by Shayla Black
He’s right. That whole paying attention to what Harlow doesn’t say works for everything she’s hiding, not just her secrets.
“Exactly,” Maxon seconds. “And if sex brought you together, keep giving it to her, man. Don’t give Harlow too much time to catch her breath. Or think.”
I choke on my sip of beer.
“Never give her space,” Griff agrees with a nod. “With a woman like her, you have to stay one step ahead.”
Finally I manage to swallow. “She won’t like me in her face all the time.”
“You’re right. That’s not what I mean.” Maxon shakes his head and scoffs. “Just focus on keeping her sated and smiling. Because as much as the Reeds are allergic to emotion, they’re addicted to sex.”
I’m totally happy with that approach. I have the upper hand in bed. So if I can make that advantage work in my favor, then hell yeah. It’s on. And I’ll do my best to pleasure her into saying yes.
On Friday afternoon, I’m having trouble sitting across from Harlow in the home office. She’s scanning her notes, absently piling her dark hair in a loose topknot and securing it with a pencil. The red bikini top she wore when we first met cradles her lush breasts. A moment later, she stands, and the flowing floral sarong around her hips emphasizes everything about her that’s both delicate and curvy. I barely notice when she opens a thick tome, flips through, her brows knitting in a frown of concentration.
Even after getting out with the girls on Tuesday, she’s distant. Maxon and Griff said their wives got zero information out of Harlow except a polite clap after Keeley finished singing. Harlow successfully dodged me most of Wednesday for meetings with some local therapists. On Thursday, we completed the assessment we hadn’t earlier in the week. This morning, I had a TV interview with a local station on behalf of a nearby food bank. If it hadn’t been for the generosity of others after my dad died, I might not have had three meals a day. I give faithfully and encourage others to do the same. After that, I had to run an important errand that required me to make a few phone calls so I could have a little privacy.
Finally home, I sit across from Harlow and watch her, wondering what the devil that woman is thinking under her studious facade.
“Baby?”
Head stuck in a book, she holds up a finger. “Almost done. I want to get this right since I know we’re working against the clock.”
She’s not wrong about that. Cliff called me again yesterday to update me on the Mercedes Fleet situation. The woman wants me to acknowledge her baby and pay child support. I’ve refused. The news is still making waves on social media and in the sports world. My agent wants me to accept the deal before the network retracts it. I can’t until I know whether I’ll actually be able to fulfill the role. But I want the job so bad. I love football. I want to stay in the game however I can. Not to relive my glory days. I was never into that. This sport is in my blood. I know these players. I understand how the game is played better than most. I think NFL fans are the best, most loyal people. I’m not ready to walk away from any of it.
A few minutes later, Harlow sets the book aside. She sits across from me, clasps her hands, and levels a serious look my way. “Here’s what I’ve come up with. You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” But am I? My stomach knots. Sure, her diagnosis could fill in the gaps, help me understand so I can move forward. This information might also terrify me with how hopeless my situation is.
“You might have some residual lapses in speech following your last concussion. I’m not discounting that possibility,” she says. “I think it’s more likely, however, that because you lost your ability to speak for a short time after your injury, you associate it with being unable to play the game any longer. That’s a source of anxiety for you. And because of that, you found it hard to announce your retirement at your post-Super Bowl interview. The fact that you were unable to filled you with more anxiety, and something in your head clicked. The association was set. So when you get into tense situations, you have the disconnect between your brain and your mouth. It works the same with being really tired because I’m guessing that after the Super Bowl you were exhausted.”
“You think I’m crazy?” That’s what she’s come up with?
She finally cracks a smile and looks at me with soft understanding. “No. And you’re not defective, either. Nearly forty million Americans suffer with some form of anxiety, so you’re hardly alone. I suspect your anxiety is a post-traumatic thing. It wasn’t so much the concussion that disturbed you as it was your inability to speak afterward. Am I right?”
“Yeah.”
“So that’s it. When you start to experience anxiety, you associate the loss of speech with that, so the symptom kicks in. When you’re calm and rested, it doesn’t happen.”
I get what she’s saying but… “So you do think I’m crazy?”
“No,” she assures, taking my hand.
It’s the most contact we’ve had in days. I clutch her fingers in mine.
“What I think is that the loss of your career was something you weren’t prepared for. Coupled with your injuries, which caused the problem, your anxiousness about the changes in your life are manifesting in this way. I’ve suspected this for a while, but I wanted to validate my thoughts, so my professors helped me to reach out to some people, a few even local, so I could get different perspectives. This is pretty much the consensus.” Harlow rises and comes around the desk, never releasing my hand, before she sidles up to me and curls herself in my lap. “What this means is, we should experiment with ways to keep your anxiety and stress levels down—exercise, diet, meditation—that sort of thing. If we can’t control it with those methods, we look at psychotherapy or medication. We search for what works.”
I pull her into my arms and hold her close, closing my eyes to let her words sink in. I’m overwhelmed. It sounds as if this process won’t be overnight. What if it takes months—or years—to work? I don’t have that long. I need results now. “I’m not ready to turn down the job.”
I’m barely able to get the words out. I feel both hot and frozen. The world is quaking beneath me, but I’m utterly unable to move.
“It’s way too early for you to do that. And if the network job won’t work for you, maybe you continue to cover football in writing. You’ll find a way. But you’re going to be fine. We’ll work to keep improving your response, see if we can disassociate the stress with your loss of speech. I don’t know how. This isn’t my exact area of expertise, but I’m here.” She meets my gaze. “And I’m sorry I tried to run out on you last week. We have an agreement, and I’m committed to helping you however I can.”
Harlow doesn’t say anything about my proposal. She still has until tomorrow to answer me, so I don’t push. I can’t help but think about how much easier it would be to handle my condition if I knew she was going to be around for at least a year—and maybe for a lifetime.
“So…what do we do now?”
“I’m making arrangements to tweak the groceries coming in. You should eat a lean diet of turkey and other tryptophan-rich foods, beef and anything else rich in B vitamins, salmon, whole grains, blueberries and bananas, all kinds of green and leafy veggies. You need to avoid processed sugar…” She winces. “And caffeine.”
“No coffee?” The rest of the diet sounds fairly normal, but lack of java is a major issue.
“We’ll wean you off, but it would be best if you started your day with a chamomile or green tea.” She looks apologetic, and I have to remember that she’s trying to help, not kill me. “We’ll make sure you get sunlight every day. I want to try starting and ending your day with meditation. You already get exercise. How’s your sleep?”
Without her beside me? “Surprisingly shitty lately.”
“We’ll try some valerian drops or capsules. If you’ve had adequate sleep, then—”
“I’ll sleep better if I have you beside me.”
I don’t mean it to sound like emotional blackmail. She migh
t take my words that way, but I’m simply giving her the truth.
Harlow pauses. Her arms tighten around my neck, and I feel her stiffen. “All right. If that’s what you need, I’ll be there.”
I hold her tighter and bury my face in her neck. No, she can’t help me, but somehow when I’m with her I feel so much more calm and whole.
Guess it’s that love thing.
“Thank you. When do we get started?”
She pulls back and gives me a tremulous smile. But I feel her shaking and I don’t understand.
Her voice is almost too chipper. “No time like the present. Let’s do it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
After an afternoon of cardio, healthy cooking, and some laughable attempts at guided meditation with a recording of a douchey British guy in my ear, Harlow tosses together a salad while I’m grilling some salmon. It’s quiet. I wish I felt Zen, but neither of us have talked about what happens tonight. She’ll sleep next to me because she agreed to, but it will cost her emotional grit. I don’t understand why. I can practically see her bracing for it. The nice guy in me wants to let her off the hook. The ruthless bastard in me craves her beside me where I can give her so much pleasure she’ll never refuse my proposal.
That probably sounds fucked up. She needs to make her own decision. But I’m getting desperate. I can’t let this woman slip through my fingers.
We’re eating at the bar in the kitchen when Harlow’s phone lights up between us with a text from Maxon. Busy tonight?
I look at her. She shrugs at me. I’d rather spend the evening alone with her, but her older brother sends another message before we can talk.
We’ve got news.
Harlow doesn’t hesitate. Should we meet you somewhere?
We’ll come there. K?
After giving him a quick thumbs-up, she sets her phone aside. She barely nibbles on her dinner.
I lay my hand over hers. “You look worried. He didn’t say anything is wrong.”
“It’s not like Maxon to be spontaneous. This must be big.” She chews her lip. “I’m wondering if it’s Mom and her boyfriend, Marco. Or Dad and his pregnant assistant. Or Evan, the long-lost illegitimate brother. Shouldn’t those test results be back now? This shit is like bad tabloid TV, but it’s my life.” With a frown knitting her brow, she slants a cynical glance my way. “I feel like I was dropped in the middle of Crazy Town. Are you sure you want to marry into this family? Think hard.”
I don’t have to think at all. “Yes.”
She sets her fork down and sends me a serious stare. “Why? Noah, I’m not the sort of girl to fall in love. Not with anyone.”
I know Harlow thinks that, but her heart is too big to be closed off forever. “I heard you.”
“But are you listening? I don’t want to hurt you. I just—”
“Don’t worry about me.” If I have a year, I should be able to coax her into dropping her guard and falling in love.
Right?
Harlow gives me a nod she means to look assured, but I see the worry on her face. “I know, you’re a big boy. If we get married, I at least want the honesty my parents never had. I don’t want secrets or animosity or regret between us.”
“Of course.” Other players have fallen for a pretty face and a nice rack and ended up in hell because their bride was a heartless bitch looking out for her bottom line, but that’s not Harlow.
“I mean, when you find a new lover, I’d rather you tell me than be blindsided.”
When, not if. After her father and Simon, I can see why she’d think that her husband finding a mistress would be inevitable. “If we get married, Harlow, there won’t be anyone else for me.”
“Okay. Sure.” She gives me a negligent shrug. Clearly, she doesn’t believe me.
I take her hand. “I’m serious. To me, a marriage is between two people, not us and whoever flips my switch at the moment.”
Harlow simply stares, looking as if she’s trying to decide whether I’m a really good liar.
“I promise. We can make this work.”
“Maybe we can since it’s only for a year.”
A year won’t be long enough. I’m going to make sure it’s not enough for her, either. “Just say yes. You’ll see.”
She doesn’t answer, and silence falls between us. I’m looking for a way to fill it when the doorbell rings.
“That was fast,” I remark as we both stand.
“Finish eating, “she says. “I’ll get it.”
When she opens the door, it’s not Maxon and Keeley standing in the threshold, but Britta and Griff, hand in hand.
“Hey. What’s going on? I didn’t know you were coming over.”
“Maxon texted and told us to meet him here. He said something was up,” Griff said grimly. “We were only a few minutes away.”
“If it’s about Evan, Maxon hasn’t updated me. Then again, I didn’t know anything in the first place.” Harlow turns away to shut the door.
“We didn’t mean to leave you out,” Griff assures her. “I’m sorry.”
Harlow whirls on him. “Then don’t do it again, okay?”
“Absolutely.”
“If I had known you had no idea, I would have honored the girl code and told you,” Britta promises.
That makes Harlow crack a smile, then hug her sister-in-law. “Thanks. Good to know I have someone on my side.”
When Griff grimaces, I step into the awkward silence. “Hey, you guys. Come in. Can I get you anything?”
“We just came from a big dinner,” Griff says. “Britta’s mom is spending some grandma time with Jamie so we could have a date. Did Maxon say how long he’d be?”
“No.” Harlow leads everyone to the family room adjacent to the kitchen.
“Eat the rest of your food,” I murmur in her ear.
She shakes her head and picks up her plate. “I’m good.”
“We didn’t mean to disturb your dinner,” Britta says apologetically.
“It’s fine. Sit. Please.” Her smile tells me having family around will soothe her, so as much as I’d rather be alone with Harlow, she needs this.
We’re all settled with a drink and some small talk when a knock on the door has me hopping to my feet. I open it to admit Maxon and Keeley. The man’s face is unreadable. He would have made a hell of a poker player.
“Hey, everyone.” He shuffles into the room, Keeley’s hand tucked in his as they settle on the sofa. “We’ve got some news and I thought we should all be together.”
“Did the DNA test results come in?” Griff asks.
Maxon pulls a small FedEx envelope from his suit pocket. “Yeah.”
That one word has gravity. They all understand if Evan is truly their brother, this will shake up their small, dysfunctional family.
“Open it,” Harlow prompts. “We should know the truth.”
“Yeah.” Still, Maxon hesitates.
“Sweetheart?” Keeley murmurs.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I just…don’t know what to think. It’s not Evan’s fault that Dad is a dishonest, wandering-dick asshole. We can’t blame the kid for his father’s sins. Otherwise, Griff and I would be labeled grade-A assholes, too.”
“But you’re mad, anyway,” Harlow supplies. “I get that.”
“We have to be the bigger people here,” Griff says. “If we cut him off because Dad was a son of a bitch, are we any better?”
Britta beams at him. “Thank you for listening to me.”
He kisses her on the nose. “I do every once in a while, you know.”
Maxon sighs. “Maybe Evan is a good guy. He seemed okay on the phone.”
“But it’s weird to wake up one day and suddenly be, like, I have another brother,” Harlow points out.
“Exactly.” Maxon points at her. “But this isn’t about me—or any one of us. We have each other. He has no one, and we should give him the benefit of the doubt.” He turns to his wife. “See, I’m listening to you, too.”
; Keeley bestows a smile his way and a kiss on his cheek.
I hang back, glad to see that the older Reeds—the happily married ones—are coming to the right conclusion. It doesn’t escape me that Harlow is still unsure.
“Open the envelope.” Griff nods at the mail his older brother holds. “Let’s find out once and for all.”
Even I’m holding my breath as Maxon rips it open and extracts the letter, his eyes scanning the page. He swallows, folds it up, then looks at his siblings. “He’s one of us, no question.”
The words reverberate around the room. The silence that follows is a bomb, and we all recoil, absorbing the news. Not that any of the Reed siblings seem surprised, but the news makes everything more real.
“Do you need to let Evan know?” I ask finally.
Maxon nods. “I guess we do, though he was already convinced. What’s the etiquette for feeling out the brother you’ve never met to see if he wants to join the family? I never read Emily Post’s advice on this kind of mess.”
“Is there a right or wrong way for something this fucked up? I guess we just call,” Griff suggests.
“If you’d rather deliver the news in person, you’re welcome to invite him here, give him the news on neutral ground without any gawking onlookers,” I suggest. “It’ll be quiet. You guys can just…talk.”
Maxon whips out his phone. “Griff?”
“It’s a good plan.” The younger Reed brother turns to Harlow. “But I don’t want to bring him here if you’re not comfortable.”
She lets out a big breath, then nods. “If he’s one of us, then…call and invite him.”
With a curt nod, Maxon excuses himself to the patio, fingers tapping the screen of his phone. The silence in his wake is long and heavy.
“Does anyone want coffee? Tea? A big ol’ bottle of booze to wash down this revelation?” Harlow offers with a wry tilt of her mouth.
