Chapter 7 #2
The cursor blinks, waiting for more, but that's all I can manage without betraying myself again.
I finally fall asleep around 4 AM, fully clothed on top of my covers, the article deadline looming but ignored.
The dream starts innocently enough. We're back in the barn at Wilson's farm, checking on the twins.
But dream-logic shifts things. Suddenly it's not Wilson's barn—it's the loft at Nate's father's farm, our old place.
The hay is fresh, not dusty, and golden afternoon light streams through the windows.
"You came back," dream-Nate says, his voice rough with emotion.
"I never left," I tell him, which makes perfect sense in the dream.
Then his hands are in my hair, and he's pressing me back against the wall, his body caging mine. "Say it again," he demands against my mouth.
"I never left," I gasp, but the words come out as "I never stopped loving you."
His groan reverberates through me as he lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. In the dream, there are no boundaries, no six years of hurt, no Rebecca Brennan. There's just his mouth on my neck, his hands gripping my thighs, and the devastating friction as he moves against me.
The dream shifts, jump-cuts. Now I'm on my back in the hay, and he's above me, inside me, moving with intent that makes me arch off the ground. His thumb finds that spot that makes me see stars—actual stars, because dream-logic—and I'm saying his name like a prayer, like a plea, like a promise.
"Look at me," he commands, and when I do, his eyes are dark with possession. "This is real. We're real."
"Yours," I gasp in the dream. "Always yours."
I wake at 7 AM gasping, twisted in my sheets, body thrumming with unfulfilled need. My thighs are clenched, and I'm so wound up I could cry.
Fuck it.
I slide my hand down, closing my eyes, letting the dream continue.
In my mind, it's still Nate's hands, Nate's mouth, Nate whispering my name as I touch myself.
It takes embarrassingly little time before I'm arching off the bed, biting my lip to keep from saying his name out loud to my empty bedroom.
The aftermath leaves me feeling both satisfied and utterly ridiculous. Here I am, preaching boundaries and professional distance, then immediately fantasizing about the man like I'm writing my own personal romance novel. The irony isn't lost on me.
My brain shifts to thoughts of the article and deadline fast approaching.
Right. The article I can't write without it sounding like accidental erotica. The article about the man I just fantasized about while—I sigh.
Professional distance. With the man I just dream-fucked in a barn.
"This is fine," I tell myself. "Everything is fine. Very professional. Much distance."
I need a shower. A cold one.
Post-shower, wrapped in my rattiest bathrobe with coffee that's more sugar than caffeine, I check my phone. A missed call from Bill, and texts from Nate that must have come while I was asleep.
3:47 AM:
Can't sleep. Keep thinking about dinner.
5:15 AM:
I meant what I said. I'll respect your boundaries.
7:02 AM:
Thank you for being honest with me. I know that wasn't easy.
I stare at the messages, guilt twisting my stomach. Here he is respecting boundaries while I just... didn't. At least not in my head.
Me:
Just needed to be clear about expectations.
Three dots appear immediately, like he's been waiting.
Nate:
I'm attaching the farm visit schedule for next week. Three farms, all daytime visits. Keeping things simple.
Then a photo follows. I almost don't open it, but my traitorous thumb taps before my brain can stop it.
It's from the wedding. Someone caught us dancing, my head tilted back laughing at something, his eyes fixed on me with an expression that makes my chest constrict. We look like we belong together. We look happy. We look like the couple we should have become.
Nate:
Sarah sent this for the documentary approval. Thought you should have it.
I shouldn't save it. Especially not after what I just did thinking about him. But I save it immediately.
Me:
Thanks. I'll review for the article.
Nate:
We look good together.
My heart stutters. This is dangerous territory, especially with the dream still fresh, my body still humming.
Me:
We looked good together. Past tense.
Nate:
Strangers don't look at each other like that.
He's right. The photo shows everything—the history, the want, the complicated mess of us. You can see it in the way our bodies curve toward each other, the way his hand spans my lower back, the way I'm looking at him like he's both my favorite dream and worst nightmare.
Me:
It's just a photo, Nate.
Another message comes with a video file.
Nate:
Sarah sent this too. Ten seconds that say otherwise.
I open it against my better judgment. It's us dancing, me laughing at something he's whispered. And him—God, him—staring at me with naked want written across every feature. The kind of look that should be private. The kind that makes my recent activities feel even more inappropriate.
Me:
Delete this.
Nate:
Why?
Me:
You know why.
Nate:
Because of how I'm looking at you?
Me:
Yes.
Nate:
That's how I always look at you. You just usually aren't watching.
I set my phone down, walk away, come back. The video plays on repeat, that ten seconds of undeniable truth.
This is exactly why I need boundaries. Because without them, I'm on my bed at 7 AM getting myself off to dreams about him, saving photos I shouldn't save, wanting things I can't have.
My phone buzzes once more.
Another buzz. Nate:
Morrison needs us this afternoon. One of the twins isn't nursing properly.
Me:
I'll drive myself.
Nate:
We’re going to the same place. I'll pick you up at 2pm from work.
Me:
Fine. But keep your hands to yourself.
Nate:
In reality? Always. In your dreams? That's up to you.
I stare at the text. There's no way he could know about the dream. No way.
But the timing of his 3 AM text, the way he phrases things...
The bastard's probably having the same dreams I am.
***
The knock on my office door at noon makes me jump. I've been staring at the same three-sentence article for two hours, alternating between the photo of us dancing and trying not to think about this morning's activities.
"Come in," I call, minimizing the photo quickly.
The door opens, and my blood freezes. Rebecca Brennan stands there in a white sundress, looking like she stepped out of a California vineyard catalog.
"Harper Lane?" Her voice is honey sweet with a slight valley girl lilt. "I'm Rebecca. I wanted to meet the famous Harper."
"I'm not famous." I stand, suddenly aware of my wrinkled jeans and the coffee stain on my shirt from this morning's post-shower haste.
"You are to Nate." She steps into my office uninvited, her perfume—something expensive and sweet—filling the small space. "God, it was always Harper this, Harper that."
My heart stops. "When?"
"The entire time we dated." She sits in my visitor's chair like she owns it, crossing those perfect legs. "Having to keep hearing about the one who got away. Do you know how exhausting it is competing with a ghost?"
"I wasn't—I was in DC, and then back here. We weren't in contact."
"No, but you were everywhere anyway. In every comparison he didn't mean to make. Every time he'd start a story with 'Harper and I used to.' Every time we'd pass a farmers market and he'd get that look."
I sink into my chair, trying to process this. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I'm heading back to California tomorrow, and you should know the truth.
" She leans forward, and for the first time, I see past the perfect exterior to something raw underneath.
"He never loved me. He tried—God, he tried so hard—but you can't love someone new when you're still drowning in someone else. "
"Rebecca—"
"I dyed my hair darker." She touches her blonde locks with a bitter smile. "After I found out you were brunette. Pathetic, right? I actually thought that might help."
My chest aches for her. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'm engaged now. To someone who looks at me the way Nate looks at you." She stands, smoothing her perfect dress. "I just thought you should know—whatever happened between you two, whatever he did, he's been paying for it every day since."
She heads for the door, then pauses. "He called your name during sex. Twice. The second time I knew I had to leave."
The confession hangs between us, brutal in its honesty.
"That must have been awful," I manage.
"It was clarifying." She gives me a sad smile. "Take care, Harper. I hope you find your way back to each other."
She leaves, her perfume lingering like a ghost of possibility—what Nate tried to build with someone else and couldn't.
I stare at the empty doorway, my hands shaking. In ninety minutes, Nate will pick me up for Morrison's. We'll check on the twins, pretend everything is professional while Rebecca's words echo in my head: "He's been paying for it every day since."
My phone buzzes.
Nate:
Change of plans. Need to pick you up at 1pm. Morrison emergency moved up.
Of course. The universe has a twisted sense of humor. Thirty minutes to process that the man called my name while with another woman. Thirty minutes to decide what to do with the knowledge that he never stopped loving me, even when he tried.
I think about Rebecca, engaged now to someone who chose her first, not as a consolation prize. Maybe that's what we all need—someone who doesn't have to try so hard to love us.
But then I open that photo again, see the way Nate's looking at me, and wonder if trying hard is exactly what second chances require.
Either way, I have thirty minutes to figure out how to face him knowing what I now know.