by Hazel Jacobs
She has a feeling Martha is going to be stuck with a lot of the organization for this event, and she wants to help the poor woman out if she can. Peter isn’t necessarily a bad husband, but he seems to have a fairly traditional idea of what a wife should do. Harper is unbearably grateful that Slate doesn’t seem to have inherited the same traditional traits.
When she’d agreed to take this job, she hadn’t thought that she would like her client. She hadn’t thought that she would laugh so freely with him—they had still been giggling about the pool incident when they’d climbed into bed the night before—or flirt so easily with him. She hadn’t thought that she would be excited to wake up next to him. She most certainly hadn’t thought she would feel so protective of him. Every sly comment from Slate’s father was met with a gentle but immediate rebuttal from Harper. She’d stayed at Slate’s side all evening, intervening whenever someone made him look even the slightest bit down or unhappy, distracting his cousin whenever the other man slipped into the micro-aggressions that seemed to come so naturally to him.
It wasn’t just Slate, though. She’d made herself useful to Martha, drawing the woman into conversations and coaxing smiles out of her. She’d even made an effort to get to know Kayla. Kayla, it turned out, was a massage therapist. She met Grayson years ago when she was hired by his company. She’d spent most of the evening trying desperately to flirt with Slate—maybe she’s hoping that Slate will give her an alternative to Grayson, or at least oblige her with a sexy fling before they officially tie the knot. Whenever Kayla had said something particularly daring—her oblivious fiancé spending more time chatting with Peter than talking to his future wife—Harper and Slate would make eye contact and have to look away from each other to keep from laughing.
Poor Kayla. Harper would be equally as aggressive flirting with Slate if she were staring down the barrel of a lifetime as Grayson’s wife.
Harper finally steps out of the shower, dries off, and stares critically into the mirror.
What the fuck, Slate. I have a good body.
Her toned stomach shows off her strong core, her arms are thin but firm, and her butt and thighs are plump with muscle and clear of cellulite. Her breasts are full and a comfortable B cup. She looks good. She feels sexy. She’d heard how good she looked from Angelica during her interview. Angelica had been quite open about how easily Harper would be able to get clients with a body like hers.
So why the hell doesn’t Slate want her?
He’d seemed happy enough to flirt with her at the airport until he’d learned that he was paying for her services. He’s kissed her on the forehead and cheek, but is that just because he’s pretending to be her boyfriend? This job would have been so much easier if she didn’t feel that connection with him. If she didn’t feel so at ease in his company and so delighted with how well they seem to fit together in conversation, then this wouldn’t be nearly as frustrating.
A part of her just wants to grab him and kiss him. But he pulled away yesterday, and last night she’d promised that she wouldn’t touch him.
Not without his permission.
So maybe she should try to coax him into touching her?
It couldn’t hurt.
Harper slings her wet, newly clean hair over her shoulder and before she can change her mind, she walks out of the en-suite without a stitch of clothing on.
Slate is sitting on the edge of the bed, his T-shirt stretched enticingly over his chest and abs. Harper vividly remembers how gorgeous he looks in a wet button-up. When he looks up, his eyes widen slightly.
“Wow,” he breathes.
Harper feels a glow of accomplishment when she sees the way he looks her up and down. Her own eyes zero in on his groin, and she hopes that the slight bulge she sees there has something to do with the fact that she’s standing naked in front of him. It might just be morning wood. But a girl can dream.
“See something you like?” she asks, stepping into the bedroom, walking across the rug and stopping at the end of the bed. The morning air is a bit cool and she feels her nipples perking up. Slate stares openly at them and Harper takes a deep breath so her chest rises slightly.
Slate licks his lips. “Yes,” he says.
“You finally gonna do something about it?”
He seems to be chewing his tongue. “No.”
Harper’s shoulders fall. “You suck,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.
She feels like such a dick. Here she is, throwing herself at a man, and he’s just not interested.
“Harper—”
“No, I get it, you’re not…” She decides not to finish the sentence. “Good thing I became a whore, because I sure am acting like one, huh?”
“Don’t say that,” he whispers. “Don’t ever talk about yourself that way, Harper. He stands up then, takes a step toward her, then decides against it and takes a step away again, so that the backs of his legs hits the mattress. “Do you have any idea how hard it is not to touch you right now?”
“It’s not like I’m going to slap you if you do,” Harper says.
Slate sighs, putting his hands on top of his head and looks away. “I’m paying you,” he says. “You’re essentially my employee. I don’t sleep with women who work for me.”
“You… but Sersha and Mikayla—”
“What Tommy and Logan do is their business,” Slate says. “But I’m not comfortable with it. I’m not going to sleep with you as long as I sign your checks.”
Harper can see him wavering. She sees the way his fingers twitch as though he wants to reach out and touch, the way that his body sways like he wants to step forward. Even though she knows it’s a terrible thing, she steps closer. There’s a couple of feet of rug between them.
“That would make sense if you were paying me to write your songs or keep your calendar,” she says, “but I’m an escort, Slate.”
Slate huffs out a sigh. “Don’t you come any closer, Harper.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. What are you gonna do? Punish me?”
That’s daring. If Slate were anyone else, she would have cringed at the cliché expression, but his eyes go dark and Harper shivers at the thought of him bending her over his knee.
“No,” he says, “that’s not my style.” His voice lowers into a harsh, breathy growl that goes straight into Harper’s blood stream. He doesn’t move, but Harper feels as though he’s crowding into her space, and his breath is so slow and even that she feels like he’s hypnotizing her. “I would hold your hands behind your back while I kissed you because I don’t trust you to behave yourself.” Harper immediately imagines the scene and her heart leaps at the thought of it. “I would kiss you so long that your lips would go numb, then lay you down on the bed and kiss every inch of your body. Every inch. There wouldn’t be a part of your body that doesn’t know what my lips feel like.”
Harper feels herself starting to sway toward him, but the sight of his eyes holds her well outside of his reach. She can only imagine the scene in her mind.
“When I’m done with that, I’ll let you undress me. But if you get too handsy I’ll have to tie you down. Because you’re not going to feel me inside of you until you’ve come at least twice, hard enough to forget your own name, so hard that you can hardly move.”
His pupils are blown out wide and Harper can feel her breath coming in harsh gasps.
“And how long would that take?” she asks. Her voice is breathy, and she would be embarrassed about it if the situation were different.
“Oh… hours,” Slate says, his tone almost dismissive, yet wistful like he imagines the scene in the same detail she imagines it. “And then, when I’m done, I’ll make you come again because I want you to forget everything but me and us together.” He licks his lips again. “I want you to be feeling me for days afterward. I want you to taste me in the back of your mouth, I want you to think of me when you take long showers.”
She’s certainly going to be doing that now. Slate takes a step forward so th
at Harper is within arm’s length, and everything in her wants him to reach out and take her. To hold her close and fulfill every promise that he’s just made.
His hand comes up and Harper holds her breath. But he doesn’t touch her. His hand skims the air in front of her chest, an inch away from her skin. She can feel the heat of his body even though he still won’t touch her.
“But I won’t do any of that,” he says. Harper wants to groan and scream in frustration. “I want you, but I won’t touch you. No matter how gorgeous you are when you’re naked and panting.”
She hadn’t realized that her breath was coming so harshly, but now that he’s brought her attention to it she can’t ignore the sound of it filling the air between them.
“Imagine how I’d look underneath you.”
“Don’t think I haven’t,” he says. His eyes fall on her lips, and she can practically feel the kiss that they haven’t shared yet. Instead, he reaches down and takes her hand. He kisses the back of it and Harper thinks that she might spontaneously combust. “You’re beautiful. And sexy as hell. And you can handle my family. Goddam, you’re something else Harper Styles.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, Slate… seriously, what the fuck is your name?”
He laughs. It’s a low, husky laugh. Harper finds herself looking down and is delighted to see the bulge in his pants, proving that he’s been just as affected by this conversation as she has been.
“You’re not gonna pry that out of me, babe,” he says. “Now, I have to take a shower. Promise you’ll be dressed when I come out?”
Harper wants to scream with frustration. But she nods instead. She watches him go to the en-suite, admiring his ass—perfect even in sweats—and wonders how she’ll be able to survive the next few days with him.
And how she’ll survive without him when they return to New York.
Harper is still vibrating with unchecked sexual frustration by the time the bride and groom have exchanged their vows and the reception has begun. She’s wearing a simple, elegant blue dress with thin straps, designed to be form-fitting but classy. She’d bought it when Angelica told her she was going to a wedding to impress family. If she’d been hired to make an ex-girlfriend jealous, she would have gone for something a lot sexier. As it is, she knows she’s supposed to be schmoozing grandmothers and cousins, so the dress is more demure than provocative.
After her conversation with Slate that morning, a part of her is glad that she went with something more modest. The last thing she needs is for Slate to give her another ‘talking to.’
He held her hand through the ceremony. He’s wearing a stiff suit that looks deliciously amazing but makes him squirm noticeably with discomfort. The pool is full of floating white rose petals that make Harper want to dive back in and drag Slate in with her, but she knows that she won’t be allowed to pull that trick twice. The altar is done up like it’s from a magazine, the trees look perfect, even the weather is cooperating. Instead of being stinking hot, the air is comfortably warm and none of the bridesmaids in their shimmering light pink dresses are showing the slightest hint of sweat. Kayla looks gorgeous in a backless lace gown and her hair up in graceful curls, but Slate keeps looking at Harper like she’s the most beautiful thing in the world. It makes her want to blush all the way to the roots of her dark hair.
Grayson looks like a pompous tool, preening at the altar, gazing around the garden and making eye contact with every one of the guests to make sure they can see how beautiful his new wife is. He spends so much time making sure that everyone else can see how gorgeous Kayla is that he hardly takes the time to appreciate her himself. Meanwhile, Slate’s parents are in the front row with Slate’s aunt and uncle, and Kayla’s family. Slate and Harper are in the fifth. Harper is disgusted on Slate’s behalf, but Slate just tells her gently not to worry about it, that he wouldn’t want to be up front anyway. Martha and Peter both look proud as the wedding goes on, though Harper does notice Martha glancing over her shoulder at her son a couple of times during the vows. She has a look in her eyes like she’s wishing that Slate were with her. Or, maybe more likely, that she was with him.
Poor Cooper has to stay in the house for most of the day. Rosa, the lovely middle-aged woman who cleans the house, takes him out periodically so he can do his business before going back inside.
By the time the reception has begun, the sun is setting and the fairy lights are lit in the trees. Slate was right—they look gorgeous.
“This looks like something out of a movie,” she tells Slate when she sees the way he’s backlit by the lights, standing beneath the white tent which covers the reception area. People are milling around, getting ready for the food, and exchanging funny stories about the bride and groom. Or as funny as they can get when they are dealing with someone like Grayson.
“Yeah, it does,” Slate replies. He’s looking around the reception with a soft frown. “One of those old movies where the moneyed folks pretend to be having fun while they one-up each other over whose weekend trip to the Grand Canyon was the most fun.”
There’s a slight twang to his accent when he says ‘moneyed folks.’ Harper is delighted with it. She’s been hoping to hear some kind of accent come out of his lips, but so far he’s been staunchly hiding his roots. But now, around all his family, listening to the clear sound of Iowa all around him, he’s starting to lose the façade.
It had been a boost to her ego to hear that he wants her as much as she wants him. It gave Harper a sudden, amazing flash of confidence when she saw the way his eyes had lingered over her body, his darkened pupils, the flush in his cheeks. Thinking back to it, she can’t help but let a soft sigh escape her lips. It makes her feel better to know that she’s not the only one wanting here. That she’s not the only one who desperately wants to be closer.
And it’s infuriating that Slate seems to have gotten it into his head that the reason they can’t consummate the heat between them is because he’s paying her. As though it isn’t literally her job to have sex with him. Harper has enough self-control and restraint not to try and push the issue—knowing as she does that she would be horrified if a man ignored any boundaries that she put up. But dear Lord is it frustrating.
“Or a fairy-tale,” she continues, letting her eyes linger over the shirt stretched across his well-formed chest for a fraction of a second longer than she should. “Look around… it’s all white and lit up. I could see this setting in a Disney movie.”
“Right before the big confession scene between the two leads?” he asks, leaning over and waggling his eyebrows at her.
“Followed by a good waltz.”
He glances over to the dance floor, but it’s full of people chatting and there’s no music playing. “Later.”
Peter and Martha are making the rounds with the parents of the bride and groom. They’re even more popular than the bride and groom themselves. Martha is still glancing over at Slate, but whenever Peter’s eyes move away from the people he’s shaking hands with, it’s usually to look over at Grayson with a softly proud look in his gaze.
Slate holds out his elbow and Harper wraps her fingers around the starchy, unrelenting material without a second thought, enjoying the way his muscles flex when she touches them. He guides her over to the newlyweds, stepping around people, nodding to those who wave to him.
Everybody calls him Slate. Family, friends, people who have known him his entire life. The more she hears them calling out to him, the more desperately curious about it she becomes.
None of them try to initiate conversation, though. They acknowledge Slate, and then they turn away. Harper’s heart breaks a little bit more every time she sees it, but Slate doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, there’s an edge of relief to his gaze whenever he sees someone in the crowd turn away from him.
Kayla and Grayson are in the middle of the dancefloor. Kayla clutches Grayson’s arm, chatting to one of her bridesmaids with her fourth glass of champagne in her fingers. She’s just as enamored with the d
ecorations as Harper is, gazing around with shining eyes. Like her husband, she’s more concerned with the room around her than she is with the person at her side. Her eyes light up when she sees Slate coming toward her, dimming only slightly when she takes in Harper on the man’s arm.
“Congratulations,” Slate says jauntily when he and Harper finally get through the crowd to stand in front of Kayla and Grayson. “You look beautiful, Kayla.”
Kayla simpers at him.
“Doesn’t she?” Grayson replies, leaning over to rib his cousin in the side. Like they’re sharing a joke. “And your girl looks pretty good herself.”
“Harper doesn’t need us to tell her she’s beautiful.” Something flashes in Slate’s eyes when he says it.
“Have you eaten anything, Kayla?” Harper asks. Kayla looks surprised at the question. “I’ve been a bridesmaid a couple of times. I know the bride hardly ever gets the chance to eat.”
The bridesmaid next to Kayla, a pretty brunette with eyes like a doe, looks guilty. Kayla eyes some of the passing waiters with finger food on silver trays.
“Penny, would you be a dear?”
“Sure thing, Kay,” she says. Then she disappears.
Kayla shoots Harper a grateful look. “Thanks for reminding me. It’s been a big day.”
“A great day,” Grayson adds boisterously.
“A long day,” Kayla says.
“I’m just looking forward to the wedding night,” says Grayson, winking at Slate. Harper wonders if it’s possible for a man to be any more of a cliché.
Slate smiles thinly in response. “I can only imagine,” he replies.
Kayla leans over so her chest is right up in Slate’s line of vision. “I’m so glad you could be here for this, Slate. You’ll save me a dance for later?”
“Of course,” he says. “Right after your first dance with your new husband. Also, I promised Harper I’d give her a waltz. But after that?”
