Chapter 8
Harper
Getting back to the hotel after the parade was a nightmare. It’s like the entire country came to DC to watch the National Independence Day Parade. The spectators were waving their flags and singing the national anthem, all dressed in red, white, and blue as they celebrated the birth of America.
I’m back in my room after hitting the spa, which was blissfully empty today since everyone is still out enjoying the festivities. Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I look at the pictures I snapped this morning.
I’ll admit, the parade was kind of cool.
There were bands, floats, military, dignitaries, and—of course—celebrities, including the hockey players selected to participate in the tournament.
Some of them were wearing the big gold medals they won at the Olympics earlier this year, including Baptiste.
I zoom in to get a better look. He was in the first row, standing tall in his jersey, medal gleaming against his chest as he waved to the crowd like he belonged there.
My heart does that weird little jolt again, and I groan.
Yeah, he’s handsome, we get it. And also, not that terrible of a human being, from what I learned during our interview, but still, he lives in a totally different world. One I’ll never be a part of. One I particularly loathe.
Before long, my stomach is growling, so I decide to go out for a quick dinner. I know there’s a Thai place a block away.
A chorus of boisterous laughs erupts as soon as I exit the elevator, and my eyes are drawn to the sound. Well, one in particular. Baptiste’s laughter. Here he is with a bunch of people, chatting and laughing as they stand around waiting for someone or something.
I try to discreetly pass by them, head down, but Baptiste notices me anyway.
“Harper, hey,” he calls, and I’m forced to stop. He jogs toward me, a bright smile lighting up his face.
“Hi, how are you?” I ask, shifting my bag on my shoulder.
“Good, good.” He rocks back on his heels. “How about you? Are you heading to the festival?”
I grimace slightly, already tired at the idea. “Oh, noooo. Not my style at all. I’m just going for some quick Thai food, and then I’ll probably stay in and read the rest of the evening.”
He frowns, looking falsely offended. “What? That’s unacceptable. This is America’s birthday. You have to celebrate.”
“I did celebrate, with hundreds of thousands of screaming people, including you, Mr. Celebrity. Or should I say, Mr. Olympian.”
He shakes his head, a small laugh escaping him, then glances back at his friends. “Well, that nickname is an upgrade, so I’ll take it. But come on. You should tag along with us. We’ll walk around, eat, and just hang out.”
As tempted as I am to see how the other half lives, being alone is my thing. Not people. And definitely not crowds. “Yeah, I don’t think so. I just want a quiet night.”
“You owe me, remember?” He winks. “For the interview. And besides, you could use a night out. You’re always working.”
I give a small shrug. “I actually went to the spa for a few hours today.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Really? Then you’re refreshed and relaxed, right?”
“Ugh, fine.” I sigh, lifting my hands in surrender—his accent was the knockout blow. “Stop badgering me. I’ll come for an hour, but that’s it.”
He grins triumphantly. “Great. Let me introduce you to everyone.”
I press my lips together as I follow him to his intimidating group of friends. Something I never really had, nor wanted.
There are a lot of names to remember, but thankfully I have a knack for memorizing both faces and names.
There’s Maxime, another French-born player who turns the charm on with his curly brown hair and mischievous grin.
I’m pretty sure he’s the jokester of the team.
He’s with his wife, Hayley, a pink-haired fellow reader who owns a bookstore in Brooklyn with her best friends.
Next there’s James, another class clown with piercing cobalt eyes and dark blond hair.
I’m sure I’ve seen him before, but I can’t recall where.
He has his arms around a pretty blonde who introduces herself as Beth—she also looks familiar.
Baptiste tells me she and Marissa, the strawberry-blonde, own a coffee shop together.
Apparently, Marissa is married to Aaron, the other star defender of their New York team who sports a buzz cut. I also meet their team captain, Caleb, whose subdued dark brown hair matches his calm demeanor. He’s engaged to Aria, a budding author with black hair and an easy smile.
“And we’re still missing Wally, our goalie,” Baptiste says. “He should be here soon.”
“Actually,” Caleb says, checking his phone, “he’s not coming. Sounds like he’s staying in with Grace, his wife,” he adds for my benefit.
“Shocker,” Baptiste grunts. “He’s not big on hanging out with the gang.”
“But he loves us,” James adds with a serious nod. “That’s been proven before. They just prefer to hang out alone.”
“Well, they are British,” Maxime says, shrugging, as if that explains everything.
We all start funneling toward the exit when it hits me.
“Ah, I know where I’ve seen you before,” I say to James and Beth as we push through the hotel doors. “The Golden Age retirement home!”
“Oh, right,” Beth says with a smile. “My grandma, Lois, lives there. We come by to visit her, and some of the other residents as well.”
“Always the highlight of my week,” James adds. “Do you have someone there?”
I nod. “I do. Glenda Dickinson, my grandmother. She moved in a couple of months ago. It’s… been an adjustment.”
Beth gives me a sympathetic smile. “I know the feeling. It was the same for my grandma, but she eventually made friends, and she loves it there now.”
I can only hope mine will have the same experience. Although I’m guessing Beth’s grandma is a bit more open-minded and sociable than mine.
The festival is packed with people—no surprise there.
We walk past rows of food trucks selling corn dogs, funnel cakes, burgers, and lemonade.
Carnival games with flashing lights and inflatable structures welcome swarms of kids and overly competitive adults, and live music is blasting from a nearby stage while a giant Ferris wheel serves as a festive backdrop.
Wandering alongside the group, it’s almost like I’m here with friends.
We chat, grab a bite to eat, share stories—they’re all particularly eager to hear mine—and laugh about nothing and everything.
It doesn’t even feel like I’m hanging out with a bunch of millionaires.
We wait in the long lines to get food like everyone else, no special treatment.
Which I should have expected, I guess. I feel stupid thinking otherwise.
It’s just a festival. Then again, if a celebrity could monopolize an entire hospital with her fame, it wouldn’t be that far-fetched.
Really, aside from a few fans asking for a picture, we’re having a perfectly normal evening.
“Are you okay?” Baptiste bumps his shoulder lightly with mine. “Having fun?”
I smile at him. “I am, actually. Thanks for inviting me.”
“Want to go for a ride?” he asks with the hint of a smirk. I don’t get what he means at first. But then, he glances up at the Ferris wheel, the massive structure now lit up against the sunset, its lights blinking lazily as it turns.
I drill him with a hard stare. “Over my dead body.”
“Oh, come on.” His shoulders sag dramatically. “It’ll be fun.”
“Nope.” And I’m not even kidding. I really don’t do fair rides. Who knows if the parts are cobbled together correctly, or if there isn’t a bolt or two missing after building it up and tearing it down so many times?
“Yeah. Let’s all go,” Aaron says, glancing at Marissa, who nods firmly at his side.
“You're coming,” Baptiste says to me, the gleam in his eyes telling me he’s enjoying this far too much.
“Nope.”
“Why? Are you scared?” he asks, coming closer and infusing the air with his clean, woodsy cologne. “I thought you were a tough cookie.”
I give him a pointed look. “I am.”
“Prove it, then,” he adds, lowering his voice just enough to make it sound like a challenge.
I take a deep breath as an internal debate wages in my mind.
On one hand, I really don’t want to go on that sketchy ride.
But on the other, it seems safe enough—a lot of people have ridden it already, and nothing has happened.
As I think it over, Baptiste’s green eyes are defying me.
This guy knows pretty darn well I can’t refuse a challenge.
And his cologne… “Fine. But you’re paying. ”
His shoulders shake with laughter as we trail behind the other guys, who are getting tickets.
The line is surprisingly short, and Baptiste and I are ushered into a gondola in no time. The metal door clangs shut behind us, sealing us inside the small glass cabin. It smells faintly of warm metal and the buttery popcorn drifting up from below.
We begin our slow ascent, enjoying an unobstructed view of the National Mall and all its monuments. The towering structures are lit up, glowing against the darkening sky. The Washington Monument cuts clean and pale into the deep blue. The Capitol dome shines in soft golden hues in the distance.
The city hums beneath us—music from the festival, bursts of laughter, distant sirens, and the low murmur of thousands of people celebrating. Yet up here, suspended in the evening air, it feels oddly quiet. Intimate.
“See? It’s not that bad,” Baptiste says, bringing me back to reality.
I snort. “Yeah, until the hinges on this thing give out, and we fall to our deaths.”
“Wow,” he blurts out. “You’re a real bundle of joy, aren’t you?”
I hide a smirk. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”