5. 5
Harlow
I hum along to the music and open another box.
Dishes.
Carefully, I unload the plates into my new kitchen cupboard.
Well, it isn’t new-new. This mobile home is thirty years old.
It has thin walls, squeaky cabinets, and a floor that complains beneath every step.
The couch doesn’t match the chair, and the kitchen table leans if I put too much weight on one side.
Still, everything inside was bought by me. It is small, imperfect, and mine.
I practically squeal at the thought.
Mine.
“Mom, you would be so proud of me,” I whisper to myself. “I wish you were still here to see it.”
Knock, knock.
Who could that be? It’s kind of late for visitors.
I tiptoe to the door, hoping the creaking floorboards won’t give away my presence. Living alone as a single woman is a little scary when you don’t know the area. I haven’t met my neighbors yet.
Through the peephole, I catch dark hair, expensive clothes, and a face that hasn’t left my thoughts — one side unfairly beautiful and the other riddled with stitches.
Killian Easton.
Knock, knock.
“Harlow?”
I freeze.
“I know you’re in there. I see your car.”
And how does he know that’s my car?
“It has the hospital parking permit on the bumper,” he answers, as if he read my mind.
I collect myself, unlock the deadbolt, and open the door only as far as my instincts allow.
The sight of him takes my breath away. He’s in black dress slacks and a collared shirt. A silver watch shines on his wrist. His hair is freshly cut, and he shaved carefully around his sutures without leaving a stray hair behind.
I shouldn’t be surprised he can clean up. Money can make dangerous men look irresistible.
“Uh, hello, Killian. How did you know where I live?”
“I have a source. Can I come in?” he asks, then walks inside as if he owns the place.
Oh God. He smells good. His cologne floats to my nose like seductive smoke, calling me closer.
I stay put and shut the door.
He crowds the space. His tall frame makes the already low ceiling appear even lower.
“This is tiny.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes.
“It’s just me. It’s a one-bedroom.” I cross my arms. “What are you doing here?”
He smirks and leans against the wall. “Your new gig starts today.”
My heartbeat stutters.
“Don’t look like that,” he says sharply. “Like this is a bad thing.”
I bite my bottom lip and take a moment to reset.
“That’s... that’s great. I just wasn’t expecting this arrangement to begin so fast.”
He nudges a box with his shoe. “Need help unpacking?”
“No.”
He peeks into the box. He pinches something and holds it up.
My panties!
My face flushes and I hurry to snatch it away, but he lifts the underwear higher.
“What are these?” he asks. His eyes study the plain fabric. “Ugly. Not what I pictured.”
I jump to reach them, but fail. It’s no use. He’s too tall, and he knows it.
“Well! I only need sexy underwear if I go on a date.”
“A date?”
“Yeah. You know, in case the date goes well. Why am I telling you this? Put them back in the box!”
“Date,” he mumbles darkly, then drops the underwear.
He moves to the next.
I snap the lid shut.
“Stop snooping. I think you should go.”
“If I go, you’re leaving with me. Your shift starts now.”
I scoff and shake my head. “My shift always starts at seven PM.”
He hands me an envelope.
Hesitantly, I tear it open. Inside is a letter from Easton Family Holdings, not the hospital. It explains my new role and compensation. Also, the start date.
Today.
Time: Now.
“Killian, this is crazy.”
“Why?” He drops onto the couch and stretches his arms along the backrest.
“Because.” I say loudly.
He wasn’t supposed to be clean for a single day. He wasn’t supposed to make this insane deal a reality.
After a tense beat, he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and stares at me, his gaze challenging.
“Get it through your head. I am not that fucking bad, Harlow. It’s easy money. You should be thanking me.”
Slowly, I sit on the coffee table. “Nothing is easy with people who use drugs.”
“I won’t use.” The tension builds, but he breaks it. “Do you like my outfit?”
I furrow my brow, but look at his clothes. They are tailored and pressed perfectly.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I reply, unsure where he is going with this.
“It’s not my style, but I saw how you looked at my dad. You like business guys, huh?”
“What? No, I don’t!” I squint at him. “Wait, we are not discussing what I like in men. Okay?”
He doesn’t flinch. Just stares, making me squirm. I glance at the letter in my hands. “It says here I will be an at-home aide. Go there, and I’ll come to your place after I shower and change into my scrubs.”
He scowls, his dark eyebrows pulling together.
“No.”
“No?”
“No. I’m staying as long as I want. Then, I’ll drive you to my house, and after your shift, I’ll drop you off.”
“I have a car.”
“Mine’s better.”
I chuckle. “Everyone’s car is better. My door doesn’t open. I have to climb over the console. But that doesn’t mean I need people to drive me around.”
Killian is up fast, heading for the door. He scoops keys off the hook and slips outside.
What the—?
I hurry after him.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He tries to open the driver’s door, but it doesn’t budge. He strides around it, climbing into the other side.
“Killian,” I say firmly. “What are you doing?”
“Got a toolbox, a coat hanger, and a soldering iron?”
“Huh?”
“I’ll fix it for you.”
“Ugh!” I reach into the car and tug on his arm. “Don’t you see? This is what I’m talking about. This is stressful. Even when my ex was sober, he crawled in his skin. He couldn’t stay still.”
Killian glares at me and stands from the car. I step back to give him space before he flings the door shut.
“So? He was sober, wasn’t he?”
“He was a handful, and I can tell you are, too.”
He doesn’t care, as if he must be used to driving people crazy.
I find myself pacing, wondering if I can actually do this.
Don’t forget, Harlow. I get a pay bump. I don’t even have a hose to water the plants outside. My car needs new tires. If I had to do it again with Evan, I’d do things differently.
“We need rules,” I say.
His smile returns, lazy. “I’m down. What are they?”
I hurry inside and dig through a half-unpacked bathroom box until I find the store-bought drug test. “Rule one. You test when I say.”
He catches it against his chest and stares. “Bossy. I like it.”
“Bathroom’s right there.”
For once, he doesn’t argue. He disappears, comes back soon, and I wait for the result with my arms crossed tight enough to hurt.
Negative.
Suspicion hits first.
“Next time, someone watches you,” I say.
His mouth twitches. “You can watch.”
“A guy,” I clarify.
He looks bored but nods.
“Rule two. Whoever gave you drugs before, delete them.”
His expression changes.
There. That one matters.
“Phone,” I order.
He squints at me, defensive now, but hands it over. I sit beside him on the couch and pull up his contacts.
The phone. The rules. The tiny, stupid hope that control can replace trust.
I draw in a long breath.
This isn’t Evan. This is a patient. Don’t make it personal.
“Who are your dealers?” I say.
“Brax, Meghan, and Bobby.”
“Delete them. It won’t stop you if you’re determined, but it tells me whether you’re willing to try.”
He doesn’t move, so I grab his hand and force his fingertip against the screen.
His eyes lift to mine in warning.
“Careful,” he breathes.
I don’t flinch. It’s weakness.
He smirks, then deletes each name. Brax takes the longest. I make a mental note of that.
“Same on your socials.”
For a second, he just looks at me. This would be a lot easier if he didn’t have those dark, mesmerizing eyes.
I’m also facing the side without the fresh scars.
This side has the perfectly cut jawline and flawless skin.
I need to remember to sit on the other side — the one with the damage.
The one that reminds me there are consequences of getting close to someone like him.
He finally deletes them, too. “Nobody’s asked me to do this before.”
“Your family is too trusting,” I say.
His voice drops, and there is a melancholy note to it.
“Or they don’t care.”
“I am sure you just wore them out being a manipulative—”
“Here’s a rule,” he says, “don’t call me that.”
“Well! Then stop manipulating people.”
He doesn’t look at me, just mumbles, “What’s the next rule?”
“I don’t know, but let’s go to your house.”
“I’d rather stay here,” he counters.
“That’s funny. No, no, we won’t be hanging out at my place.”
I jump to my feet, but Killian’s spread knees block the narrow gap between the couch and coffee table.
“Move.”
He doesn’t.
I squeeze through anyway. My hip catches the table, and I pitch forward. My palm lands on his solid thigh, and I nearly fall onto his lap. My heart races as I find myself way too close, hovering over him like he’s a black abyss.
Yet, I want to fall in.
Everything about being this close to a fucked-up man feels right. At least for me. I guess it’s familiar.
I snap out of it.
“Oh, gosh. Sorry,” I huff and push off him.
He neither helps nor fights me.
Once I stand, I look down. His brown eyes pin me.
“Do I repulse you?” he asks too casually for such a loaded question.
I wince. Answering it feels dangerous.
“Uh, no.”
“Is it my face?”
“God, no.”
“Then what?”
I hold myself and mutter, “I swear, you don’t repulse me.”
Which is true. His addiction repulses me.
He leans back into the cushion, musing.
“There was a time when women like you begged to be close to me. There was a time I cared whether they did.”
Our eyes lock. I know why those days are over. I doubt he does.
And the worst part is, I can see it — the version of him that would’ve been just messed up enough to keep me hooked. That version wouldn’t have wanted me, though. Not really. He already thinks I’m trailer trash when he’s the one clawing his way up from rock bottom.
God only knows what he would’ve called me from the top.