Chapter 6
Nate
The drive to Harper's house is torture. She's tipsy from champagne, shoes abandoned on my floor mat, and she's somehow gotten her bare feet into my lap while I'm trying to drive.
"Your truck has the worst shocks," she complains, wiggling her toes against my thigh.
"Stop moving."
"I'm not moving. The truck is moving me."
"Harper."
"What? My feet hurt from those heels. And we've been at Wilson's for a million hours."
Before I can think better of it, my hand drops to her foot, thumb pressing into her arch. The sound she makes—somewhere between a moan and a sigh—has me gripping the steering wheel with my other hand.
"Oh my God, yes."
"Harper, you can't make sounds like that."
"I'm not making any sounds." She definitely is. Another press of my thumb and she practically purrs. "That's... you're really good at that."
"Stop moaning."
"I'm NOT moaning. I'm appreciating. There's a difference."
"Is there though?"
She shifts, dress riding up her thighs, and I catch a flash of pale blue lace that shorts out my brain.
"Eyes on the road," she says, but there's a smile in her voice.
"I'm watching the road."
"You're watching my legs. Again."
"Your legs are on me. That's different."
"Pull over."
My heart stops. "Why?"
"I need to... compose myself."
I glance over. She's flushed, breathing too fast, fingers playing with the hem of her dress. "Compose yourself?"
"Yes. Compose. Adjust. Fix... things."
"What things?"
"Things, Nate. Girl things. Dress things."
I pull into the next rest stop, and she immediately starts tugging at her dress, pulling down the hem, adjusting the neckline, smoothing fabric that doesn't need smoothing. Her breathing is deliberately measured, like she's trying to calm herself down.
"Better?" I ask when she finally stops fidgeting.
"Much."
"Good."
"Your hand is still on my foot."
I look down. It is. My thumb is still pressed into her arch, unconsciously rubbing small circles.
"Sorry, I—"
"I didn't say stop."
The words hang between us, heavy with implication. Her feet in my lap, my hand on her skin, both of us pretending this is normal. Casual. Not foreplay by proxy.
"We should go," she says finally. "I need to get home. Feed my cat."
"You don't have a cat."
"I might have gotten one. You don't know my life."
"Harper, you're allergic to cats."
"Details." She yawns, champagne and exhaustion catching up. "God, how are you even functioning? We've been up for like thirty hours."
"Thirty-two," I correct. "And lots of practice with emergency calls."
"My hero," she says sarcastically, but her feet curl into my touch, and I keep driving one-handed, unwilling to break the contact.
Tomorrow she'll get her car. Tomorrow we'll pretend this didn't happen. Soon the Washington Post will call back. But tonight, I get to touch her, even if it's just this.
It's more than I've had in six years.
***
The next morning comes too soon. I'm at Harper's door at eight with coffee and the promise of retrieving her car.
She groans, answering the door in jeans and an oversized t-shirt that definitely isn't mine but looks like it could be.
"Your chariot awaits at Morrison's."
"My broken chariot."
"About that..."
She narrows her eyes. "What did you do?"
"Nothing. Just... drink your coffee."
We drive to Morrison's with Harper suspicious and silent, looking softer in the morning light than she has any right to. When we pull up, her Honda is parked exactly where she left it, but something's different.
"It's clean," she says, walking around it slowly.
"Is it?"
She notes the fresh oil change sticker on the windshield, the new tires, the suspiciously smooth engine sound when she starts it.
"You fixed my car."
"It needed fixing."
"Nate, this is more than fixing. These are new tires. Good tires. Expensive tires."
"The old ones were death traps."
"What do I owe you?"
The words tumble out before I can stop them: "Dinner. Naked. I mean dinner. Just dinner."
Harper freezes, then laughs—really laughs, not the polite laugh she's been giving me, but the genuine throw-her-head-back laugh I fell in love with.
"Did you just proposition me and then take it back in the same breath?"
"That was a Freudian slip."
"Everything about you is Freudian, Wilder." She's still grinning, and hearing her use my last name like a tease makes my chest warm.
"So? Dinner?"
"Are you blackmailing me with car repairs?"
"I'm bartering. There's a difference."
She raises an eyebrow at me as she runs her hand along the hood. "This must have cost a fortune."
"Dinner, Harper. That's all I want."
"Just dinner?"
"Just dinner. Clothes mandatory. Unfortunately."
She bites her lip, trying not to smile. "Fine. Dinner. But I pick the place."
"Deal."
"And you're paying since you apparently have money to throw at broken cars."
"Also deal."
She gets in her Honda, then rolls down the window. "Seven o'clock. Marcello's."
Marcello's. The Italian place we went for our first date. She's either testing me or torturing me. Possibly both.
"I'll be there."
"Don't be late. And Nate?" She starts the engine, and it purrs like a happy cat. "Thank you. For the car."
"You're welcome."
As she drives away, I realize I need to figure out how to have dinner with Harper Lane without falling completely back in love with her.
Who am I kidding? That ship sailed the moment she walked into my clinic in that red dress.
Hell, it never even left the harbor.
***
I should have known Sarah wouldn't give up that easily. She's waiting at my clinic when I get back, camera crew in tow, looking like a cat who's cornered a mouse.
"Perfect timing!" she chirps. "We need some interview footage. The wedding scenes were gorgeous, but we need context."
"The wedding wasn't part of the documentary."
"Everything's part of the documentary, Dr. Wilder. You signed the contract. You know this."
I want to argue, but she's already steering me toward the chairs they've set up. Harper's car pulls up outside—she must have gotten the same summons.
"What fresh hell is this?" Harper asks, walking in with the expression of someone heading to their execution.
"Post-wedding interview," Sarah says brightly. "About your working relationship."
"We already did interviews."
"But that was before I saw you two at the wedding. The dancing? The tension? The way you looked at each other?" Sarah's grin is predatory. "Our viewers will want to know more."
Harper sits in the chair next to mine like it might electrocute her. "Five minutes."
"Let's start with something simple," Sarah says as the camera starts rolling. "How long have you known each other?"
"Eight years," I say.
"Eight years, two months," Harper corrects. "We met at freshman orientation."
"So you were friends first?"
"We were—" Harper starts.
"Together," I finish. "We dated for two years."
Sarah leans forward like she's struck gold. "Dated? As in past tense?"
"Very past tense," Harper says quickly.
"Briefly past tense," I counter. "Six-year break."
"That's not brief, that's a geological era."
"Felt brief to me."
Harper turns to stare at me. "Six years felt brief?"
"Every day felt like a year, so technically—"
"That's the opposite of brief, Nate."
"Can we discuss the agricultural program?" Harper asks desperately.
"The chemistry between you two is undeniable," Sarah observes.
"That's indigestion," Harper says. "From the wedding food."
"The wedding food was excellent."
"Then it's regular indigestion."
"Harper doesn't get indigestion. She has an iron stomach. Once ate gas station sushi on a dare—"
"That was one time!"
"Twice. There was also the county fair incident."
"We agreed never to speak of that."
Sarah is practically glowing. "This is exactly what our viewers want. Real chemistry, real history."
"Real disaster," Harper mutters.
"Real potential," I correct.
She looks at me, something shifting in her expression. "Potential for what?"
"Everything."
The word hangs there, heavy with promise, until Harper stands abruptly.
"Interview's over. I have an article to write."
She's gone before Sarah can protest, leaving me sitting there like an idiot who just showed his entire hand.
"That was perfect," Sarah says. "The yearning? The unresolved feelings? Emmy-worthy."
"Delete it."
"Not a chance, Dr. Wilder. This is documentary catnip."
She's right. And when Harper sees it, she'll probably never speak to me again.
Worth it for the way she looked when I said "everything."
***
Seven o'clock can't come fast enough. I'm pacing my office, Duke watching me like I've lost my mind, when Lucas shows up with a beer and unsolicited advice.
"You're selling the farm?"
I stop pacing. "How did you—"
"Small town, man. The realtor's my cousin."
Of course she is. Everyone in Willowbridge is related to everyone else somehow.
"I’m rattling around in there," I say, taking the beer.
"It's your dad's place."
"Was. Was my dad's place. Now it's just... memories."
Lucas settles into my desk chair. "Harper know?"
"Why would Harper care?"
He gives me a look that suggests I'm being deliberately obtuse. "Because you two planned your entire future in that barn loft?"
"That was a long time ago."
"Was it?"
I take a long pull of beer instead of answering. The truth is, I've been putting off selling for months. Ever since I moved back, I see Harper everywhere—carved initials in the barn beam, the tree where we first kissed, the loft where we...
"I'm meeting her for dinner," I say.
"At Marcello's. I heard."
"How could you possibly—"
"She called Maya. Maya told me. Circle of life."
"Circle of gossip."
"Same thing in Willowbridge." He stands. "Don't sell the farm."
"Why?"
"Because when you and Harper finally get your shit together, you'll want the space. The memories."
"That's a big if."
"That's a when, not an if. Trust me."
After he leaves, I grab my keys and head to the farm. My home. Maybe to torture myself with memories before dinner.
The place looks exactly the same—white farmhouse, red barn, acres of possibility. I walk through the barn, stopping at the beam where our initials are carved. "H.L. + N.W. Forever" in her careful script.