Chapter 8
Nate
Three days after the Morrison farm emergency—where Harper and I delivered another breached calf while maintaining "professional distance" that fooled exactly no one—Sarah Brennan's perfectly manicured finger taps the iPad screen, and suddenly I'm watching myself sleep with Harper in my arms. Again.
Lucas has been harassing me all week about the annual bachelor auction. Apparently, being back in town for a handful of months means I'm no longer "too new" to participate. Today's problem, though, is Sarah Brennan and her documentary footage.
"One last question before we wrap," Sarah says, that predatory smile making me want to check my wallet. "Are you two together?"
"No," Harper and I say in perfect unison from opposite sides of my clinic's waiting room. We've been maintaining a ten-foot minimum distance since she arrived for this final interview.
"Absolutely not," Harper adds.
"We're professionals," I contribute, though the word tastes like sawdust.
Sarah's smirk could power half of Willowbridge.
"Right. Well, the footage says otherwise.
" She turns the iPad toward us. There we are in the Wilson barn, Harper wrapped around me like I'm her personal heated blanket, my face buried in her hair.
We look like a furniture commercial for couples who've been married twenty years.
"Delete that," Harper demands, her cheeks flushing in a way that makes me remember things I shouldn't be remembering in a professional setting.
"It's in the contract," Sarah says sweetly. "Documentary rights include all footage captured during the project period."
"Then we're done filming," I say, standing. "No more footage."
"Oh, we wrapped yesterday actually." Sarah's grin widens as her crew continues packing equipment. "This was just a courtesy viewing. The audience is going to eat up your whole will-they-won't-they dynamic."
"There's no dynamic," Harper insists, but she's fidgeting with her necklace—she's lying.
"Sure there isn't." Sarah closes her iPad case with a decisive snap. "That's why at Morrison's farm you two delivered that calf like some kind of synchronized swimming routine."
Harper goes rigid. "That was medical efficiency."
"Mmm-hmm. Medical efficiency with a lot of lingering eye contact." Sarah makes another note on her tablet. "Oh, Dr. Wilder, I meant to ask—that idea you mentioned about an education center? Teaching farmers these techniques? Brilliant footage. Mind if I include it?"
"That was just thinking out loud—" I say.
"The best ideas usually are," Sarah says, then stands as her crew hauls the last equipment toward their van. "Speaking of which, isn't that charity bachelor auction tonight? The one everyone's been talking about? You should do it, Dr. Wilder."
"I'm not—"
Sarah cuts me off, eyes lighting up. "Harper, you should bid. Make it interesting."
"I'd rather eat glass," Harper says with a smile that could freeze hell.
Sarah laughs. "The lady doth protest too much. We'll be in touch about the premiere date. Try not to actually get together before then—the suspense is perfect for ratings."
The door closes behind her, leaving Harper and me alone for the first time since the Morrison emergency, where we worked in perfect sync despite barely speaking.
"Ratings," Harper mutters, gathering her things. "My humiliation sells subscriptions."
"Harper—"
"Don't." She heads for the door without looking at me. "I have an article to write. You have... bachelor things to prepare for, apparently."
"I'm not doing the auction."
She pauses at the door. "You should. Sarah's right—it'll be good publicity for the documentary."
"I don't care about publicity."
"Then what do you care about, Nate?"
The answer is so obvious I'm amazed she has to ask. But before I can say it, she's gone, leaving me alone with the ghost of her perfume and the certain knowledge that Lucas is absolutely going to drag me to this auction.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes. Lucas.
Auction registration closes in an hour. You're doing it.
Me:
No.
Lucas:
Harper needs to see other women want you.
Me:
That's juvenile.
Lucas:
That's effective.
Me:
Lucas, no.
Lucas:
Trust me.
I stare at my phone, then at the door Harper just walked through.
Dammit.
***
Two hours later, I'm in my home gym—really just a corner of the barn with some weights and a pull-up bar—when Lucas walks in without knocking, because boundaries are apparently just suggestions in his world.
"You're welcome," he announces, tossing me a water bottle.
"For what?" I finish my set of push-ups, trying not to think about Harper's face when Sarah mentioned the auction.
"I registered you. Bachelor number four. You're going on at eight-thirty."
I glare at him.
"It's strategic." He sits on my weight bench, making himself at home. "Harper needs to see other women want you."
"That's the dumbest thing you've ever said, and you once challenged a rooster to a staring contest."
"I was drunk." He grins. "But seriously, jealousy is a powerful motivator. Maya agrees."
"You told Maya?"
"Maya tells me everything. Did you know Harper had a sex dream about you?"
I drop the dumbbell I just picked up. It narrowly misses my foot. "What?"
"Shit. Forget I said that."
"Lucas—"
"Nope. Sealed vault. But you're definitely doing the auction now."
I'm still processing the sex dream information—because what the hell am I supposed to do with that—when I hear a car door slam outside. Through the barn window, I see Harper's Honda pulling away, but not before I catch a glimpse of her watching me through her windshield.
I'm shirtless, sweaty, and probably looking like I'm posing, which I definitely wasn't doing.
"Did you tell her to drive by?" I accuse Lucas.
"I may have texted Maya that you were working out shirtless at exactly 4 PM." He shrugs, unrepentant. "She may have told Harper she left her notebook in your truck."
"I don't have her notebook."
"Oops."
I grab a towel, heading outside just as Harper's car turns the corner. But not before she runs over my mailbox.
The crash is spectacular. Not dangerous—she was going maybe five miles per hour—but she completely takes out the wooden post, sending mail flying everywhere.
I jog over as she gets out, her face the color of a tomato.
"There was a... thing," she says, not meeting my eyes.
"A thing?"
"A deer. Maybe. Or a very large rabbit."
"A large rabbit."
"Shut up." She starts gathering scattered mail, and I notice her hands are shaking. "I'll pay for the mailbox."
"Harper—"
"Don't." She stands, clutching my mail against her chest. "Just... don't stand there all shirtless and sweaty and—" She stops herself, shoving the mail at me. "Here."
"You were staring," I can't help but point out.
"At the thing! The rabbit thing!"
"The invisible rabbit that murdered my mailbox?"
"It had very aggressive energy." She's backing toward her car now, keys jingling. "I have to go. The auction's in three hours and I need to... not be here."
"You're going?"
"Maya's making me. Something about moral support." She opens her car door, then pauses. "You're not actually doing the bachelor thing, are you?"
"Lucas signed me up. Bachelor number four."
Her eyes narrow. "Of course he did."
"It's for charity."
"It's for your ego."
"Says the woman who just committed mailbox homicide because she was distracted by my abs."
"I was not—" She stops, realizing she's been caught. "Three hours, Nate. Keep your shirt on."
She drives away, carefully avoiding the massacre of wood and metal that was once my mailbox.
Lucas appears beside me, surveying the damage. "Told you it would work."
"My mailbox is dead."
"But Harper's hot and bothered. Worth it."
I look at the destroyed mailbox, think about Harper's flushed face, remember those words: sex dream.
"What should I wear?"
Lucas grins. "Blue button-down. The one you wore to Maya's birthday dinner."
"The one Harper nearly spilled wine on?"
"The very one. Maya says—and I quote—'Harper couldn't stop staring at him in that shirt.' Apparently it brings out your eyes or some shit."
"Maya said that?"
"Maya says a lot of things after her third glass of wine." He heads for the door. "Trust me on this. That shirt is your secret weapon."
God help me, I'm taking fashion advice from a man who gets his intel from his girlfriend's wine-drunk observations.
***
The Willowbridge Community Center looks like a PTA meeting collided with a bachelorette party. Gold streamers everywhere, auction paddles that say things like "Bid High, Aim Low!" and a stage that someone thought needed both spotlights AND a fog machine.
I'm stationed at the bar with Lucas, trying not to scan the room for Harper every twelve seconds. I'm down to every eight seconds, which feels like progress.
"Stop fidgeting," Lucas says, while I adjust my collar for the third time. "You look good. Very purchasable."
"That's not reassuring."
"Relax. Maya says Harper's definitely coming. She's just—"
The door opens, and my brain short-circuits.
Harper's wearing a gorgeous black dress. It has no back. Like, none. The fabric starts somewhere around her tailbone, held up by what I can only assume is witchcraft and spite. The front is modest by comparison, but the way it clings to every curve makes my mouth go dry.
I walk directly into a wall.
"Smooth," Lucas mutters, steadying me.
Harper's not alone. There's a man with her—tall, cheekbones that belong on a runway, wearing a purple velvet blazer that somehow works. His hand rests on her lower back, on all that exposed skin, and I break the pencil I didn't realize I was holding.
"Who's that?" My voice comes out like gravel.
"Harper's date," Maya appears beside us, grinning. "That's Marcus. June's hairdresser's brother."
"He's gay, right?" Please be gay.
"Nope. Just pretty. And European. French, I think?"
Marcus leans down to whisper something in Harper's ear, and she throws her head back laughing. Real laughter, not the polite kind. Her hand touches his chest, and I break another pencil.
"Where are you getting all these pencils?" Lucas asks.