6. Elliot #3
Real.
That was the word that came to mind before I could stop it.
Which was ridiculous; we weren’t anything.
We were a one-night stand with bad timing and unresolved chemistry, a PR issue waiting to happen, and we were probably going to end up naked before the week was out if I had anything to say about it.
But we looked like a genuine couple, and worse, I liked it.
Theo passed us with Lucy, grinning as if he knew too much. “Careful, Vale,” he called, low enough that only we could hear. “You almost look domesticated.”
Harper’s eyes widened slightly.
I smiled. “Ignore him.”
Theo spun Lucy away, and Harper’s attention followed for half a beat. “She looks overwhelmed.”
“Lucy?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“She’s with Julian. That seems inevitable,” I quipped, unsure of what to make of Lucy with Julian.
Harper looked back at me. “You all say things like that as if it excuses the damage.”
I didn’t have a clever response to that. Which was becoming a problem around her.
The song ended, but I didn’t let go right away, and neither did she. For a second, we just stood there in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by people pretending not to watch us.
Her gaze dropped to my mouth again, and I leaned in slightly.
Her fingers pressed against my shoulder. A boundary.
“Elliot,” she said quietly.
“Yes?”
“We’re in public.”
I smiled. “I know.”
“And I’m working,” she added.
“I know that, too.” I laughed, but it was to hide the irritation I was feeling, and I wasn’t sure if it was with the woman in my arms or myself.
“You don’t seem to care,” she said, and something in her tone had me paying attention.
“I care very much.”
Her eyes narrowed, but there was heat in her cheeks now. “About my job?”
“Among other things.”
Before she could question me further, someone approached to speak with her, a donor’s wife who wanted to know if Harper’s PR firm worked with charities. Harper stepped away smoothly, slipping into professional mode so quickly I almost missed the loss of her.
The rest of the evening blurred around her.
Every time I looked away, I found myself looking back.
It felt impossible to pull my eyes away.
Watching her speak with donors., or how I knew she was assessing Rowan’s date.
How she monitored the tension between Julian and Lucy.
Watching Richard North pull strings, and Julian react exactly the way Richard wanted him to.
At some point, Lucy disappeared, and Julian finally noticed. Then everything at our table sharpened. Theo looked furious, Caleb was actually riled up, and Rowan looked like, well, Rowan… which meant he probably knew ten things none of us did and would only share two of them under duress.
Julian asked where Lucy was, and Theo did not handle it gently. Even Caleb got involved.
And I don’t know exactly why, but I couldn’t keep quiet either.
“Why?” I asked. “Why bother?” When Julian said he wanted to go after Lucy.
Julian looked pissed, but he had no right, and I felt protective of Lucy.
“If this is how you treat her, she’s never going to agree to what you’re offering.
And frankly? You should let Whitaker have her. He’s already halfway there.”
Graham Whitaker is a golden boy, a billionaire philanthropist, who has no problem showing his interest in our Lucy tonight.
The words left my mouth, and Harper looked at me as if she had heard something in my voice I hadn’t meant to reveal. Julian left not long after, moving like a man who had finally realized the game he was playing had a person standing in the middle of it.
The gala started thinning out near midnight.
People lingered in clusters, exchanging air kisses, business cards, and lies about scheduling lunch.
Harper was speaking with an older woman from one of the charity boards, nodding politely and asking thoughtful questions that made people instinctively lean in closer.
When she finally stepped back to my side, I handed her a fresh glass of water.
She looked at it, then at me. “Thank you.”
“You’ve had two glasses of champagne and barely touched dinner.”
Her brows rose. “Were you monitoring me?”
“Yes,” I answered without filtering.
“That is no less concerning because you admitted it,” she said, and then took a sip of water.
“I disagree. Honesty should count for something.”
“Honesty should be the rule, not a celebrated exception. But I am starting to believe that is your thing… selective honesty.”
I smiled because I felt like frowning. “You sound like you want to get to know me.”
“I know enough,” she said, her finger absently wiping the condensation on the glass.
“No,” I said. “You know my reputation.”
She lowered the glass. “Is there a difference?”
There it was, a neat little slice right between my ribs. I should have laughed it off. That was what I did. Charm, deflect, move on. Instead, I stepped closer and said, “Come back to my place.”
Her entire face shut down when she said, “No.”
I laughed once. “You didn’t even let me finish.”
“I didn’t need to,” she said, stepping back from me.
“I was going to say we should discuss your observations from tonight.”
“At your penthouse?” she questioned, one perfect brow arched.
“It’s quiet,” I said, stepping into her.
“So is email,” she quipped.
“Email lacks nuance,” I said, closing the distance between us. Her mouth twitched despite herself, which I took as a personal victory.
“Elliot.”
“Harper.”
“I am not going to your penthouse after midnight to discuss PR.”
“Fine, what would make you want to come?”
Her eyes flared, so I leaned closer, lowering my voice. “Come, because you want to tell me all the things you noticed tonight, and I want to hear them.”
“Elliot...” she sighed.
But I cut her off. “Come, because I don’t want the night to end yet.”
That shut both of us up. Well, fuck. That was too honest.
Her expression changed, softening at the edges before she caught it and tucked it away behind the mask I was now recognizing.
“I can’t tell if that’s a line,” she said quietly.
“It probably should have been,” I replied.
“And was it?”
I looked at her as the room moved around us, the music still playing quietly.
“No,” I said.
Her throat moved as she swallowed. For one second, I thought that honesty fucked this up…
Then she looked away, gathering herself. “One hour.”
My pulse kicked.
“One hour?” I repeated.
“To discuss your public image and the perceived group dynamics.”
“Of course,” I said, trying to tamp down my excitement.
Her eyes snapped back to mine. “Elliot.”
I offered her my arm. “One very professional hour.”
She hesitated for one more moment. Then she placed her hand on my arm and let me lead the way. I knew this was a terrible idea, a spectacularly terrible idea. Which probably explained why I wanted it so badly.