by Tillie Cole
“Thank you.” As she opened the curtain to leave, Harry was on the other side, holding two paper cups. He nodded politely at the nurse as she walked past. He ducked into the booth and placed a steaming cup on the table above my lap.
“Coffee?” I asked, knowing caffeine would be all the remedy I needed right now.
“Tea,” Harry said and sat down on the plastic chair.
“You’re shitting me, right?”
Harry’s mouth twitched, no doubt at the amount of venom in my voice. “I am not, shitting you, as you so eloquently said. It’s chamomile, caffeine free. It’s tea, Miss Parisi, don’t you know it’s the cure for everything?”
“Maybe back in the auld empire, but here in New York it’s a cup of Joe all the way.” I shuddered just looking at the light brown water that resembled dirt sitting tauntingly before me. “I may swear like a sailor off his tits on gin, but ‘it’s chamomile, caffeine free’ may just be the most offensive sentence I’ve ever heard in my fucking life.”
Harry reached over, took the tea, and switched his drink with mine. From what my coffee-trained bloodhound nose could detect, it appeared to be a double-shot grande latte. “There. Have mine. Can’t have you so affronted by Britain’s best stuff.”
“I thought tea cured everything. Why did you get coffee?”
“I wasn’t sure tea was going to be strong enough for me to face your expected wrath.”
I couldn’t help but fight a smile. “My expected wrath?”
“I feared I was about to be nailed inside a coffin for the mishap with the rugby ball.”
“Mishap? You mean the leather egg that decided to kiss my face with the force of a freight train? That mishap?”
“The rugby ball that was thrown by an eleven-year-old who weighed no more than eighty pounds. Yes, that mishap.”
“Eleven? Shit, sign that kid up right now for the draft.” I took a sip of my coffee, already feeling its healing powers zip through my veins, bringing them back to life. “Do you have the draft in rugby?”
“No.”
I sighed and rested my head against the pillow behind me. I knew nothing about sports.
“I am sorry, though,” Harry said. “That you were hit.”
I rolled my head to look at him. “You were at the rec center, playing rugby.”
His face tightened, adopting his usual shuttered-down expression. I didn’t know if it was the concussion, but I heard myself saying, “No. Don’t do that. Don’t go all cold and distant on me again. Don’t do the aristocratic stiff-upper-lip thing that only comes off as rude and annoying.”
Harry’s expression didn’t change until he huffed out a laugh and shook his head. “Do you ever not say what is on your mind, Miss Parisi?”
“Faith. Call me Faith, if you call me Miss Parisi once more I’m going to bang my own head off the wall, just so I can be knocked out and not have to hear it again.”
“Slightly dramatic.”
“But very me.”
“Fine,” Harry said. “Faith.”
“Hallelujah!” I settled back down, swallowing the coffee so fast it left a trail of caffeinated fire down my throat. “And to answer your question, yes, I always say what’s on my mind.” I shrugged. “I’d rather tell people to their face what I think than say things behind their backs. And I rarely care what people think of me, so I don’t care if they don’t like it.”
“Duly noted.”
I laughed at his dry response. I sobered quickly when I asked, “Why were you there today, Harry? I heard you were back in the UK this week.”
“I was in England this week. Just came back a little earlier than I said I would.” He played with the edge of his coffee cup. He sighed and met my waiting eyes. “I’m the main benefactor for the charity.”
“Vie?” I asked.
“Vie.”
Then it dawned on me. “You wanted the media coverage for the charity but didn’t want to be tied to it?”
“Exactly,” he said stiffly. “It’s not about me. But I’m also not above using my connections to get it the coverage it deserves.”
“Why that charity?” I asked. “Children’s bereavement?” Then I remembered something I’d read about him and felt like the biggest asshole in the world. “Oh, Harry, I’m sorry,” I said and felt like hitting the egg on my head in self-punishment. “Your mom.”
Harry nodded. “Yes.” I stayed quiet for once in my damn life. Even I knew when to shut up on occasion.
“I was only twelve when I lost her. It…” He trailed off then sighed. “It was very difficult. To be so young, and alone…” My chest clenched at the brokenness I heard under the forced strength in his voice.
“You still had your father though, right? He helped you through it?” Harry’s lips thinned a fraction, and a flicker of coldness washed over his blue eyes.
“Of course.”
I laid my hand over his and squeezed. “I’m sorry you lost her.”
“Thank you.” Then he smiled and shook his head. I was so confused.
“What?”
“I’m just imagining what she would have thought of you.”
I grimaced. “That bad, huh?”
“On the contrary,” he said, and his expression lightened. It softened and, with it, so did some of the ice around my heart when it came to him. “She would have adored you. She always championed strong, independent women.” He leaned forward, voice lowered. “I’ll let you in on a secret. She didn’t much care for the ladies of the aristocracy. In fact, she would often smile to their faces, then when they were not looking, swiftly show them the middle finger, encouraging me to follow suit.”
“Sounds like my kind of lady.”
“Yes, quite.” A lightness spread in my chest. A tattoo of his brief smile etched into my brain. It was quite the sight. And extremely rare. Like seeing Bigfoot wearing a thong and stiletto heels.
“So, you’re teaching rugby to the youth of Hell’s Kitchen?”
He nodded. “I felt like they should be shown a true sport, not ones played with an abundance of helmets and padding.”
“Careful, or you’ll be hunted out of the states by a tailgating mob,” I teased. “But why Hell’s Kitchen?”
Harry relaxed back in his chair, and I couldn’t help but notice the sliver of skin on his flat stomach where his rugby shirt had ridden up. “I remembered reading a piece on them last year and how they were setting up a club for those who had lost parents young. They were asking for donations. I knew I could do better than that.” He shrugged, and it was the most casual gesture I’d ever seen from him. This, I understood, he could talk about freely. “I wish I’d had something like that when I was dealing with my grief.”
I imagined a young Harry, lost—no doubt in a mansion—his fun and loving mother gone and only his cold father for comfort. King Sinclair would have given as much comfort as an iron lung.
“It’s a lovely thing you’re doing.”
Harry narrowed his eyes at me, and I could tell he was thinking hard about something. “The pitch had been closed off to journalists…” He let the question hang in the air.
“Is that so?” I shrugged innocently. I sighed, caught. “I used to go to that rec center, Harry, okay? When I heard you all down the hallway, I had to find out what was going on.” I pointed to my head. “Karma got me back for my nosiness, don’t worry.”
“It seems so.”
“Harry?” I asked, not wanting to hear the answer. “Did I say anything stupid when I was concussed? I can’t remember much. Was there something about angels?”
“No,” he said and took a long drink of his awful tea.
“I did, didn’t I?” I shrieked.
Harry held up his hands in surrender. “What? I can’t help it if you believe me the most beautiful seraphim in all of heaven.”
“Oh my Jesus Christ. Kill me now.” I paused and checked my surroundings. “No, that’s it, right? I did die, and I’m in Hell.”
“Wow,” he said
, the slang word sounding strange coming from his proper mouth. “Good to know being in my presence would be your idea of Hell.” Harry said it as a joke, but I caught the slight echo of sadness on his face, heard the quick inflection of disappointment in his tone.
“Harry, since we met, we have been meteorites crashing together, knocking each other off course. I can’t imagine two more unlikely people trying to strike up a friendship.” He dropped his eyes to his cup, picking at the label. I felt a cave of sadness burrowing in my stomach.
“It’s like you’re two people.” Harry tensed, eyebrows furrowed. “You can be degrading, prideful, and curt.” I pointed at him. “Then you can be like this. The man I saw brief glimpses of in the elevator that night. The man you have been today, showing whispers of smiles at my shitty and inappropriate jokes.” He huffed a laugh at that. “This may be way out of line, but I thought you were just a carbon copy of your dad.”
At that, Harry’s head snapped up and his eyes blazed with fire. I held my breath at his strong reaction, which wasn’t wise, as the world seemed to tilt on its axis.
“I’m nothing like my father,” he said firmly. His wide shoulders tensed and his jaw was tight.
“I know,” I said, and I watched him lose some of the built-up tension. “I’m beginning to realize that now.”
Harry turned his head, facing the curtain. I thought this was when he’d get up and leave. Make his excuses. Instead, without facing me, he said, “You must understand that being raised nobility in England, there are expectations and a strong sense of decorum…” He trailed off and ran his hand down his face.
He faced me again and, with a self-deprecating smirk, said, “Not every prison is behind iron bars.”
“Harry…” I whispered, feeling something around my heart crumble. A wall? A fence? I didn’t know. But whatever it was, at those heart-wrenching words it fell away, leaving my beating flesh open to Harry Sinclair.
“More coffee?” Harry said, jumping to his feet.
“No, I…” The hopeful look on his face made me say, “Yes. Thank you. I can always use more coffee.” Relief beamed from him, and he ducked out through the curtain.
What had it cost him to reveal that? And his prison? Was he trapped by the rules and regulations of his social standing, or was his father not a good father at all? From the little I knew of King Sinclair, I couldn’t imagine him being anything but degrading. And if someone had lived with that all his life? Been on the receiving end of censure and never praise. And worse, he had lost the woman who’d shown him what love was at such a young age…
Seeing my cell on the nightstand, I checked to ensure that the coast was clear; then I conducted a quick Google search. After typing in “young Henry Sinclair III,” I pressed on “images.” In seconds, I was staring at a baby-faced Harry. In most of the pictures, he stood beside King. I searched through pages of pictures and, heartbreakingly, I couldn’t find one photo where Harry was smiling.
I looked more closely at his face on one particular photo and felt as though I might cry. He was standing in front of a stone wall of some sort, maybe a house? He was beside his father, but it was Harry’s eyes that held me captive. They, of course, were the same cerulean blue, but these eyes were haunted. They were tinged with such sadness and…loneliness that I felt my cheeks grow damp.
Putting down the cell and wiping my history of any Harry-themed evidence, I wiped at my tears, just as he came through the curtain to the booth.
“Faith?” He put the coffees down and rushed to my side. “What’s wrong? Is it your head? Are you in pain?”
I tried to think of something but those sorrowful blue eyes. “Erm…I’m…I’m premenstrual, okay?” Harry took a step back, as men do at any mention of period-related issues. “And this,” I said, pointing to my head. “I’m not sure I can pull off a giant horn on the side of my head.”
Harry fought a smile, which was as welcome as a blindfold on a nudist beach. “I’m sure you’ve been told this plenty in your life, Faith. But you’re beautiful, and I’m pretty sure that beauty wouldn’t lessen no matter how many horns you sprouted on your head.”
I dried my eyes and blinked up at him, his words landing like arrows in my now Harry-exposed heart. “You think I’m beautiful?”
Spots of red burst onto Harry’s cheeks. “Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “Exceptionally.” Our gazes were locked and, for once in my life, I had no jokes to crack. In fact, only silence hovered between us.
“Okay, Faith,” the nurse said, opening the curtain. “Here’s your prescription for your pain meds.” She placed a clipboard on my lap. “If you just sign these forms, you’re good to go.” I forced my attention away from Harry and to the forms. I signed my name robotically.
An orderly came through next with a wheelchair. “Do you have a ride home?” he asked.
“I’ll take her,” Harry said, standing and gathering my belongings and our coffees. “That okay?” he asked.
“More than.”
Then Harry smiled. Not a whisper of one, not a smirk or minute cocky grin. But a true smile. I was glad I was sitting or that sucker would have dropped me straight on my ass.
Exceptionally.
As the orderly led me to the underground parking lot, all I heard in my head was Harry’s voice saying exceptionally.
Harry brought the car to the curbside. I slid inside onto the passenger seat. “Home?” Harry asked, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
A strange sort of tension had filled the car. Not a bad tension, but one that felt like a weird kind of purgatory. Confusion and unfamiliarity crackled in the air like an old wireless radio trying to find a station. I used to know my place with Harry. I didn’t like him. He didn’t like me. He was cold and arrogant. I was loud and annoyed him. Now…we were in a no-man’s land. One I couldn’t find my way out of.
“I’ll go to my parents’ house,” I said as Harry pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street. “It’s two blocks from the rec center.”
Before we’d left, the nurse had explained to me that I needed someone to watch me for the next twenty-four hours. Amelia and Sage were working late. And I just wanted to go home. I was a twenty-five-year-old woman who wanted her mom to spoil her while she recovered. Sue me. I was high maintenance. I knew that. I couldn’t friggin’ cope with caring for myself; I’d annoy me too much.
The ride was silent as we cut down the dark streets of Hell’s Kitchen. People filled bars and restaurants, spilling out onto the streets. Coming back to Hell’s Kitchen was as comforting as grilled cheese and tomato soup. It wrapped its magic around me with a forceful hug and welcomed me home.
“Just here,” I said and pointed at the apartment block. Mom and Papa lived on the ground floor. “Thank you,” I said. “For today. You didn’t have to stay with me and then bring me home. I’m sure you had other places you had to or wanted to be.”
“Nowhere,” he said again, those intense blue eyes conveying unspoken words. Ones that I was sure I was misinterpreting.
“Okay, well…” Harry opened his door and walked around the hood of his car. He opened my door and held out his hand. As I took it, I said, “Shouldn’t you be saying ‘Milady’ as you do this?”
Harry’s nose crinkled and, in my bruised brain state, I thought it was the cutest damn thing I’d ever seen. “Tad too servitorial,” Harry said, regal chin in the air. “I normally have a member of my staff do this kind of menial thing.” Just when I thought he was cute, maybe not the pompous prick I’d pinned him up to be, his wannabe-royal ass says something to prove me wrong.
I opened my mouth to tear him a new rim; then I saw his mouth twitch and a smirk pull on his lips. “You are such a twat.”
“High praise.”
Harry linked my arm through his and we traipsed up the stoop. If I closed my eyes, I could believe we were in Georgian Britain and had just departed our carriage to enter the ball. He would be a dashing duke, and me the servant he had fallen in love with a
nd was defying society to be with. And—
“Hey baby, show us your labia!” My eyes opened just as a car full of teenage boys with pimples and braces drove past, fingers on either side of their mouths, flicking their tongues in my direction.
“At least we can be thankful the biology education in Hell’s Kitchen is sound,” Harry said so seriously it caused me to burst out laughing. I winced at the sudden rush of pain to my head but didn’t care.
“It’s definitely better than them shouting show us your flaps anyhow.”
“How one knows so much crudity is truly astounding,” he said, just as the door opened and Mom stared at me in shock.
“Faith?” I must have looked a sight, because then she shrilled, “FAITH! Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell is wrong with you? You look like shit!”
Before Mom pounced on me like an overprotective mother hen, Harry leaned down to my ear and said, “And now I see where you get it from.”
I laughed, just as Mom wrapped me in her arms, pulling me away from Harry. Papa came to the door next. “Mia bambina.”
I heard footsteps on the stone stairs. Pulling free from the octopuses that were my parents, I saw Harry leaving. “Harry,” I said, and he looked up. “Thank you.”
“Oh, how rude! I didn’t even see you there, young man. Did you bring Faith home? What’s happened?” Mom said.
“I got hit in the head by a rugby ball,” I said. I pointed at Harry. “This is my boss, he helped me to the hospital and brought me home.”
“Well, you must come in!” Papa said, his Italian accent matching Harry’s English one in strength.
“Thank you. But I am afraid I must go,” Harry said. “It was very nice to meet you both.” Something inside me fell at that. Fucking hell. I needed to sleep and rest. I was losing my goddamn mind. “Take care, Faith,” he said and went to his car. I watched as he drove away, until he was out of sight.
“That was your boss?” Mom said. “Well he’s sex on legs, isn’t he? If I were a few years younger…”
“Nice, Mom,” I said as she walked me into their apartment and deposited me on the couch. “As if my head isn’t killing me enough, you have to go and put that disturbing visual in my mind.”
