Chapter 11 #2
He's right. I didn't even think about it—just drove straight to him.
"That doesn't mean—"
"You've been writing articles about me that Bill had to edit because they sounded like erotica."
"That's not—"
"You bid five thousand dollars you don't have just to stop other women from touching me."
"Temporary insanity."
"You haven't been with anyone else who mattered because they weren't me."
"Stop."
"You love me," he says simply. "Still. Despite everything."
The words hang between us like lightning about to strike.
"So what if I do?" My voice cracks. "Love wasn't enough last time."
"Last time we were kids who thought love meant protecting each other from hard truths. Now we know better."
"Do we?"
"I know I'd rather fail with you than succeed without you. That's the difference."
Thunder crashes directly overhead, shaking the truck, and I realize I'm crying. Not sad tears or angry tears, but the kind that come when a truth you've been fighting finally wins.
"I'm scared," I admit.
"Of what?"
"That you'll leave again. That I'll have to choose between you and my career. That we'll destroy each other trying to get it right."
"All valid fears," he agrees. "But Harper?"
"What?"
"What scares me more is spending another six years pretending I don't love you."
The storm keeps raging, but inside the truck, something shifts. Like pressure finally releasing after years of building.
"The Post wants an answer by Monday," I remind him.
"I know."
"This doesn't make that decision for me."
"I know that too."
But we both know I'm lying. The decision was made the moment he burst through Mrs. Henderson's door, soaked and terrified he'd lost me.
Maybe even before that. Definitely before that, if I'm being truly honest with myself.
Maybe it was made years ago, and we've just been finding our way back ever since.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything unsaid. Rain pounds harder against the windshield, and I watch him watching me, both of us knowing I've already made my decision even if I can't say it yet.
"Harper—" he starts, but something in me snaps.
I grab his shirt and pull him across the console, crashing my mouth to his. It's desperate, hungry, years of frustration pouring out at once. He makes a sound like I've punched him, then his hands are in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss.
"Harper," he groans against my mouth.
"Don't talk. Just—"
Lightning illuminates us as he hauls me over the console onto his lap. My back hits the steering wheel, horn blaring briefly, but neither of us cares. His hands are everywhere—sliding up my thighs, gripping my hips, tangling in my wet hair.
"Fuck," he breathes, head falling back against the headrest. "Harper, we should—"
"Should what?" I'm kissing down his neck now, tasting rain and salt. "Stop? Be reasonable? Make good choices?"
"Any of those." But his hands are pulling me closer, and I can feel how much he wants this. Wants me.
I shift against him deliberately, watching his control fracture. "I'm done being reasonable."
His eyes go dark. Then he's kissing me again, harder this time, one hand fisted in my hair while the other slides under my soaked shirt. His thumb brushes the underside of my breast through my bra, and I gasp into his mouth.
"Six years," he says against my throat. "Six fucking years of wanting you."
"Then have me."
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. Lightning flashes again, showing his face—wild, desperate, barely controlled. "Not here. Not in a truck in a storm."
"Why not?" I'm still pressed against him, both of us breathing like we've run miles. "Afraid of a little rain?"
"I'm afraid of treating this like it's just about sex." His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. "When you're everything."
The words should cool me down. Instead, they make me burn hotter. "Then take me home. Your home."
"Harper—"
"I swear to God, Nate, if you don't drive us to your place right now—"
He kisses me quiet, then physically lifts me back to the passenger seat. The loss of contact makes me whimper.
"Seatbelt," he commands, voice rough.
"Drive fast."
"Planning on it."
He pulls out of the lot, tires spinning slightly on wet pavement. I can see him gripping the wheel white-knuckled, jaw clenched. The tension in the cab is suffocating.
"Harper." A warning as I shift in my seat.
"What? I'm just sitting here."
"You're killing me."
"Good." I reach over, run my hand up his thigh, feeling the muscle tense under my touch. "Fair's fair."
He catches my wrist before I can go higher. "You want us to crash?"
"I want you to hurry."
He takes a turn too fast, water spraying from the tires. His farm is only five minutes away, but it feels like hours. Every second stretches, filled with the sound of rain and our ragged breathing.
"The second we're inside—" he starts.
"Yes."
"You don't even know what I was going to say."
"Doesn't matter. Yes to all of it."
He makes a sound that's part laugh, part groan. "Jesus, Harper."
"Just drive."
Thunder crashes as we pull into his driveway. We both fumble with seatbelts, desperate to get inside before we completely lose control.
This is happening. Finally, actually happening.
Six years of waiting. Of wishing. Of pretending anyone else could be him.
God I’ve missed this man.
It's time to stop pretending.
We barely make it through his front door before I'm pushing him against the wall, hands fumbling with his wet shirt buttons while rain drips from our hair onto the floor.
"Harper, wait—"
"No more waiting." I get two buttons open before frustration wins and I just pull, sending buttons scattering.
"That was my favorite—"
I shut him up with my mouth, swallowing his protest. His hands slide down to grip my hips, lifting me, and I wrap my legs around his waist. We stumble toward the couch, knocking into furniture, leaving a trail of wet clothes.
"Bedroom," he gasps against my neck.
"Too far."
We crash onto the couch, me straddling him, both of us frantic. His hands are under my shirt, and I arch into his touch with a sound that would embarrass me if I could think straight.
"I can't take the job," I blurt out, then freeze, horrified at my timing.
He goes still beneath me. "What?"
"I can't take it. The Post job. I can't leave you again." The words tumble out between kisses I can't stop pressing to his jaw, his throat. "I know that's crazy, I know I should think about it more, but—"
"Harper, you have to take it. It's your dream—"
"No." I pull back to look at him. "It was my dream. Past tense. Dreams change."
"You can't give this up for me."
"I'm not. I'm choosing to build my career here. With you." I frame his face with my hands. "Because I love you, and I want to stay."
"Harper—"
"I DON'T WANT TO GO!" The words rip out of me, surprising us both with their intensity. "I want to wake up next to you. I want to argue about paint colors for the farmhouse. I want those four kids we used to talk about. I want the life we planned before you decided to be noble and stupid."
Thunder crashes outside, shaking the windows, and I realize I'm crying. Not pretty tears—ugly, harsh sobs that have been building for six years.
"Please," I whisper against his mouth. "Please just let me choose you."
"Harper." He frames my face with his hands, thumbs wiping at my tears. "Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
"Then stay," he breathes, pulling me down for a kiss that's different—slower, deeper, full of the promise of our future. "Stay with me."
"Already decided," I murmur against his lips. "Been decided since I walked into your clinic that first day."
"That red dress," he groans. "You were trying to kill me."
"Maybe a little."
He shifts beneath me, holding me closer. "No more running. No more noble sacrifices. No more deciding for each other."
"Just us?"
"Just us."