're doing this together, even if no one else knows it.
The VIP reception begins at six PM, and I'm in full event coordinator mode. I greet major donors, introduce celebrities to potential bidders, and ensure the champagne never stops flowing.
Cole also works the room, posing for photos with sponsors' families and signing autographs for star-struck guests. Watching him in action fills me with pride.
“Ms. Hayes,” a reporter from the Times approaches me. “Could we get a quote about tonight's projected fundraising goals?”
“We're expecting to exceed our half-million-dollar target,” I say confidently. “The generosity of our supporters never ceases to amaze me.”
As the reporter moves on, I feel a warm hand on my lower back. Cole appears beside me, having somehow navigated through the crowd without drawing attention.
“There's a quiet alcove behind the auction display,” he murmurs near my ear. “Meet me there in five minutes.”
I shouldn't. I'm working.
Except, five minutes later, I’m slipping away from the crowd, and I find Cole in a small alcove, partially hidden by a massive floral arrangement. The space is intimate, dimly lit, and removed from the main reception.
“You're supposed to be charming donors,” I whisper as he pulls me close.
“I needed a moment with you.” His hands frame my face. “You’re amazing. You make all this seem so effortless.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my throat tight. “It's not effortless. I'm terrified I'll forget something critical.”
“You won't. You're brilliant at this.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “I'm so proud of you. So proud to know you, to be with you.”
He leans down to kiss me.
His hand slides down to rest on my hip, his thumb tracing small circles through the fabric of my dress. The intimate touch sends heat spiraling through me despite my nerves.
As we prepare to slip out of our hiding place, I catch a glimpse of movement near the floral displays. A photographer with a professional camera is positioned about twenty feet away, but his lens appears to be focused on the elaborate orchid arrangements, not on us.
Still, my heart jumps. “There's a photographer,” I whisper urgently.
Cole glances over casually. “He's shooting the flowers. We're fine.” His hand gives my hip one final, possessive squeeze before we step apart.
The auction itself is a triumph. Bidding is fierce and competitive, with prices climbing far beyond our projections. The dinner with the Michelin-starred chef goes for fifteen thousand dollars. The Tuscany trip fetches twenty-two thousand.
Cole takes the stage for the final item. A behind-the-scenes experience with the Renegades, including practice access and a private dinner with the team. His charm and humor have the crowd eating out of his hand, and the item sells for thirty thousand dollars.
When the final gavel falls, we've raised $687,000 for the children's hospital.
The crowd erupts in applause, and tears prick my eyes. We did it. We exceeded every expectation, every goal.
As guests begin to filter out, thanking me and my team, Cole finds me near the registration table.
“Six hundred and eighty-seven thousand dollars,” I say, still in disbelief.
“You're incredible,” he says simply.
The cleanup and breakdown take another two hours, but finally, it's just my exhausted team and me, reviewing the evening's successes in the empty ballroom.
“Go home,” I tell them. “Sleep until noon. You've earned it.”
Cole is waiting for me by the exit, having changed out of his tuxedo into dark jeans and a button-down shirt.
“Ready to go home?” he asks.
“More than ready.”
Back at his apartment, I kick off my heels the moment we're through the door and sink onto the couch with a sigh.
“Don't move,” Cole says. “I'm getting champagne. We're celebrating properly.”
He returns with a bottle of Dom Pérignon and two glasses. “To Harper Hayes,” he says, pouring the champagne. “Who just pulled off the event of the year.”
“To my team,” I counter. “And to you, for being the perfect host.”
We clink glasses, and I take a sip of the expensive champagne, letting the bubbles fizz on my tongue.
“Dance with me,” Cole says suddenly.
“There's no music.”
“Alexa, play slow jazz,” he says to the voice assistant. Soft music fills the living room through the speakers. I giggle.
Cole holds out his hand, and I take it, letting him pull me into his arms. We sway together in his living room, my head on his chest, his chin resting on top of my hair.
“Turn off your phone,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“Turn it off. Just for tonight. No emails, no vendor calls, no follow-up requests. Just us.”
I’ve never ever turned off my phone, but tonight calls for it. I’m not expecting any urgent calls, and all I need is right here with me. I reach for my phone and power it down. Cole does the same.
“There,” he says, pulling me closer. “Now it's just us.”
We dance for several songs, barely moving, just holding each other. The stress and pressure of the day melt away, replaced by a quiet intimacy.
“Harper,” Cole says eventually, his voice serious.
I lift my head to look at him. “What?”
“I want to tell Brett about us.”
My stomach flutters with nerves. “When?”
“Tomorrow.” His hands slide up to cup my face. “I'm serious about you. About this. I want people to know you're mine.”
“Are you sure?” The vulnerability in my voice surprises me. “This changes everything.”
“It changes everything for the better.” He kisses me softly. “I love you, Harper.”
The words weaken my knees. He loves me. Cole Maddox loves me.
“I love you too,” I whisper, the admission terrifying.
He lifts me then, carrying me toward his bedroom, and I bury my face in his neck, breathing in his cologne.
He lays me down on the cool sheets, and his worship as he undresses me is slow and thorough. He takes his time, mapping every inch of me with his hands and his mouth, telling me with his body everything he said in the alcove.
That I’m art.
That I’m incredible.
That I’m his.
I come apart under him, crying out his name, and he holds me through it, murmuring praise against my damp skin.
When he finally buries himself inside me, it’s with a groan that sounds like home. We move together in a rhythm that’s ours alone, slow and deep, our eyes locked. The connection is so profound it steals my breath. This is more than just sex.
When we're finally spent and tangled together in his sheets, I trace patterns on his chest with my fingertip.
“What happens now?” I ask quietly.
“Now we stop hiding,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “ I’ve never met a woman I’ve ever wanted to settle down with. Not like this. Not forever.”
Fear pricks at the edges of the bliss. My job. My reputation. Everything we’ve been so careful to protect. But looking into his eyes, seeing the certainty there, the fear doesn’t stand a chance.
I’m scared. But I’m ready. For him, I’m ready for anything.
I lean down and kiss him, pouring every ounce of my hope and trust into it. “Okay,” I whisper against his lips.