by Shayla Black
Stomping my way back up the stairs, I fling open the door to the room she’d previously used as her bedroom and find her tucked under the blankets fast asleep. It’s dark. A fan circulates, keeping the room cool. She doesn’t stir at all when I walk in.
Why is she sleeping here, instead of beside me? Why did she lie down with me only to leave?
I stop and stare. I can’t look away as I wonder how and why this woman is turning my life upside down. I shouldn’t care. But I do. I shouldn’t even want to listen to her explanation. But I’m dying to hear it. I need to know if anything that’s passed between us means more to her than an orgasm. If she’s even in a place to care about me half as much as she does the sex.
My thoughts tell me more than I’d like about how invested I am in her. After a mere two days, it should be easy to write her off and walk away. But even when my head is telling me that would be smart, I won’t. She’s got a story. I’ve been wondering what’s up with her—and I’m finally finding out.
“Noah?” A familiar voice resounds from downstairs, startling me. “You up?”
I dash out of Harlow’s room and creep halfway to the first floor, peeking into the shadowy entryway. “Trace?”
“Yeah. I promised you a six a.m. workout on Saturday. Here I am.”
Shit. It’s so early, and I totally forgot. “Yeah. Give me five. I just woke up.”
“Sure. When you get downstairs, you can tell me why you’re banging a girl who ran out on her fiancé a week ago.”
Harlow’s dirty laundry must be all over the media if Trace knows it, too. Oh, fuck. She will not be pleased. I feel more than a little responsible.
“Be right back.”
After a quick swish with my toothbrush, I toss on some gym clothes and haul ass downstairs, my phone and the link I haven’t opened yet nearly burning a hole in my hand. Once I reach the kitchen, I see my brother nursing a cup of coffee and staring at me like I’ve lost my damn mind.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he starts in. “She’s a gorgeous girl but—”
“I literally found out five minutes ago about her ex-fiancé when Cliff called.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Let me catch up to you.” I bring up the messages on my phone and find the link waiting for me. I have a terrible feeling it’s going to change a lot between Harlow and me. But maybe it will at least help me make sense of her behavior.
I press the link and wait. YouTube pops up. The subject of the video says BRIDE RUNS OUT ON FIANCÉ IN EPIC STYLE. It’s currently trending and has over three million views. My gut clenches as the footage starts to roll.
Harlow stands at the back of the aisle with an older man I can only assume is her father. They exchange words that don’t look happy or comforting before she anchors her hand on his arm with a scowl. I frown as she walks up the aisle. Clearly, she’s pissed at her father, and I wonder if it has anything to do with the pending divorce from her mother. And why that would make her abruptly leave the man she’d once agreed to pledge her life to.
After Harlow and her father pass the camera, the angle of the shot changes. The video shows her from the back, her upswept hair revealing a mostly backless dress and a long veil that lends a luminous look to her silky skin. Her train dusts the ground behind her as she nears the altar. The camera sweeps up to show a shot of the unlucky groom. He’s average height—which is still far taller than Harlow. He’s got a typical stockbroker’s haircut, a face I swear I’ve seen a hundred times in football stadiums all over America, with only a cleft chin to differentiate him. He clasps his hands in front of himself, seemingly not nervous at all, merely smug. But I get why the smarmy bastard would be. He’s thinks he’s marrying a beautiful woman from a wealthy family in a lavish ceremony. I recognize the ballroom at the Ritz Carlton here on Maui.
As she approaches him, the music changes, and giant screens at the front of the room show snapshots of the two of them together, mostly staged poses from a single shoot—her wearing her engagement rock, him looking somewhere between self-satisfied and bored.
I’ve never met the guy. I don’t even know his name. And I already want to punch him.
Suddenly, the rotating images of the happy couple projected on the screens on either side of the makeshift altar disappear as the sound of a needle being dragged across a vinyl record echoes. Beside Harlow, the groom frowns in confusion as a different video flickers and starts to roll.
This one shows the groom with his pants around his ankles, bending a blonde over a linoleum countertop, a pot of coffee to their right, as he plows into her, racing to orgasm in a full-out sprint. She’s wearing four-inch stilettos and has her pencil skirt hiked up to her waist, showing off a hell of a tramp stamp that’s wide and flanked by inked filigree. The script writing flows and sways, spelling out one word: WHORE.
The wedding guests gasp, jaws dropping. The groom starts losing his mind, demanding someone kill the feed. No one does. They just stare.
As the footage continues, he huffs and bucks on film, his white ass clenching on every down stroke. “Fuck, Mandy. You’re such a whore, just like your tattoo says, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she pants. “Yes. Your whore.”
“My pregnant whore. Do you think I knocked you up in this room?”
“Or on your desk. There’s something about getting pregnant by your boss in the office that seems even dirtier. Do you think your girlfriend suspects?”
“She’s oblivious,” he assures as he plunges into his assistant again. “I’ll make sure she stays that way.”
The drag of the needle across an old LP sounds again, then Harlow’s face appears on both screens at the front of the room, her smile acid. “Hi, Simon. Or should I say stupid fucker? I’m not oblivious. And I’m not marrying you. Instead of being a no-show at the altar and leaving you to awkwardly explain to our family and guests why I’d run out on such an awesome guy at the last minute, I thought I’d just show them. I hope you and Mandy get everything you deserve in life. Oh, and I think you’ll find that Mercedes you just bought for our island vacations might not look quite so pristine.”
On the screen, a pale gray European sedan appears. The words JUST MARRIED written in temporary ink across the back window have been crossed out with black spray paint. The words LYING SLIME have been painted across the trunk in big, bold letters instead.
When Simon barrels down on Harlow, motions angry and jerky, she tosses her bouquet in his face, flips him her middle finger, then marches down the aisle, glaring again at her father. Then the video ends.
I’m blinking and stunned. A million thoughts charge through my head, none I can voice past my shock.
“Holy shit.” Trace looks almost as bowled over as I feel.
“That happened less than a week ago?” I breathe as pieces of Harlow’s puzzle start to fall into place.
No wonder she’s not eager to talk relationship. It’s a gross understatement to say that her last one ended badly. I understand now why her brothers are worried about her.
“Holy shit,” my brother repeats.
I don’t blame him for being so shocked his vocabulary has been reduced to two words. If I wasn’t so focused on what to say to Harlow—how to deal with her—I’d probably be repeating Trace’s catch phrase, too.
Still, I can’t help but wonder…why didn’t she tell me that she’d just broken an engagement? Give me a hint? Even mentioned that she’d ever been engaged at all?
I head for the stairs. “I need to talk to Harlow.”
“She’s here?” My brother seems taken aback by that.
“Yeah. She lives here, has for a while. Long story. I’ll explain later. I need a rain check on the workout. I’ll call you when I can.”
Now Trace hesitates. “Maybe you should just walk away, bro. She sounds like she’s been through a lot. And you don’t need drama now.”
“No one ever does. But I think Harlow needs someone to…” What? Soothe her, reassure her, hold her? “At the very l
east, she needs someone to listen.”
“That someone doesn’t have to be you. She has family or girlfriends, right? Or there’s plenty of other fish in her sea, bro.”
He’s not wrong, but I can’t leave her. “I’ve got this. Seriously, I’ll call you once I’ve talked to her.”
Trace shrugs. He doesn’t like it, but he’s backing off. “Sure. I’ll scram and grab some coffee at that great little diner. Um, can I borrow a ball cap? I lost mine and was followed by two reporters who thought I was you yesterday while I ran errands.”
It happens. We both look so much like our dad. When I glance in the mirror now, I swear I’m looking at a darker-skinned version of the man from my baby photos.
“Sure.” I bound up the stairs to find one. The sooner I get rid of Trace, the sooner I can confront Harlow. Once I pluck one from my suitcase, I toss it his way over the railing. “That work?”
He settles the new cap I picked up at the airport on his head, tags and all. It simply reads HAWAII. “Perfect. Thanks. Catch you later.”
“Take it easy, man.”
With a nod, my brother is gone. I turn around and head back up the stairs, directly to Harlow’s door, trying to get my questions—and my shit—under control. It’s not working. I know this conversation will probably be long and ugly. But I push my way into her bedroom, refusing to put it off for another moment.
CHAPTER SIX
As the door squeaks open, I step into shadow. Sunlight is beginning to seep under the blinds in the room, enough to see Harlow splayed on her back across her bed, one hand over her chest, one dainty foot peeking out from the covers. She’s wearing a simple cotton nightgown in a maroon color that reads I’M NOT ALWAYS SARCASTIC. SOMETIMES I’M ASLEEP.
Even when she’s at her most vulnerable, Harlow still has her defenses up.
I hate to wake her. I don’t know what to say, if I even have the right to demand answers. After thirty-six hours in the sack, I’m not entitled to much, but I think she deserves to know that her name is all over the press and the video of her wedding has gone viral.
Sitting on the edge of the bed next to her, I have to resist the urge to touch her—cup her soft cheek, cradle the intriguing curve of her hip—something. But I don’t. I have to wonder if the fact she’s sleeping alone is supposed to tell me that she only wants to be touched when there’s sex involved. Of course I’ll challenge that later. But now I just want answers.
“Harlow?”
She groans and blinks, pushing thick curls off her shoulder as she slowly sits up with a frown. “Noah? What time is it? What’s going on?”
“The press ran with those pictures they snapped of us last night. I started getting phone calls a half hour ago.” I pause, try to decide how best to get answers without becoming the enemy. “They figured out who you are and—”
“They’re talking about what happened last weekend, aren’t they?” She shakes her head with a bitter smile, looking wide awake. “So of course you know, too.”
“Yeah.”
She crosses her arms over her chest protectively. “I had my reasons for breaking things off with him.”
“Absolutely. Any particular reason you didn’t mention Simon to me at all?”
“He’s a dick, and the whole wedding was a fiasco. I don’t want to talk about him. Besides, you have problems of your own. I didn’t see why you’d care.”
Of course she didn’t. But I do care…though I doubt she’d believe me. “He is a dick, and I do have my own problems but not so many that I can’t give you an ear or a shoulder or a hand to hold if you want it.”
Her face relaxes a fraction. “You’re not going to call me a heinous bitch?”
“Your ex is the one who fucked around on you, and he deserved everything you dished out and more.”
“Not everyone thinks so. When I announced to friends and acquaintances on social media that I hadn’t gone through with the marriage, some were both creative and vicious in finding new ways to tell me I’m self-centered and immature.”
“Social media gives a voice to that small but vocal minority of mean people who have nothing better to do than assert their unsolicited opinions. I’m sure the people who truly know you are behind you.”
“Not really. Most everyone who attended the wedding thought I should have told Simon to fuck off in private and spared him the terrible embarrassment and possible professional fallout.”
“Why should you spare that dirtbag anything? He doesn’t deserve any consideration from you.”
Harlow shrugs. “That’s what I thought, but my dad told me to take off my rose-colored glasses and realize that men have ‘needs’ that no one woman can possibly satisfy. My mom backed him up and told me that if I wanted to continue to live in beautiful houses and drive sleek new cars, I wasn’t going to earn enough money on my salary, so I’d better marry well and learn to put up with some of the less pleasant aspects of marriage.”
Her parents sound fucking warped. “Do either of them understand what marriage is supposed to be?”
“If they did, would they be getting divorced?” she asks cynically. “The only people on my side through all of this have been my brothers and their wives. Most everyone else is telling me to grow up, get over myself, and grovel to Simon until he takes me back.”
“Then everyone else is fucked up. That asshole should be thinking about the child he’s got coming with his assistant and leave you in peace. After the way he hurt you, that’s the least he can do. You loved him and—”
“I didn’t.” The words are a soft denial. “The truth is, I never did.”
If she’d shouted her feelings, I wouldn’t have believed her. But her expression is so resigned I know she’s being honest.
“Even though you were engaged to him?” I ask in surprise. Sure, I’ve seen gold diggers work a teammate over until he’s eager to walk down the aisle. I know those marriages will only last as long as the money flows. But Harlow doesn’t strike me as that kind of woman.
I’ve never been tempted to get married before because I want what my parents had. Sometimes they didn’t have two nickels to rub together, but they had love. They knew what it took to make marriage work in good times and bad, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. They stuck it out until the day my dad died. But if he’d done to my mom what Simon had done to Harlow, she would have kicked his ass and walked out, too.
“I know what you must be thinking. In retrospect, I was a moron. My dad introduced us. Simon does business in sectors my dad would like to break into, while Simon needs the contacts my dad has in the U.S. They began forming some partnership, but my dad didn’t want Simon to have any opportunity to slip through his fingers, so he cooked up this notion that the two of us should get married. I was reluctant at first, but Simon and I dated for a while. He was busy…but so was I. That was fine. He seemed all right. Finally, we got around to talking about marriage. He didn’t have annoying habits. He was polite. He gave me plenty of space. I liked him better than at least half the guys I’d dated, so I figured…why not.”
“Baby, you’re supposed to love the person you marry madly and completely.”
She gives me an uncomfortable shrug. “I’ve never loved anyone like that. I figured friendship and companionship would make the whole thing workable, give us a decent environment to raise children. That’s what I was looking forward to, holding my baby and being able to love him or her with my whole heart.”
Because she clearly hadn’t done that with her fiancé. But that begs the question, why hasn’t she ever loved anyone madly and completely?
“So when you found out he was having a baby with his assistant, you showed him the door.”
“It wasn’t even that simple. I might have let it slide. Really. Simon wasn’t in love with me, either. If he’d been mad about her, I would have let him go and wished them well. The thing I couldn’t forgive was that he told me he wasn’t ready for children. I’d gone off the pill about three months befo
re the wedding, hoping I’d get pregnant on my honeymoon. Two days before the wedding, I told Simon and he blew a gasket, said we should make those decisions together. When he put it that way, I couldn’t disagree, especially after he claimed he wanted to be more established in his career before he could devote the sort of time he thought children deserved. I was bummed but also glad that he intended to take fatherhood seriously. Since I’m young, I decided I could be patient for a year or two. So I made arrangements to go back on the pill at the beginning of my next cycle. The next morning, the video of Simon fucking Mandy and talking about their baby was sitting in my inbox. I don’t know who sent it, and it really doesn’t matter. The fact that he had no problem knocking her up, then giving me excuses that didn’t apply to his mistress is what pissed me off.”
“Simon is a massive bleeding hemorrhoid who deserves to have his balls whittled from his body with a paring knife.”
“Probably, but he’s not worth my effort.”
She’s right.
“Come here, baby.” I reach for her, cup her shoulders, and try to pull her into my arms.
Harlow jerks back. “I don’t need comforting. Thanks, but I’m not heartbroken. Other than being embarrassed, I’m fine.”
I don’t think she is but insisting otherwise will only raise her hackles. “Were you the one who uploaded the video to YouTube?”
Alarm skitters across her face. “Someone put that online? Oh, god.”
“As of fifteen minutes ago, it’s had roughly three million views.”
She sits staring and gaping at me, not moving, not breathing. Then suddenly she dashes for the attached bathroom and tries to slam the door between us. She doesn’t put enough arm into closing a door that heavy, and it drifts open again.
I hear her retching seconds later.
I stand in indecision for a moment before I go to her. She’s already suffered alone. Yeah, she’s probably isolated herself intentionally. She’d even say she prefers it this way. But under that tough-girl exterior is a woman who’s bruised and angry and deserves more. And now that I know the truth, I feel even more compelled to be close to her, help her.
