Chapter 9 Harper #2
“Sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for.
“It’s fine,” he replies, but his voice is rougher now, stripped of bravado and full of smoke damage, I’m sure of it.
I clean the cut carefully. Touching him feels right, even if the reason is wrong. His arm warm and solid under my grip. There’s a faint tremor in my hands that I can’t quite control.
I don’t look at his face at first. I focus on the task. Wipe the soot away. The tape, the bandage, the small, practical steps that keep me from thinking about how close he is. Anything but how I feel.
But it bubbles out anyway. “You scared me.”
He nods once. “I know.”
There’s no argument in it. No minimizing. Just acknowledgment. Like he’s been told this before.
“How many other women have you scared by staying out all night on a fire?” It’s an unfair question. I’m not even sure I want the answer. But I couldn’t stop myself from asking.
“Fewer than you think.”
“A number.”
He half smiles. “One.”
My brow drops so hard that it hurts. “If you’re trying to say you’ve been with only one woman—”
“It was Carlie.”
I stare at him for a confused moment. “Huh?”
Another heavy sigh, followed by a ragged cough. When I look worried at him, he shrugs it off. “The wind was crazy tonight, made the fire worse. I was caught downwind before I got my mask up. Inhaled more smoke than usual. I’ll be fine.”
“And how is Carlie the only woman who worries about you?”
His sheepish smile kills me. “Because I don’t let women stick around long enough to do things like worry about me.”
“You don’t date?”
“The ointment burns. When you spread it on the slice, I’ll probably make a face. Keep going. Deal?”
He’s not going to answer the dating question. Fine. I slather on the ointment, and he does indeed make a face. A lot of them. It’s a little satisfying since he made me worry about him. “Well, now you have two women who worry about you.”
He huffs a laugh. “No need. I’m gonna live forever.”
“Never say that. Not in front of me. It’s bad luck.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He does a half-assed salute with his good arm when he says it.
When I finish taping the gauze in place, I don’t move right away. The space between us feels charged, compressed, like the air itself has thickened. I glance up without meaning to and meet his eyes.
They’re dark blue and intent, fixed on me in a way that makes my breath hitch. His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second before he catches himself. I feel it anyway, the pull of it, the memory of how easily we might close this distance.
I step back, creating space that feels both necessary and impossible. “You should rest. You look exhausted.”
He shifts slightly on the seat, knees brushing mine for the briefest moment before he stills. “So do you.”
I huff a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “I had the easier night.”
“I’m not sure that’s true.”
Silence settles again, heavier now, filled with things pressing at the edges of my thoughts. The words I want to say crowd close to my mouth, insistent and dangerous. I can feel them there, demanding to be let out, but I keep them contained.
Not yet. Not like this.
We stand there, neither of us moving, the tension stretching thin enough to snap. I’m acutely aware of every detail—the hum of the vent, the brightness of the light, the warmth lingering where my hands were on his arm.
I turn away first, reaching for the trash to toss the used gauze, buying myself a second to breathe. If I don’t, I’m not sure I’ll stop myself.
I don’t turn around right away.
I stay facing the sink, hands braced on the counter, letting the quiet stretch until it becomes unbearable.
My reflection stares back at me in the mirror—eyes too bright, face flushed, emotions sitting too close to the surface.
I can feel Aiden behind me, his presence heavy and unmistakable, like gravity pulling me off balance.
“I need to say something.” His voice is still rough from the smoke.
He’s standing where I left him, posture careful, like he’s trying not to crowd me, but his attention is absolute. His eyes track my face, searching, waiting. It’s the same look he used to give me when he knew I was about to leap and wasn’t sure whether to catch me or step back.
“I should have told you the truth. About that night. The morning after.”
My breath catches in my throat.
“It wasn’t a mistake for me,” he continues. “Not even a little. It was the most real thing I’d ever felt.”
“Same for me.” My eyes sting at the corners. “And when you called it a mistake, when you walked away like it was something you needed to undo, it broke something in me.”
“Harper, I’m—”
I hold up a hand to stop him, and he goes silent.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to keep going before fear can shut me down.
“I built my life on top of that break. I married someone else. I told myself I was fine. I told myself I would moved on eventually.” A shaky breath slips out.
“But I didn’t. Not really. I just learned how to live around it. ”
Aiden takes a half step toward me, then stops himself. “Harper.”
I shake my head. “I’m not asking you for anything. I just—needed you to know.”
The space between us hums, stretched thin. His gaze drops to my mouth again, slower this time, more deliberate. I feel the pull of it, the old instinct rising up and overriding every sensible rule we set earlier. My heart pounds, loud enough that I’m sure he can hear it.
I take a step closer.
So does he.
The distance between us narrows to inches. The heat of him penetrates my body. His breath brushes my cheek. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt without conscious permission. He presses against me, eyes searching. For permission? For a signal?
I give him both by pulling him down to my mouth. The sensation sparks something in me, and everything goes on high alert. Muscles tense, my heart skips. Will he regret this, or is this something real for him, too?
His hand slides along my jaw to the back of my neck beneath my hair and tilts me to open for him. The slip of his tongue lights something in my brain. His other hand clutches my hip to keep me close. And there is no misreading the low growl in his throat.
My doubts evaporate as I pull him toward the countertop. I hop onto it and wrap my legs around him to keep him close. He kisses my chin and my throat as my head tips back against the mirror. But he doesn’t go further.
Even though I know he’s hard for me.
He murmurs, “Harper, I want you. More than I… more than I should.”
Oh hell. “What do you mean?”
He stands up fully, separating from me but only by a little. “It’s late. We’re both exhausted. I can’t speak for you, but I’m not thinking clearly. In the past week, you’ve been through enough bullshit for two lifetimes.”
“And?”
He takes a beat, and all I see on his face is conflict. “If we do this, I need it to be when we’re both clear-minded.”
I grab his shirt again to pull him close. “Do you really think this is the first time I’ve thought about this since I’ve been here? Is it yours?”
He half-chuckles. “Of course not.”
“Well then…” I pull him close for another kiss, and then a door opens down the hall. I freeze up. So does Aiden.
Small footsteps pad across the floor, hesitant and sleepy. Aiden’s bedroom door opens, and we separate fast. But then I see the button I must have undone on his shirt and reach out to fix it quick.
But I’m too slow. Mason opens the door, and I’m still touching Aiden. “Mama?” I try to think of an excuse, but my son yawns and blinks at us. He smiles sleepily at Aiden, relief coming over his tiny face. “You kept your promise.”