“Rose Perry?” A thin man with a slate gray suit and purple tie pushes his way inside my shop, followed by a boom operator and cameraman who nearly knocks over a small stand of potted lavender by the door.
“Please be careful,” I say, with no small amount of trepidation coloring my voice because the man holding the boom gets it tangled in a string of twinkle lights.
“Rose, you’ve been selected to appear on the show My Wedding Affair,” Slate Gray Suit says, and I just blink at him in response because surely I didn’t hear that right. “Harley here sent in your application, and Dale Tutela loved your designs.”
“What?” I stare at the crew and then back at Harley. “What is he talking about?”
Harley grins like a madman. It’s one of those Pan grins, and I know he isn’t messing around with me and I’m not being Punk’d because he’s a terrible liar. “I heard they were on the lookout for a floral designer here in SF, so I just downloaded the form and forged your signature.”
“Oh my god,” I say breathlessly.
“You’re gonna be on the show, Rose.”
“Get out!” I launch myself at Harley who catches me up in a bear hug. I wrap my legs around his waist, and then I kiss him. I don’t even think about it—it’s as natural as breathing. There’s no tongue, no open wet mouths, but instead just a series of gentle pecks on the lips. My breath catches in the back of my throat. His Adam’s apple bobs. His eyes are molten and so blue, like chips of polished aquamarine. I lean in to kiss him again, but I pause to gauge his reaction before my lips meet his.
“Oooh, the sexual tension in this room,” Gray Suit says. The spell shatters to a million pieces, and Harley and I are left standing in broken glass. “Did you get that, Graham?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Graham says.
“You can just edit out my voice later, right?”
“Uh-huh,” Graham says, hefting the camera from off his shoulder and pressing a button. The red light stops blinking.
Harley releases his hands from my ass, and I gently slide down his body, wincing when my feet land hard on the ground in much the same way my heart just came crashing back down to earth.
“I can’t believe you did this.” I stare awkwardly at my best friend. He stares back and several beats pass.
“You deserve it,” he says with a shrug.
“Okay kiddies, we’re gonna leave you to your little love fest in just a moment, but first I need—”
“We’re not a couple,” I say.
At the same time, Harley says, “We’re just friends.”
“Oh honey, I work in television—you two aren’t fooling anybody. Anywho, since your friend here”—he actually puts quotation marks over the word friend—“filled out your forms and forged your signature … illegally, I’m going to need you to fill out these papers, plus read through the contract carefully, initial every page, and sign at the bottom. I’ve already emailed the itinerary to the store’s address. Adorable name, by the way.”
“Thank you,” I say, but it’s clear he isn’t done because he actually waves me away. I’m not sure if I should move or not but Harley has me penned in between him and a huge Birchwood aisle arch that’s currently hung with white wisteria.
“So, the wedding is one week from tomorrow.”
I blink in confusion. “What?”
“You watch the show, right? Harley said you were a huge fan.”
“I am, I just thought that maybe that part was made up,” I explain, and shrug. “You know? The magic of television.”
“No,” he says curtly.
“Okay then.”
“As I was saying, tomorrow, makeup will be here at 0400 hours. Dale will arrive at 0500 hours sharp. Filming will commence at 0600 hours and we’re going to need to make it snappy as he has a flight to New York shortly after. He’ll leave, and we’ll get all the shots we need of your charming little store for the before. During the week, I’ll touch base with you several times to make sure you have everything you need, and we’ll need you onsite at 0600 hours come Saturday. You two get some rest now—you don’t want to be on television with bags under your eyes. Okay?”
I stare blankly at the man, wondering if perhaps I should have written this down.
“Comprende?”
“Er … yes, sí, comprende.” I take a deep breath. “I feel as if I’m dreaming. How is this possible?”
“He liked your work. You’re lucky; ordinarily, Dale only uses one vendor. You’ll still be working closely with them, as I’m not sure your quaint little shop could fill an order for ten thousand roses, but you’ll be the headlining floral designer for both the venue and the ceremony flowers.” I ignore the fact that he said my shop was quaint, as if that were an insult, and I listen with rapt attention as he goes through a few more details about filming and what to expect, and then all three of them clear out of Darling Buds, and I stare out the window as they load the equipment into their van and drive off.
I turn and stare at Harley, and then I launch myself at him again, squealing like a little kid as I smack his broad chest. “I can’t believe you did this.”
He grabs my wrists to ward off my blows, and presses them tightly to his torso before lacing his fingers with mine. “Nah, it was all you. Now everyone will know how good you are at what you do. You could have your own show, Rose. You could be the next Martha Stewart, but sexy as fuck and without the jail time … or the baking and home making stuff.”
I laugh, but inwardly my mind is caught on a loop. Did he just call me sexy as fuck? It’s awkward, as I stare at our interlocked fingers my heart beats double time. I gently work my hands free and press them to the sides of my face. “Oh my god, I have so many things to do. I have to wax, I have to wash my hair, I have to—”
“Have a drink with me?”
Damn, there goes my detox … again. And I’ve been doing so well. I’ve made it through an entire day without a glass of wine. The chocolate liqueurs I had for lunch don’t count.
“Okay.” I walk ahead of him and climb the stairs to my loft. He laughs and shakes his head predictably when he sees what I was watching. I just stare at the TV, unable to believe that my dreams are coming true as Harley heads into my tiny kitchen and opens a bottle of wine, pouring us both a glass.
Two bottles later, I lean my head on his shoulder as we sit on my small loveseat. He’s just sat through four episodes of my favorite show—all in the name of research, of course—without complaint. He did pull me close though, wrapping his arm around me and leaving it there. I wasn’t going to protest. I feel buoyant, completely alive, and somewhat chilled on account of the wine. I really need to go to bed, but I don’t want to move. Besides, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep yet anyway.
“You’re gonna be there tomorrow, right?” My voice is panicky because for the first time it just occurred to me that he may not be around to hold my hand. “I mean, I know you have work and all, but you’re still coming, aren’t you?”
He seems to be weighing his words. “I don’t know if I can.”
“What?” I sit up and glare at him. Then I shriek, “Harley, I need you there with me.”
“No, you don’t.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and yanks it playfully, but his eyes are serious, his expression withdrawn. “You just think you do.”
“Are you crazy? You got me into this mess. This is your fault; I can’t do this without you.”
“I have an appointment in Santa Barbara.”
I shake my head in disbelief, because this is the first I’m hearing about it. “What?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of an A-list client.”
“No way! Get outta here.”
“I plan on it, actually. They’re shooting right now; I have to interview with him before he flies out for Vegas.”
I pick up the cushion between us and throw it at him. It narrowly misses the wine glasses on my coffee table before falling to the floor. “You’re just full of surprises today. Why didn’t you te
ll me this?”
“Because I signed a non-disclosure agreement.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” He pulls me toward him again, and I lean into the warmth of his side. God, he smells amazing. Like citrus, woods, and vetiver. I smile, knowing he still wears the same Tom Ford fragrance I bought him for Christmas six years ago.
“I can’t believe you won’t tell me,” I say, exasperated. “I can’t believe you won’t be here tomorrow to watch me fall on my face.”
“Rose.” Harley tilts my chin up toward him, and I lean all of my weight on his side in order to see him better. “You got this. You were born for this.”
“I hope you’re right, because at the moment I don’t know whether to kiss you or slap you,” I say emphatically.
“I know which I’d prefer.” He leans closer so his lips are just a few inches from mine.
“What are you doing?” I breathe quietly. My heart races uncontrollably.
He moves even closer, and threads his fingers in my hair. “Giving in for once.”
“What does that me—”
His mouth crashes down on mine, swallowing my words. For a stunned beat I’m wide-eyed and incredulous, and then I give in too, kissing him back. I shift in the tiny loveseat and climb into his lap. Harley’s lips are relentless against mine, his hands rough and so good on my body, so, so good.
He rips open my pajama shirt. The violence of this gesture takes me by surprise, but when his hands squeeze my exposed breasts and he sucks my flesh into his hungry mouth, I forget all about my favorite now-ruined pajamas. With a growl, he feasts on me from nipple to my neck and all the way back down again, repeating the motion on the other side, forcing me to lose my mind.
“Jesus. You look just like you did when we were in college.”
I laugh nervously, knowing that’s not quite true as his hands and mouth devour more of me. I’m thicker now, thighs, hips, breasts. Gone is the rakish frame of a young woman, and here to stay, it seems, are curves, boobs, and even a small stretchmark or two. “We both know that’s not true.”
“No, you’re right. These tits are lusher, your ass fuller. You’re a fucking goddess, love.” He tugs at the waist of my pajamas. Those wider hips he was just sinking his calloused fingers into are the reason my shorts won’t come off, so I quickly climb off of his lap and remove them, wishing I’d remembered to shave my legs, and also thanking the powers that be that I had the good sense to listen to Izzy when she told me even single snatch needed a wax down.
Harley wets his lips and unfastens his pants, shoving them down his hips while I stand there, mesmerized by his hardness. He’s been a fantastic lover in the past. The first time hurt like hell; the second, too; but all of the times after that he’d known just how to move, just where to place his fingers or position his cock so that he’d get me off in a matter of minutes, and the orgasms just kept coming. Whether it was from his hands thrust between us, or my own—it didn’t matter. All he cared about, it seemed, was watching me reach those heights, working and waiting and relishing those moments when I’d throw my head back and cry out as I pulsed around him.
But that was a long time ago, and it hurts to think about how many lovers have come and gone since that time. How many women he’s fucked, and how little men I’ve had since then. Crushing jealousy and insecurity hits me in a wave and for the first time I hesitate. I didn’t think I’d ever find myself in this position again, and now that I am, my overactive imagination is ruining everything.
“Come here,” he says, holding his hand out to me.
I take a step toward him and stop. “What if this is a mistake?”
He grabs my wrist and pulls me down on his lap, sliding his hands up either side of my thighs as I straddle him. He kneads my flesh from hips to ass, his fingertips grazing my labia, forcing the breath from my lungs. “Does this feel like a mistake?”
“No,” I pant.
He catches up my hands, causing me to rest a little more of my weight on him, but this makes thought even more impossible to deal with because his thick cock is pressed against me and I can’t help but rock gently in his lap. Harley kisses my fingers. His other hand digs into my hip and rocks me faster.
“Tell me this feels wrong,” he says, almost as breathless as I am. “And if you can’t, then shut the fuck up and kiss me.”
My lips crash down on his. He threads a hand in my hair, drawing me closer. His cock slides against my wetness and I close my eyes. He wedges his hand between us and positions himself at my entrance. The tension is ruining me, and when he shoves inside I cry out because it’s both delicious and tortuous, pleasure and pain.
I was wrong before—now we’re close enough, now we’re exactly where we should be. Rocking my hips, I lean back to study his face, so beautiful, so fucking heartbreakingly beautiful. His eyes glaze over as he palms my breasts, and I close my own eyes and arch my back as he pumps into me and these touches, our moans, this closeness, is everything. He is my everything. But it isn’t close enough for Harley. He isn’t like the other men I’ve been with, emasculated by a woman on top, but he knows I love the weight of his body on mine, that it gets me there that much faster. He eases out of my body, holding me close as he sweeps an arm across the coffee table, shoving the glasses and the bottle of wine onto the opposite side of the floor where they shatter. I stare, wide eyed and taken by surprise, but I’m pushed down on my back. My head hits the dark cherry wood surface of my coffee table, hard, but he doesn’t apologize. He devours me instead, consuming every inch of me from navel to neck, driven wild with hunger, and when he thrusts into me again, it’s with such force that my hips lift off the table. I squirm beneath him, attempting to put a little space between us because it’s too much, the angle, the way he’s pounding into me, the table at my back that’s as hard and unyielding as his thrusts.
“Harley,” I breathe. “Go slow. What’s the rush?”
“Fuck,” his says, his breathing ragged and desperate. “You feel so good, so fucking good.”
He pulls out of me, and with his hands at my waist he flips me onto my stomach, my knees hitting the floor. I cry out in surprise, already missing his heat and the way he’d stretched me tight. Harley jerks my hips back toward him. I suck in a sharp breath when he slowly slips inside me again. His thrusts are gentler now, and though I can’t see his face it’s somehow more intimate, more intense, just more, especially when he covers me with his big body and reaches around, sliding his hands over my breasts and stomach, worshiping every inch with agile hands that know their way around my body so well. His deft fingers find my clit and stroke. Heat builds within me, languorously spreading throughout my insides from the very tips of my toes to the roots of my hair.
“Oh, god,” I whisper like a prayer.
“Give me it, love,” he says against the shell of my ear, and my skin pulls taut with goosebumps as I smile at his words. “I’ve waited too damn long to hear those cries come from your mouth again.”
I want to tell him that he is the jackass that walked away. He is the one who was marrying another woman; he is the reason he’s been waiting as long as he claims, because I’ve waited for him since he left for college. I am still waiting. But I don’t say any of that because his fingers work me mercilessly and my breath steals his name from my lips as I come.
Trembling, every nerve in my body exposed and pulsing, I collapse against the table. I long for respite, for breath, for even more of him. I barely have time to contemplate what has just happened when he eases out and lifts me at the waist, carrying me like a ragdoll the few feet to my bed. A moment later, he lays down on the soft mattress, he doesn’t loosen his hold around my waist as he pulls me on top of him, his front to my back, his thick cock inside me, and his arms wrapped tightly around my body, so tight I can’t breathe. I say as much but he doesn’t let go—he just lies still for a moment inside me, underneath me, around me, until I feel myself unravelling, enveloped in his arms.
Traito
rous tears prick my eyes. My throat forms a lump that I can’t swallow back as Harley pistons his hips, slowly sliding in and out of me until he comes in hard, hot bursts. With heavy, uneven breaths he kisses the moisture from my face, and I know he’s not unaware of my tears. I don’t know if he understands what they mean, but he strokes my body tenderly and whispers assurances in my ear about how beautiful I am, how long he’s wanted me and how he wishes time would just stand still.
After our bodies are sated and our breathing has returned to normal, our heartbeats steady, he rolls us to the side and spoons me from behind. It feels different. Not filled with promise the way it had in Hawaii, and not raw and tender the way it’d felt while he whispered in my ear, but off somehow, as if he’s thrown up a wall around us. No, not around us—between us.
No, no, no. Please don’t let that be true.
Warily, as if I’m afraid of what I might find, I turn in his arms and run my fingers through the sweat-soaked hair at the base of his neck. He doesn’t look at me, not until I place my hands on either side of his face and force him to.
A million words all clamor around inside my mind, but all that tumbles out is, “Hey.”
“Hey,” he replies.
“That was intense.” I stroke his face, smoothing the little line that has formed between his brows.
“Yeah.” He gives me a half-smile, but his eyes swirl with what looks like fear and regret. He licks his lips. I follow the movement. It appears as if Harley did get his wish, and time is standing still, eking out for an eternity, but it’s all wrong—the light in his eyes, the abruptness of his voice, every second that seems to pass as if it’s been replaced with an hour.
I frown. “What’s wrong?”
He takes hold of my hand and kisses it. “Nothing, but I gotta go. You have an early start tomorrow.”
“No, don’t leave.”
“I should.” Harley eases his hand out of my own and leans in to kiss my forehead. He sits up and swings his legs over the bed, climbing to his feet. “You were great. I just have to be up early, and you’re going to have a camera crew here in three hours.”
Harley & Rose Page 12
