Chapter 20
TWENTY
CALEB
I’m creating rules faster than I can follow them. And breaking them just as fast.
Because I really want to follow her up the stairs.
If Mom or Silas asks, I’ll say we’re studying. Not even a lie. I’ve been studying her for weeks—her voice, her habits, the exact curve of her mouth when she’s trying not to laugh. I could write a dissertation with citations.
But crossing the threshold into her bedroom?
That wouldn’t be studying.
Not unless you count mapping every inch of her body with my lips. Oh my god, she’s sexy. Or memorizing the sound she makes when I hold her like she’s the only thing I’ll ever need.
The thought hits low and hard, all heat and no mercy. I rub both hands over my face like I can scrub it away, but it’s useless.
My hands are shaking. I shove them in my pockets. Thumb to index, index to middle, middle to ring, ring to pinky.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
The pattern doesn’t help. Nothing helps when it comes to Harper.
I can still feel her from this morning—curled against me, soft and warm and fast asleep, trusting me with a part of her she doesn’t give anyone.
Her birthday is tomorrow.
Less than 48 hours now. 47 hours and 23 minutes, to be exact. 2,843 minutes. 170,580 seconds.
I had to leave before she woke up. If she’d looked at me like that—barefaced and real, hair pressed to my chest, her fingers fisted in my shirt—I wouldn’t have been able to walk away.
And dammit.
Not only is it too soon for that, but unless her plans have changed—and she’s so stubborn, I’m betting they haven’t—she’s still going to leave and marry another man in less than 48 hours…
Her birthday is tomorrow.
And yet…
The way she curled into me last night—like I was home—made me feel… It made me feel want. And not just the obvious, immediate body kind.
I’d forgotten what it’s like to want things. I spent all my time striving so hard to please everybody else; anything I wanted just never seemed as important. It felt selfish to want anything too much.
But being with Harper…
It’s like coming alive again.
I don’t know how long I’ve been on autopilot. Not feeling much of anything. Just achieving, achieving, achieving, like that would make everybody happy. Like if I made Mom proud enough, my life was worth something.
Or more likely—my jaw tightens—like it proved my father wrong for throwing me away like I was completely discardable the second Mom and I became inconvenient to him instead of a source of easy pleasure and comfort.
But Harper just likes me for… me.
Not for my money or the looks I’ve finally grown into. Or for how useful I am as a good debate captain to help our school win state trophies. Or for the inheritance my father finally put away in a trust for me that gives me status among my peers at school.
Besides Mom, everyone else in my universe has always treated me differently depending on how these factors have changed during the ups and downs in our fortunes.
Except Harper.
She genuinely wouldn’t give a shit if I had nothing. No money. No future. No prestige offered.
She is everything I didn’t know to want until I met her. And it’s killing me, being this close but not being allowed to follow her up those stairs, climb back into her bed, and pull her into my arms.
I clean up after breakfast, then do a deep clean of the entire kitchen when Mom and Silas take off to do some errands.
But once the kitchen’s spotless, I’m still restless. Itching for Harper.
Cold shower. Laundry. Anything to busy my hands before I climb those stairs and do something I can’t undo.
I grab my basket of clothes and head for the basement, rattling baseball stats in my head like a lifeline.
Nolan Ryan. Fastest pitch ever recorded: 105.1 mph. Strikeouts: 5,714. Seven no-hitters.
Randy Johnson: 4,875 strikeouts. Ten-time All-Star.
Roger Clemens: Seven Cy Young Awards. 354 wins.
I recite them in order. Alphabetically by last name. Then by strikeout count. Then by ERA.
It’s a ritual. A safe pattern. Something I can control.
Unlike whatever’s happening with Harper.
The second I hit the bottom step, I hear the washer already running. And smell the scent of cherry blossoms intermixed with laundry detergent. A beep announces the cycle ending. Then I hear her humming as she tugs the door open.
Shit.
She’s already down here.
My heart kicks hard, a guilty, restless thud in my chest. Mom and Silas said they’d be gone for at least an hour.
Which means we’re alone.
Completely alone.
I should turn around. Go back upstairs. Wait her out.
But I don’t.
I keep going, faster now, like my body’s already decided for me. Two magnets inevitably drawn toward each other.
The laundry room is barely big enough for two people—tucked into a corner of the basement like an afterthought, warm from the machines. Our house is built into the side of a hill, so unlike most Texas houses, we actually have a basement.
I round the corner.
And there she is.
Bent over the washer, moving wet clothes into the dryer, her back to me.
My brain tries to count something—anything—to stay grounded.
Steps to the washer: One. Two. Three. Four. Good.
Her movements: Reach, grab, transfer. Reach, grab, transfer. Three beats. Odd. Lucky? Unlucky?
Breathe: Four counts in. Can’t hold it. Three counts out.
Pattern’s breaking down.
The air in the room is hot and damp from the machines. I can smell cherry blossoms and laundry detergent and underneath that—her.
All my careful patterns dissolve.
She’s wearing yoga pants and a cropped tank top that reveals a sliver of skin at her waist every time she moves.
There’s a tattoo just above her waistband—something delicate, maybe a name, maybe a phrase—but I can’t see it clearly.
I want to get closer. Read it. Learn it by heart. Trace it with my tongue.
Harper’s shower-wet hair is piled on top of her head in a loose bun, a few curls escaping to brush the nape of her neck.
Her skin glows with sweat and heat. I want to press my mouth there.
Just once. Just enough to know what she tastes like in the morning, when she’s flushed and warm and we’re not trying to pretend we’re normal in front of our parents at the breakfast table.
She hears me and straightens up. Then turns.
She’s holding an armful of damp clothes, her cheeks pink, and she’s breathing a little too fast for laundry. My own breathing matches hers without permission.
We just… look at each other.
Every bit of discipline I’ve spent years building—gone. Like someone cut the power.
I should say something. Anything. But my head’s full of heat and the smell of her, and I’m not sure I’m strong enough for this.
“Oh. Hey.” Her voice catches, soft and uncertain. There’s something else there besides just surprise. Something that hits low in my gut and tightens everything at once. She looks at my mouth for half a second before glancing away, biting her lip like she’s trying to swallow whatever she’s feeling.
She’s glad I’m here, I think. Nervous, but glad.
Like maybe she’s thinking about last night too—about how we fit together in her bed and how she tucked herself under my chin like she belonged there.
How we said we were falling for each other. Does she even remember through the drug haze?
“Sorry,” I say, setting my basket down. My voice comes out rough. Too rough. “Didn’t know anyone was down here. I can come back.”
I don’t want to.
Please don’t tell me to leave.
She leans over to put the wet clothes in the dryer and clicks it on. “It’s fine.” Soft. A little breathless. Her eyes slide away from mine, but not far.
The dryer hums louder in the silence. The air feels hotter now. Heavier.
“Oh, I missed one.” She reaches into the washer again, and the shirt she pulls out slips from her hands, landing on the floor between us.
We both reach for it at the same time.
Our hands brush.
And then we’re crouched on the cold basement floor, faces inches apart, her palm under mine.
Everything else fades.
I can see the exact shade of her eyes—green with flecks of gold. Her lips are parted, like she’s about to say something but forgot how. Her minty breath ghosts over my cheek, and my whole body goes tight.
I could close the gap in a heartbeat.
I could kiss her and never recover.
And God help me, I want to.
“Harper,” I breathe.
Her name feels heavy. Loaded. Like something sacred and fragile that I’m not sure I deserve to say out loud.
“Yeah?”
The word is low. Barely a whisper. Her eyes drop to my mouth again.
One move. That’s all it would take. She’s close enough.
And God help me, I want to.
“We should—” I start, but the words choke out when she leans in, just a hair. Not even an inch, but I feel it like gravity. Like the air between us just got its own heartbeat.
“Should what?” she murmurs.
That teasing, low pull in her voice… she knows. She has to know.
Talk. We should talk.
Her fingers slide over mine where we’re still both holding the fallen shirt. Damp fabric. Warm skin. The contrast jolts straight up my spine.
Then she says my name—just, “Caleb”—but it lands like a fuse being lit.
“Fuck it.”
I kiss her.
And she doesn’t hesitate—not for a second. She’s in my arms like she’s been waiting years, her hands tangling in my hair, pulling me down to her.
Her mouth opens against mine—lips so soft, then the gentle peek of her tongue, and oh god, I taste her. Mint. Sweetness. Her.
My groin tightens even as my chest expands like I’ve just lifted straight off the earth itself.
We’re still crouched awkwardly on the floor, knees knocking, off balance, but I don’t care. I just drag her closer until there’s no space left between us.
She makes this sound, low and broken in her throat that I remember from the last time we kissed, and just like then, it nearly fucking undoes me.
Eighteen years without this, without her, and I didn’t even know what I was missing.