Hitched (Hearts of Stone Book 2)

by Christine Manzari

  “I just came in for the paper,” I said holding up the Diamondback.

  “Oh yeah. Harley’s story. It was great, huh?”

  “You read it?” I was surprised he’d already read it this morning seeing as how it was barely 7 a.m.

  “Yeah, I read it a few days ago. She always has me proofread her work before she hands it in to the editor. She worries too much. It’s always perfect.” He chuckled.

  She let Flex read it but not me? I knew they both worked at the Diamondback, but I never really thought about how closely they worked together. Once again, the green-eyed monster reared its head, and I felt an urge to mark my territory. To prove Harlow was mine. Which was the most asinine thing I could do. For one, Flex was the nicest guy I’d ever met. He didn’t have a dickhead bone in his body. Secondly, if Harlow knew I wanted to go caveman on her best friend, I had a feeling she’d declare us Splitsville without a thought. I might be the guy she was currently sharing her bed with, but when it came down to it, I couldn’t forget the fact that when a choice had to be made a few weeks ago, she’d chosen Flex over me.

  And I felt like a bastard for even worrying about it. Flex had been sick. Of course she wanted to help him. But my mind understanding that logic didn’t quite make up for the fact that my jealousy was dumber than a bag of dicks.

  “So,” Flex said, looking at me in confusion and jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Want to grab some coffee?” He knew I tried to keep a low profile; heading to the food court right before class wasn’t the best idea.

  I shook my head and pulled my baseball hat lower. “Nah. I have to hit the weights. Maybe another day.”

  Flex’s smile was bright. “Definitely. See you in class.”

  I nodded, and he turned toward the food court while I made my way outside before jogging back to my building. I needed to get over the way I felt threatened by Flex’s friendship with Harlow. Worrying about something I couldn’t control was only going to mess with my head. And I didn’t need any more uncertainty banging around in my skull.

  — HARLOW —

  20. WORTH FIGHTING FOR

  October 31, 2016

  WHO’S GOING TO LET THE CAT OUT OF THE BAG? By Harlow Ransom

  The problem with secrets is that they rarely stay that way. Especially one as momentous as a Vegas marriage. Despite that, Harlow Ransom is determined to keep her family out of the loop when it comes to her relationship with Trace Stone. When asked why, she merely said, “This thing between us isn’t serious. It’s not permanent. It’s just for fun. There’s no use introducing him to everyone when six months from now we’ll go our separate ways and we’ll barely be able to remember each other’s names.”

  When this reporter pointed out that all she would have to do to remember his name was look at the marriage certificate, Harlow looked like she might actually get sick.

  “Yeah, that’s something I still need to take care of,” she responded. “That won’t be permanent either.”

  As many people know, sometimes what people think is best for them isn’t what they actually need. Sometimes, the very thing they need is right in front of them. Of course, when this was suggested to Harlow, she changed the subject and pulled out her infamous list and added another item to it.

  “If I have to pay for this annulment myself, I will,” she said. “It will only take me a few months to save up what I need to make that happen.”

  The question is, will she be able to keep Trace a secret, or will the cat eventually make its way out of the bag?

  =========================

  1. Clean the apartment

  2. Wash the sheets

  3. Buy Willow’s favorite wine

  4. Tell Trace that Willow is coming for a visit

  5. Ask Betty for a few extra hours

  One time when we were little, I snuck into Willow’s closet while she was at school and I put on her favorite pale pink sundress that her daddy had sent her. I pranced around the house all morning pretending I was a princess. When lunch time rolled around and Mom was already passed out on the couch, I went into the kitchen to make something to eat. I was only five, but I was used to taking care of myself when my mom had too much to drink. I decided to make fancy sandwiches to go with Willow’s fancy dress. Pulling the kitchen chair over to the counter, I pretended I was a real mommy making tea sandwiches for party guests. I tried to trim the crusts off my PBJ so that I could cut it into cute little triangles just like I’d seen my grandmother do once. It only took one slip for me to slice open my finger and get blood all over the stolen sundress.

  The cut wasn’t bad, but the dress was ruined.

  I didn’t bother to wake up my mom. I fixed my finger, cleaned up the mess, and then hung Willow’s dress back up in the closet. I never told her what I’d done. When she tried to wear the dress weeks later and discovered the blood, and smears of peanut butter and grape jelly, she accused Marlow of destroying the dress. I’d always been the good, perfect sister. I never broke rules and it never even crossed Willow’s mind that I had anything to do with the dress disaster.

  Marlow denied involvement, of course, but Willow didn’t believe her. They blamed each other, and it caused such a fight they both ended up getting spankings. To this day, I’ve never admitted what I’d done to either of my sisters because my obsession with perfection runs too deep. They both still blame each other, although now it’s more of a joke. I should feel guilty for lying to them both, and I do, but now I’m too embarrassed to tell them the truth.

  Trace was like my modern day dress, and I was bound and determined to keep him hidden in my closet. And even though I felt guilty about that, I was also positive that keeping my relationship with him a secret from my sisters was the right thing to do.

  Tonight was the first night in weeks that I’d been nervous about Trace coming over. Willow had called to say she would be in town this weekend and wanted to come for a visit. My feelings for Trace had changed since the last time my sisters were in town, but I still wasn’t ready to take that next step and introduce him to my family. I wasn’t ready to make us permanent. I wasn’t sure I would ever be ready.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t like Trace. I adored him. The problem was that if I allowed him to become a permanent fixture in my life, I’d be giving him power. The power to unravel me and my carefully laid plans. My mother had almost destroyed me all those years ago when she chose to leave us and follow her dreams. I wasn’t sure I could survive another heartbreak, or be the cause of one. So, I decided that the easiest thing to do was not to give Trace that power at all. Which, in all honesty, was easier said than done because even though I was determined not to give him my heart, I think he was just as determined to take it.

  The problem was, in a few months, I’d graduate and be on my way to New York to snag my space in the world of journalism. And Trace would be…

  I honestly didn’t know what Trace would be doing. I had no idea what his major was or what he did when we weren’t together. I guess even though I’d let him into my bed, I’d still been keeping him at distance. And it needed to stay that way.

  As I waited for him to show up, I picked up my copy of the Diamondback with the intention of doing the crossword puzzle, but my eyes fell on The Perfect Date story I’d written, and I soon realized my fingers had gone to my lips, remembering all the stolen moments at the top of the Ferris Wheel and out on the paddleboat in the Inner Harbor. Lingering kisses, fingers entwined, and nights that ended in another attempt at dismantling my bed.

  I sighed, dropping the paper to the coffee table before leaning my head back against the couch. How was I going to tell Trace my sister was coming over to visit?

  Or that he wasn’t welcome here when she did?

  ***

  I chickened out. Instead of telling Trace about the upcoming weekend, I kissed him. And then I took him to bed before he even had a chance to say two words to me. In the back of my mind, I knew that using sex to avoid confrontation was wrong, but wrong n
ever felt so good before. And I mean multiple orgasm kind of good.

  I was such a coward. A sweaty, content, coward who was currently wrapped around Trace like a creeper vine.

  “Cricket,” he said my nickname like it held more meaning than seven letters could possibly contain. Like he wasn’t so much waiting for me to answer, but like I was the answer. To what, I had no idea.

  He pushed his fingers into my tangled hair and then pulled my head against his chest so I was tucked in under his chin.

  “I don’t want to go,” he mumbled.

  “Don’t.” I yawned. “Stay. Unless you have somewhere to be tomorrow.”

  His other hand swept down over my waist until it slid over my ass and he pulled my hips into his. “I’m not talking about tonight.” He groaned, a slow rock starting between our lower bodies. “I mean this weekend. I have to be in New York for a few days.”

  “Oh.” My post-orgasm high melted away, the promise of a round of lazy sex forgotten in the wake of his off-hand confession, which in turn was a reminder of my own weekend plans.

  “Want to go with me?” he asked. “I’ll have a big hotel room all to myself. You could bring work to do with you while I’m at my meetings.”

  Go to New York? It wasn’t out of the question. Willow would probably much rather I visit her in New York at her fancy condo than for her to have to come down to my shabby apartment. But if I went to New York to visit her, there’d be no way to avoid introducing her to Trace. And that just couldn’t happen.

  “New York?” I asked weakly.

  “Yeah.” Trace’s hips rocked into mine again, and he shifted his mouth to my lips so he could kiss me. My body was telling me just to say yes and accept whatever it was he was offering.

  “I can’t. I have to work,” I blurted.

  He sucked my lower lip into his mouth, and the smooth slide of his skin against mine was making it hard to form coherent thoughts. “If it’s an article, bring it with you. Like I said, you can work on it in the hotel room. Or even in Central Park or some trendy cafe. Then we can spend the night together. I’ll take you to—”

  “It’s not just the article. I have a couple of shifts at the Dairy this weekend,” I interrupted.

  “Betty will give you off. I’ll go in and sweet talk her myself,” he promised, kissing me on the end of my nose.

  I felt annoyance bury itself in a furrow between my eyebrows. “I can’t just skip out on work. I need that money to buy groceries and cat food. I have bills to pay.”

  Trace’s arms were tight around me, his hands pressing and stroking me closer to him as he bent his head into the curve of my neck to kiss there and scramble my thoughts some more. “I’ll buy your groceries for you, Cricket. If you need money, I’ll give it to you.” His tone was almost arrogant. “And then we can have fun all weekend long.”

  What? His words tumbled around in my head, and I pushed him back in annoyance. I couldn’t think straight with his mouth on me and all that hard, naked skin pressed against me, but I was pretty sure he just offered me a form of payment to come along with him so that I could act as his plaything. To wait around in his room until he had time for me.

  I didn’t like the idea of him suggesting I change my life, my plans, to suit his wants and needs. “Don’t treat me like I’m a whore,” I growled.

  His entire body went still and he leaned away from me to meet my eyes. “Excuse me?” His expression was pure confusion and he looked genuinely offended. “How am I treating you like a whore?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “You want me to ditch my job, which I need, and wait around in your room for you until you have time to come back and fuck me? And you’re offering to pay me for that? What else would you call it?”

  He chuckled, but it was without humor. “That’s not at all what I was suggesting, Harlow, and you know it. I wanted to spend the weekend with you. I thought it’d be fun. And I didn’t offer to pay you. I offered to help you out by getting some groceries. Is missing a few hours at the Dairy really that big of a deal?”

  I huffed and rolled away from him onto my back, crossing my arms across my chest. “Not everyone has a sweet little bank account funded by Mommy and Daddy so that they can run off on a getaway whenever they please.” Oh my God. Why did I say that? “I have to work hard for what I have,” I added as if that made the rest of my outburst okay.

  Trace’s mouth flattened into a hard line, and his jaw popped. “So do I.”

  My heart was thudding in my chest. I hated confrontation and yet I was an avalanche ready to bury us both. I turned away and sat up on the bed, scooting to the edge. I grabbed my tank top and shorts and then pulled them on while he glared at my back. I couldn’t actually see him glaring, but the fact that he wasn’t touching me or making a joke was a pretty good indicator that he was glaring. He was pissed. And so was I.

  I stood up, and as I headed across the room, he said, “So that’s it. You’re just going to walk away without talking this out?”

  “What’s there to talk about?” I snapped. I yanked open the door and yelped in surprise when Couch Cat darted into the room and under my bed.

  Damn it. I had to remember to make sure she got out of there before I went back to bed. Otherwise, I might wake up to discover I was the victim of a real-life horror movie.

  “Don’t walk away,” Trace said to my back. It wasn’t a threat, but those three words felt like a kick to my spine. Those were the same words my father said to my mother when she left. Don’t walk away. Don’t walk away from the girls, he’d said.

  She did anyway. Just like I was doing right now. The words dug deep inside, to a place I thought no longer existed. I cringed at the way they rubbed me raw, the way I could feel those old wounds like they were brand new. I rubbed my chest as if that could make the discomfort go away, and went into the living room to find a way to clear my head. I’d just turned on the vacuum when Trace came down the hallway with nothing but his boxers on. He leaned against the corner of the wall and stared at me as I vacuumed the carpet with vicious swipes.

  “What are you doing, Cricket?” he asked loudly enough that I could hear him over the growl of the machine.

  I gave him an annoyed look for asking a question he clearly knew the answer to, and then focused on the carpet so that I could avoid looking at him. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him push off the wall, and when the roar of the vacuum died into silence, I spun around to see that he’d unplugged it.

  “It’s two in the morning,” he said. “Just tell me what’s wrong.” He dropped the cord and reached out like he was going to pull me to him, and I abandoned the vacuum to retreat across the room. Shuffling papers and books that were scattered across the coffee table, I started to clean up my earlier mess. Anything to keep from looking at him. Anything to keep from witnessing the damage I was doing to him. To us.

  Undeterred by my rudeness, he followed me. “Why are you cleaning in the middle of the night?” He was speaking gently, but his tone was wary.

  I shrugged. I didn’t have a good answer.

  “Cricket?” He moved to stand between me and the coffee table, and then carefully reached up to take the papers out of my hand and tossed them on the couch behind him. He didn’t let go of my hands. “What’s going on? What you said back there? You know it’s not true. What’s really the problem?”

  I took a deep breath, trying to organize my emotions and sort them into actual words. “This was just supposed to be a few dates,” I said, motioning between us. “It’s supposed to be fun.”

  He tilted his head and studied me like I was a malfunctioning machine. “And going to New York wouldn’t be fun?”

  I shook my head. “It’s not that. Not just that. Willow is coming this weekend and—”

  “Ah. Now I get it.” He stared at me intently, and I had to force myself not to look away. “I was wondering why we skipped the whole homework thing tonight.” He ran his thumbs over the backs of my fingers as he held my hands. “You were avoi
ding telling me about your sister coming.” He paused and when I finally dropped my gaze, it was because I was too ashamed to look at him any longer. “You still don’t want her to know about us.”

  Even though I could hear the hurt in his statement, I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. You introduced me to your family…I didn’t want you to be offended that I wasn’t ready to introduce you to mine.” I pulled my hands out of his and reached up to rub my temples, closing my eyes. “I’m just not ready.”

  He was quiet for a moment, and then his arms were around me, pulling me into him. “I’m actually more offended about the whore comment,” he chuckled when I groaned in renewed embarrassment. “Come on, Cricket. Let’s go back to bed. You’ll do your thing this weekend, I’ll do mine, and I promise I won’t buy you any groceries.”

  I let him wrap his arm around my shoulders and steer me back toward the bedroom. “I’m sorry,” I said in a small voice.

  “I know.” He tightened his grip on my shoulders as we neared the bed. “And I know just how you can make it up to me.”

  I looked up at him and raised my eyebrows, expecting any number of sexual innuendos.

  “Foot rub,” he said in answer to my unasked question. “I ran eight miles this morning.” He pulled me down to sit on the edge of the bed and then he leaned back against my pillows, hands behind his head, as he dropped his feet into my lap. “Rub away.”

  I turned to face him. “I’ve got a much better idea of what I’d like to rub.”

  When he raised his eyebrows in question, I pushed his feet off my lap and then got on all fours, crawling up the bed toward him. When I straddled him and my hands went to his thighs, he smiled—his genuine cocky smile that I loved so much. My hands crept upwards, fingers clutching the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down his hips.