Chapter 9
Harper
Six AM comes too fast and not fast enough. I've changed three times—yoga pants and a hoodie wins, because showing up in pajamas would be insane—and I'm standing outside Nate's barn holding a to-go cup of coffee like it's liquid courage.
The barn door is already open, golden light spilling out into the pre-dawn darkness. I smell bacon. And coffee. And something sweet that makes my stomach growl traitorously.
"I'm here," I call out, not quite stepping inside yet. "Now what?"
Nate appears in the doorway, and damn him for looking good at this ungodly hour. Worn jeans, gray henley pushed up at the forearms, barefoot like he just rolled out of bed and decided to cook. "Now you eat breakfast."
He's set up a whole situation near the barn—camping stove, folding table, two chairs facing east where the sun will rise. It's irritatingly romantic.
"You cooked?" I move closer, suspicious.
"I cooked." He's plating something that looks like—"French toast with strawberries and way too much whipped cream. Coffee with vanilla and enough sugar to kill a horse. Bacon burned at the edges because you're a heathen who likes it crispy."
I stare at the plate. "You remembered."
"I remember everything about you, Harper." He says it simply, like it's just fact, not a declaration that makes butterflies take flight in my stomach.
"Even the bad parts?" I sit down, trying to keep this light.
"Especially those. Like how you eat bacon with your fingers even when you're using a fork for everything else. How you always save one perfect bite for last. How you hum when food's really good but think no one notices."
"I don't hum."
"You absolutely hum."
I take a bite of French toast to avoid responding, and dammit, a little hum escapes. His smile is insufferable.
"This is manipulation," I say, pointing my fork at him. "Emotional manipulation through breakfast foods."
"This is an apology." He sits across from me with his own plate. "Six years late, but still."
The sun is starting to paint the horizon pink and gold, the morning air crisp enough that I'm grateful for the hot coffee. We eat in silence for a moment, and it's almost peaceful. Almost like we're just two people sharing breakfast, not two people with enough baggage to fill a freight train.
"Why here?" I ask finally. "Why your dad's barn?"
He looks toward the fields, jaw working. "Because this is where it started. That first summer after freshman year, you helping with the horses. Figured if we're going to figure out what comes next, might as well start where we began."
"That's either really romantic or really manipulative."
"Can't it be both?"
I throw a strawberry at him. He catches it in his mouth because of course he does.
"Show off."
"You used to like it when I showed off."
"I used to like a lot of things."
The words hang there, loaded with history, but for once it doesn't feel angry. Just... sad. And maybe, underneath that, a little bit hopeful.
"Still have the better part of the day left," I say, checking my phone. "Better make it count."
"Planning on it, Harps."
The nickname slides over me like warm honey, and I realize this is going to be the longest day of my life.
"Why Rebecca?" The question escapes before I can stop it, leftover French toast suddenly fascinating on my plate.
Nate sets down his coffee carefully. "She wasn't you."
"That's not an answer."
"Isn't it?"
I look up, meeting his eyes. "No. It's an avoidance tactic disguised as profundity."
He almost smiles at that. "She was uncomplicated. Safe. Boring."
"Boring? Rebecca Brennan with her dressage competitions and Berkeley degree was boring?"
"She talked about wine pairings for twenty minutes once. Twenty minutes, Harper. About which wines go with which cheese."
"Some people find that interesting."
"Some people aren't me." He pushes bacon around his plate. "She was... predictable. Scheduled. She color-coded her calendar and had five-year plans for everything."
"That sounds very organized."
"It was suffocating." He leans back, studying me. "You want to know the truth? She was everything you weren't. Structured where you were spontaneous. Cautious where you took risks. She thought my jokes were unprofessional instead of laughing at them."
"Did you love her?" The question burns coming out.
"I tried."
"And?"
He winces. "She came to your office, didn't she? Told you about me calling your name?"
My face heats. "She mentioned it."
"Twice. Her birthday and after too much whiskey." He runs his hand through his hair, looking genuinely mortified. "She suggested therapy after the second time."
"What did the therapist say?"
"That I was grieving someone who wasn't dead."
The words hit like a physical blow. "I might as well have been. You disappeared completely, Nate. No calls, no texts, no anything."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I thought you'd moved on. DC internship, probably some guy in a suit who read the New York Times and also knew about wine pairings."
I snort. "I dated exactly one person in DC. An investment banker named Bradley who wore bow ties unironically and corrected my grammar during sex."
Nate chokes on his coffee. "During sex?"
"'Actually, Harper, it's lie down, not lay down.' Mid-foreplay."
He's fully laughing now, that deep laugh that starts in his chest. "Bradley the Grammar Cop. Jesus."
"Rebecca the Wine Pairing Expert."
"We really showed each other, didn't we?" His laughter fades into something softer. "Six years of terrible decisions because we couldn't just talk."
"We're talking now."
"Yeah," he says quietly, reaching for my hand but stopping just short. "We are."
The sun is fully up now, painting everything golden, and I'm struck by how easy this feels. How right. Which is exactly why it's terrifying.
"Rebecca told me something else," I say, not sure why I'm admitting this. "She said you talked about me constantly. Harper this, Harper that."
"She wasn't wrong."
"That must have been awful for her."
"It was." No defensiveness, just acknowledgment. "I wasted her time, trying to love her when my heart was somewhere else. Here, specifically. With you."
My chest tightens. "Nate—"
"Ready for your next auction purchase activity?" He stands abruptly, clearing plates.
The deflection is obvious, but I let him have it. We're being more honest than we've been in six years. Maybe that's enough for one breakfast.
"What's next on my twenty-thousand-dollar agenda?"
"Five thousand," he corrects.
"Feels like twenty after writing that check."
He grins. "Come on. Time to see if you still remember how to ride."
"I beg your pardon?" Because of course my mind has to go there, and the yearning in my core kicks up a notch. I clench my thighs together involuntarily. I need to chill out.
But he's already walking toward the barn, and I'm following, because apparently that's what I do now. Follow Nate Wilder into barns at sunrise like the past six years never happened.
Inside the barn, only one horse is saddled and waiting—a black gelding I recognize as Storm.
"Where's my horse?" I ask, suspicious.
"Rosie threw a shoe this morning." Nate's already mounting Storm with an ease that shouldn't be as attractive as it is. "So we're sharing."
My stomach drops. "Sharing?"
"Unless you want to walk while I ride alongside?" He holds his hand down to me. "Come on, Harps. I don't bite."
"That's debatable."
"Only if you ask nicely."
I take his hand, and he pulls me up in front of him. The saddle wasn't designed for two people, so I'm essentially sitting in his lap, his chest pressed against my back, his arms coming around me to hold the reins.
"This is a terrible idea," I breathe, already acutely aware of every point of contact.
"Probably." His voice is right at my ear. "Try to relax."
"I'm relaxed."
"Harper, you're rigid as a board."
"Because I'm sitting on you!"
"Technically, you're sitting on Storm. I'm just... here." His breath ghosts across my neck, and I shiver.
We start moving, and the motion of the horse rocks me back against him with every step. His left arm wraps around my waist to steady me, and I can feel his heart beating against my back, faster than it should be for someone supposedly in control.
"Stop moving like that," he murmurs after a few minutes.
"Like what? The horse is moving, not me."
"You're... shifting."
I am. Every rock of the horse has me sliding against him, and I can feel exactly how this is affecting him, pressed hard against my lower back.
"This is your fault for suggesting one horse," I point out, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in my belly.
"This is torture," he admits, his arm tightening around me. "Sweet, exquisite torture."
"Should we stop?"
"Do you want to stop?"
I should say yes. We're supposed to be maintaining boundaries. Instead, I lean back into him, feeling his sharp intake of breath.
"I'm just getting comfortable," I lie.
"Liar." His hand splays across my stomach, thumb brushing the bottom of my ribs. "You're trying to kill me."
"Dramatic much?"
"Harper, I've been hard since you climbed on this horse. Every movement is testing what's left of my self-control."
The blunt admission makes me clench, which he definitely feels because he groans.
"Still the better part of a day left," I remind him breathlessly.
"I'm very aware." His lips brush my ear, not quite a kiss. "The things I want to do to you..."
"When this day is over, the auction purchase ends."
"Does it?" His thumb strokes once across my ribs, making me shiver. "Because I don't think either of us is going to be satisfied with just the day."
The arrogance should annoy me. Instead, it makes me squirm, which makes him grip me tighter, which makes the whole situation infinitely worse. Or better. I can't decide anymore.
And for the next hour, we pretend we're just riding a horse through what used to be his father's fields, now his, while our bodies tell an entirely different story with every step Storm takes.