Chapter 15
HARPER
Ipulled into the small parking lot behind my boutique just before nine, my hands tight on the steering wheel of my Honda Civic. I'd barely driven in two weeks because Connor had insisted on taking me everywhere, like I was some fragile thing that might shatter if left unsupervised.
He'd actually let me drive myself today, which came with a mixture of relief and fear that sat heavy in my chest. Relief because I'd been starting to feel like a child who needed constant supervision, being dropped off and picked up like I couldn't manage the drive alone.
Fear because I knew Connor's protectiveness came from a good place, from genuine concern that whoever had burned down my apartment might try again.
And he was right to worry. They were still out there. Still watching. Still waiting for me to break.
The drive from Connor's ranch to town took fifty minutes on winding roads where cell service cut in and out, where you could go miles without seeing another car.
Fifty minutes where I'd be alone, vulnerable, an easy target if someone wanted to make another move.
My hands had been tight on the steering wheel the whole way, my eyes constantly checked the rearview mirror for headlights that stayed too close or for vehicles that followed too long.
But I'd needed this. The illusion of independence, even if it was just driving my own car to work.
Connor hadn't been happy about it this morning. I'd seen it in the tightness around his eyes, in the way his jaw had worked like he was physically swallowing protests, and in the long moment he'd stood by my car with his hand on the driver's side door before finally letting me close it.
“Call me when you get there,” he'd said, his voice rough with poorly concealed worry. “And when you're ready to leave. And if anything seems off, anything at all—”
“I'll call immediately,” I'd promised, reaching through the open window to squeeze his hand. “Connor, I'll be fine. It's during the day and there’s going to be people everywhere.”
He'd nodded, but the concern hadn't left his eyes. Had still been there when I'd pulled out of his driveway, visible in my rearview mirror as he stood on the gravel watching me go like he was fighting every instinct to follow.
Now I sat in my car behind the boutique, the engine ticking as it cooled, and pulled out my phone to send the text he'd be waiting for.
Made it safe. Opening up now.
It had been six days since we'd finally crossed that line from friendship to something more, and already everything felt natural in a way that should have terrified me but somehow didn't. Like we'd been doing this for years instead of less than a week.
My phone buzzed almost immediately.
Connor
Good. Call me if you need anything. Be careful.
I smiled despite the anxiety that had taken up permanent residence in my stomach since Armand had walked into my boutique. Since my apartment had burned. Since my life had become a series of increasingly terrible events that showed no signs of stopping.
I climbed out of my car, my purse heavy on my shoulder, and unlocked the boutique's back door. The familiar smell of fabric softener and vanilla candles greeted me. The smell of my shop. My dream. The thing I'd built from nothing and was desperately trying not to lose.
Connor's offer from yesterday morning echoed in my head as I moved through the back room toward the main floor, flipping on lights as I went.
“Let me pay off the boutique lease. Harper, you're three months behind, and Mr. Chen's generosity won't last forever. Let me take care of it.”
We'd been eating pancakes for breakfast, sitting at his kitchen table when he'd said it. Casual. Like offering to pay sixteen thousand dollars was equivalent to picking up the check at dinner.
I'd frozen with my coffee mug halfway to my lips. “Connor, I can't let you do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it's sixteen thousand dollars. It's not your responsibility, it's mine.”
“You're living in my house. Sleeping in my bed.” His eyes had been intense, serious, that golden-brown gaze holding mine. “Harper, your problems are my problems now. That's how this works.”
“No.” I'd set down my mug carefully, my hands unsteady. “Connor, I appreciate the offer. Really. But I can't let you just pay off my debt like I'm some charity case you're responsible for.”
“You're not a charity case.” He'd run a hand through his hair in frustration, making it stick up in a way that would've been endearing if I hadn't been so focused on not accepting his money. “Harper, I want to help. Let me help.”
We'd argued about it for twenty minutes, though argued wasn't quite the right word since Connor had been patient and logical while I'd been stubborn and emotional.
He'd laid out reasons why it made sense for him to pay.
I'd refused to let him solve my problems with his checkbook even though part of me desperately wanted to accept.
We'd finally compromised. Connor would pay off the boutique lease to Mr. Chen, but it was a loan. Not a gift. I would pay him back, with interest if he insisted on it, as soon as I could manage.
The thought of owing Connor that much money made my stomach churn with shame, but it was better than losing the boutique. Better than the alternative of being evicted and losing everything I'd built.
Plus, I still owed all the overdue vendor invoices. So I was still drowning, just in slightly less water than before.
I pushed the thought away and focused on opening the boutique. After flipping the switch for the main lights, I adjusted the spring dress display in the front window, checked the register, and made sure everything was ready for whatever customers might wander in on a Friday morning in March.
It was always slow in March, right before spring properly arrived and people started thinking about updating their wardrobes. But I'd take whatever business I could get.
A little after nine I was ready. I flipped the sign to “OPEN” and settled behind my counter with my laptop, pulling up inventory spreadsheets that needed updating.
The morning passed quietly in a way that would've been peaceful if I hadn't been constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Mrs. Chen came in around ten, buying a scarf she probably didn't need but purchased anyway with a kind smile and a squeeze of my hand that said she knew what her husband had agreed to do regarding the lease.
Sarah from the bookstore stopped by at eleven to buy the wrap dress she'd been admiring for months, her excitement over finally pulling the trigger making me smile despite everything.
A few tourists passed through around noon, browsing but not buying in that way that always made me want to put up a “you break it, you buy it” sign. A teenager came in looking for a prom dress, then left disappointed when my style didn't match the sequined nightmare she had in mind.
Normal. Peaceful. The kind of day that made me think maybe things could work out.
By four, I'd made three sales totaling just over four hundred dollars. Not spectacular, but solid for a Friday in the slow season. Respectable, even.
I was browsing closeout items from vendors on my laptop when the bell above the door chimed.
I looked up with my customer service smile already in place and felt it die on my lips.
A man stood in my doorway, and every instinct I had screamed danger in a way that bypassed my brain and went straight to my nervous system.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing an expensive charcoal gray suit that fit him perfectly, tailored to emphasize the power in his frame.
His dark hair was cropped military-short, his jaw clean-shaven and too sharp, too angular, like it had been carved from stone by someone who didn't understand softness.
His face was handsome in a cold, predatory way that made my skin crawl.
It was the kind of handsome that came with a body count.
But it was his eyes that froze me in place. Dark, almost black, and calculating in a way that made me feel like prey being sized up by a hunter who'd already decided how this ended. No warmth. No humanity. Just cold intelligence and something that might have been amusement at my obvious fear.
He carried himself with absolute confidence, with the kind of presence that said he was used to getting what he wanted and had no qualms about how he got it.
I knew who he was before he spoke. This was the man who'd been sitting in the car when Armand left my boutique weeks ago. His partner or one of his associates. Either way, it didn't matter because I knew I was in danger regardless of how he was connected to Armand.
“Ms. Walsh.” His voice was deep and smooth like expensive bourbon, with an undercurrent of menace that made my hands go cold. “I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting face to face. My name is Silas.”
My heart kicked into overdrive, slamming against my ribs hard enough to hurt. “We're closed.”
The lie was automatic, desperate. The open sign was clearly visible in the window behind him, but I needed him gone, needed him out of my shop before my knees gave out and he saw exactly how terrified I was.
“The sign says open.” He moved deeper into my boutique, his movements deliberate and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.
His expensive leather oxfords clicked against my hardwood floors with each step, the sound echoing in the quiet shop.
Measuring. Ominous. “Charming place you have here.
Though I understand you're having some financial difficulties.”
His eyes swept over my carefully curated displays, the vintage furniture I'd refinished myself during weekends when I couldn't afford to pay someone else, the racks of dresses in soft pastels that represented months of work. Dismissing all of it as beneath him with a slight curl of his lip.