Chapter Fourteen #2
“I wish . . .” Harriet trailed off, then let out a frustrated sigh. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”
He leaned his forehead against the door, wishing he could see her face, read her expressions. “Whatever you want, it’s not going to be stupid.”
Another long pause. When Harriet spoke again, her voice was steadier, but tinged with something Gale couldn’t quite place.
Determination? Longing?
“I wish I had more data points, you know? To prove Zach wrong. To prove to myself that I’m not . . . too much. That there
are guys out there who’d appreciate me.”
His heart thundered. Was she suggesting what he thought she was? No, surely not.
“Any guy would be lucky to let you take control.”
The air between them crackled with unspoken tension. Gale held his breath, waiting for Harriet’s response, terrified and thrilled
by what it might be.
But then reality came crashing back. This was Harriet. The woman he’d pined for silently for years. The same woman who had
just tried to set him up with pop royalty.
Confusion warred with desire. Was Harriet coming on to him? Or was this just the vulnerability of a birthday, of turning thirty?
“I . . .” Harriet’s voice was soft, uncertain. “I-I shouldn’t be dumping all my baggage on you.”
Gale’s heart sank. Of course. This wasn’t about him. It was just Harriet, vulnerable and looking for a friend to confide in.
“Hey, no,” he said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “That’s what friends are for, right? And it’s your
birthday too. If you can’t dump baggage on your birthday to a friend, when can you do it?”
A soft laugh from the other side of the door, but it sounded forced. “Right. Friends. Thanks. You’re a good one, you know
that?”
He closed his eyes, fighting back the urge to tell her exactly how he felt. How he’d always felt. Instead, he forced a lightness into his tone. “I try. Now, birthday girl, how about you get dressed and we enjoy that cake.”
As he heard Harriet move away from the door, Gale let out a long breath.
Friends. That’s what they were.
That’s all they should ever be.
Harriet changed into a long silk bathrobe and tied her hair up into a damp bun. Her small condo kitchen seemed to shrink as
they entered it, the space between them charged with an energy neither had anticipated. Gale set the cake on the counter,
acutely aware of Harriet’s presence beside him.
“It looks incredible,” Harriet murmured, leaning in to inspect his creation. Her shoulder pressed lightly against his, the
contact brief but electric. He inhaled sharply, catching the faint scent of her jasmine perfume.
“Want a taste?” he asked, his voice huskier than he’d intended. Harriet nodded, a small smile playing on her lips.
As Gale reached for a knife, Harriet moved to grab plates from a nearby cupboard. She stretched up, her body grazing his back
as she reached for the higher shelf. The touch, though fleeting, left Gale’s skin tingling.
They settled at the small kitchen table, their knees almost touching beneath it. Gale watched, transfixed, as Harriet took
her first bite. She closed her eyes in bliss, a soft moan of appreciation escaping her.
“Oh god.” She sighed. “This is perfection.”
Gale couldn’t tear his gaze away as she slowly licked a stray crumb from her lower lip.
“You really pulled it off.”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” he said around a mouthful. “I keep telling you that I’m a culinary genius.”
Harriet snorted, her fork poised for another bite. “I don’t want to make you an ego monster, but it’s really good,” she conceded, scooping up another bite. “Honestly, this is almost exactly the way my mom used to make it.”
He couldn’t hold back a grin. “That’s because it is the way she made it. That’s her recipe.”
“No way.” Her fork clattered against her plate. “I’m pretty sure my mom would rather die than give up her secrets. The woman’s
laid-back about everything but her signature dishes.”
He leaned against his chair with an air of self-satisfaction. “I have my ways.”
“Spill it, Gordon Ramsay.” Harriet’s curiosity was piqued, her tone a mix of frustration and admiration.
“Fine, I emailed her.”
“You did?”
“Got the address from Brooke.”
As if overwhelmed by the gesture, Harriet turned away slightly, hiding her face. “You went above and beyond.”
His chest tightened at her words. “Above and beyond”? He wanted to tell her this was nothing—that he’d cross oceans, scale
mountains, burn cities to the ground if it meant seeing that soft look in her eyes. The thought should have scared him, this
fierce surge of something that could reasonably be called devotion, but felt as natural as breathing. Instead, he sat in charged
silence as they ate, his eyes following her when she stood to clear the plates. There was a small smudge of chocolate at the
corner of her mouth, and before his brain could catch up with his body, he was reaching out.
“This time you’re the one whose got a little . . .” he murmured, his thumb hovering near her face. Harriet froze, her eyes
locking with his. The kitchen fell silent, save for their ragged breathing. Gale’s mind flooded with half-formed images that
had haunted his dreams—her hands pinning his wrists, her weight holding him down, making him take whatever she gave him.
A half smirk tugged at Harriet’s lips, but Gale caught that flash of uncertainty in her eyes before she blinked it away. “Be a good boy for me and clean it off.”
His cheeks heated, and he shifted in his seat, imagining her binding him there, making him beg. Harriet’s gaze raked over
him, as if assessing his reaction.
The hesitation evaporated like steam. Gone was the cautious, overthinking Harriet. In her place stood a woman who seemed to
read every secret desire written across his face.
Without breaking eye contact, she moved in closer, devouring the last breath of space between them. Her voice was smoke and
sin. “Clean it off.”
As he ran a thumb over her soft cheek, she trapped his hand with hers, claiming him. Her stare turned a feral blend of dominance
and hunger that made his pulse riot. His whole body ached to submit, to let her take whatever she wanted. And her pretty lips
were right fucking there.
“You’re a good listener. Can you keep going?”
The word of praise dripped on him like hot wax. Still, he had to know. “Are you sure?”
She grabbed a fistful of his shirt and crushed her mouth to his. Time fractured. This wasn’t gentle. This wasn’t sweet. This
was pure lightning strike urgency, raw and wild and threatening to consume them both. Every touch stripped away another layer
of pretense until they were nothing but nerve endings and hunger, racing against the clock, against reason, against regret.
Holy shit.
The kiss blazed between them, her mouth searing against his until the edges of his world went soft and hazy. Each shift of
her body sent shock waves through him, his heart didn’t merely thunder, it was a hurricane rain in his chest.
His hardness pressed between them, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips as her fingers dug into his shoulders hard enough to hurt, but feel good, the pain blending into pleasure as her grip marked him.
He was drowning in her—the taste of her mouth, the feel of her finally back in his arms, the maddening friction where their bodies met.
His control was unraveling rapidly; if she kept moving against him like that, he was going to finish embarrassingly fast.
He rose up, and they stumbled backward until they hit into the kitchen table.
A crash ripped them back to earth.
Gale jerked away, heart hammering. What the . . . ?
His eyes darted to the floor. Glittering shards of glass and cut flowers littered the tile.
“Oh no! My millefiori vase,” Harriet gasped, panting, looking a bit dazed. “I got that in Murano, Italy, when I finished grad
school.”
“Shit, I’m so sorry. I’ll, uh . . . I’ll get the broom and I’ll replace it. I’ll get you two. Just . . . watch your step,
okay?” he said, grabbing a broom from a hook on the kitchen door.
Harriet stepped back, eyes wide as realization hit. “No, it can’t be replaced. It was . . . a moment captured. After all that
work, I wanted something beautiful to show for it. The colors . . .” She trailed off, then muttered, “Shit.” Louder, she added,
“Gale, I’m sorry. It was an accident. I’ll shut up. Don’t want to guilt-trip you.”
Gale, who’d begun to sweep up the glass, blinked. “But—”
“No,” she cut him off, her directive firm. “I think the vase can still be a reminder, about what can be broken if we mess
up. We work together. This has gotten a little out of control, but we need to keep things professional. Don’t worry, it’s
going to be okay. I’m going to fix this.”
He lifted an eyebrow, pausing with the broom in his hand. “Oh yeah? How exactly do you plan on doing that?”
“E.M.M.A.,” Harriet said, a glint in her eye. “I’ll have her find you an even better match than Seraphim.”
“You’re—” Gale’s broom clattered to the floor as his hands clenched. “After what just—” He forced himself to take a breath,
trying to tamp down the surge of anger and hurt. Not at her, exactly. At this whole mess they’d stumbled into. “Harriet, that’s
not—”
“It’s exactly the right reason. You? Me? We don’t make sense.” Harriet steamrolled over his protest, words tumbling out too
fast, like she was trying to convince herself as much as him. “I believe in E.M.M.A. And I know she will help find you someone
perfect. Someone way better suited for you than . . .” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely between them, not meeting his eyes.
Gale’s heart sank. Better than you? Not likely, he thought, but outwardly he just shrugged, fighting to keep his voice steady.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s no different than using an app, just smarter!” Harriet insisted, her brightness sounding forced. “And think of the wins.
No messy emotions, no swiping, no complicated histories. Just pure compatibility. And if E.M.M.A. is right, this is what will
improve your game.”
Gale bit back everything he wanted to say. About how they’d let one impulsive moment spiral into this impossibly tangled situation.
About how messy emotions and complicated histories were exactly what made relationships real. That the years of friendship
between them, the shared memories and inside jokes, meant more to him than any algorithm could understand. That he was angry—not
at her, but at himself for not knowing how to say that he still fucking tasted her on his goddamn tongue. He was still hard
for her—and only her.
But if this was what she needed he’d play along. Because that’s what friends did, right? Even if it meant swallowing back
words that burned in his throat.
“Sure.” Instead he forced a smile that felt like glass. “Whatever you say, Smythe.”
“Great.” Harriet clapped her hands together, still avoiding his gaze. “Great! I’ll get everything set up on Monday.” Her voice
cracked slightly on the last word.