by Shandi Boyes
This woman will be the death of me. I’m striving to treat her with the respect she deserves, but she makes the task virtually impossible. The way she sashayed around her kitchen the past week had the bread baking before it was even in the oven. And I swear to god, we did a remake of the pottery scene in Ghost this morning. But instead of me cozying up to Harlow as she kneaded bread, she leaned over my shoulder and whispered wicked thoughts into my ear.
I may wear pants, but when it comes to Harlow, that is only metaphorically. I am new to relationships, but I’m confident I jumped out of the gates the right way. I made sure Harlow is aware the ball is entirely in her court. It might not make me as macho and alpha as Isaac, but it keeps my worry at bay. I’d give her up before I’d ever force her to do anything against her wishes, so if that means she wears the pants in our relationship, so be it. I’m not worried. With how many decisions I make every day, an occasional change is refreshing.
As my mood rises, the tension across the table plummets. With my pulse raging in my ears, I missed what Izzy asked Isaac, but from the deep burrow of his brows and the sternness of his mouth, I’m guessing it is something about his past. Isaac hates talking about anything from his past. Out of the hundreds of patrons in this restaurant, I’m certain I am the only one who has seen all sides of Isaac. When you sail through the darkest storms together, you either come out the other side as friends or foes. Fortunately for us both, our competition has never gone further than the occasional punt on a horse.
When Isaac’s squinted gaze darts to mine, the panic in them sets me on edge. I nod, agreeing to the silent request for assistance streaming from his eyes. I may have deceived him by inviting Harlow and Izzy to our table, but I’ll always have his back. Blood is thicker than water, but oil is even thicker than that.
Before my overworked brain can come up with a plan, a waiter arrives at our table. After scooting out of the booth, I gesture for Harlow to go in front of me. Isaac and Isabelle follow us only a few seconds later—albeit hesitantly. Other than instructing the waiter to return with a bottle of whiskey, Isaac doesn’t speak another word the entire thirty minutes of dinner. He doesn’t even eat.
“Is this normal?” Harlow asks as our dinner plates are cleared away, panicked we’ve made a fatal mistake.
When Izzy arrived out our table, Isaac seemed pleased. Now he looks like he is seconds away from combustion.
Harlow uses her glass of wine to hide the movement of her lips. “Say something, Cormack. It’s her birthday.” Her eyes are locked on Izzy, whose shoulders have slumped so much the past hour, she’s moments away from being swallowed by her soup.
My less-than-stellar dating skills go against me when I stammer out, “Don’t take his lack of interest personally, Isabelle. For as long as I’ve known Isaac, he has never been interested in dating brunettes.”
“Oh.” Izzy’s disheartened murmur conceals the grunt I emit from Harlow kicking me in the shin.
“You’re supposed to cheer her up. Not drag her down more,” Harlow murmurs behind the rim of her glass.
I glower at her, lost on what to do. This is the equivalent of throwing a baby into a pool and expecting them to know how to swim. I’m drowning here. And there isn’t a lifejacket in sight.
The faint curl of Harlow’s lips makes me wonder if I said my comments out loud. “Ask the waiter to bring out her cake. Cake makes everything better,” she suggests in a seductive purr.
With Isaac and Isabelle deep in conversation, they fail to notice me signaling for the waiter to bring over the cake Harlow baked for Isabelle this morning. It is fortunate the waiter is eager to please, or Isaac’s abrupt stand from the table would have occurred before he discovered today is Isabelle’s twenty-fifth birthday.
Harlow and I watch Isabelle blow out her candles in silence.
We then gasp in sync when her lips land on Isaac not even two seconds later.
Chapter Thirteen
Cormack
“I’m not joking, Harlow. You are never to mention our ruse. Ever. It didn’t happen. As far as Isaac and Isabelle are concerned, we met tonight.”
Harlow stabs a fork into the birthday cake Isabelle never got to sample before Isaac escorted her out of the restaurant with barely a word spoken between them.
My worry about Isaac discovering our scam fades when Harlow aims the loaded fork toward my mouth. I accept her generous helping. The cake is delicious, but it can’t strip the mayhem from my gut.
“I’ve never seen Isaac as mad as he was tonight. If he finds out we set him up, you can kiss your bakery goodbye. He’ll run us both out of town.”
“Won’t you protect me from the big bad wolf?” Even though the slurring of her words is cute, they don’t stop me signaling to the bartender to weaken her drinks. “You could take him, Cormack. You’ve got the smarts. . . The looks. . . The package.”
Although my ego is loving the little strokes she’s been awarding it all night, she is clearly intoxicated. “You are such a lightweight. How many drinks did you have? Two?”
“Three!” she squeals like she’s answering the million dollar question. “And two glasses of wine.” Her brows furrow as her lips quirk. “Or was it three glasses of wine? I can’t remember.”
After gathering Harlow’s jacket from the back of her stool and assisting her to stand, my eyes drift to the bartender. “Can you put her drinks on my tab?” I pivot on my heel before quickly spinning back around. “Actually, can you include her name on all my future reservations?”
“Yes, sir, most certainly.” Jimmy is a good kid. A little young to be a father, but a good kid all the same.
I throw a twenty next to my untouched glass of whiskey before guiding Harlow out of the back entrance of the restaurant. A sigh spills from her lips when she spots my Bentley idling at the curb.
“No bike tonight?”
“No, sorry.”
It’s probably for the best. She can barely stand, let alone hold my waist as we weave through the populated streets of Ravenshoe.
“Maybe I can take you for a ride on the weekend?”
Her head pops off my chest. “Really?”
I run my index finger down the crinkle in her nose. She’s really cute when she’s needy. “If you’re good, I might even teach you how to ride one day.”
I inwardly gag. I sound like I’m willing to say or do anything to get into her panties. That isn’t what I am aiming for. Harlow has taught me so much the past week, I just want to return the favor.
“There is only one thing I want to ride this weekend, Cormack. It isn’t your bike.”
Acting like she didn’t just light a ticking bomb, Harlow breaks away from my side. Her steps to my car are remarkably stable for how badly her words are slurred, but her unladylike stumble into the backseat reveals her true level of her intoxication. She is all legs and arms.
I scan the alleyway, ensuring no one milling around has spotted her lace panties I’m pretending not to have noticed. They’re identical to the ones she was wearing when I ravished her on my couch last week—dampness included. Eager to hide my extended crotch from gawkers, I slide into the backseat of my Bentley.
“Where to?” Augustus asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
Before I can request he take us to my home, Harlow’s stomach makes a noise it shouldn’t be making. Her face screws up as if she is in pain as her eyes rocket to mine. “I know we have plans, but can we go to my place? It’s closer.”
My eyes drift to Augustus. The worry in them has him pulling away from the curb before a word can spill from my lips.
“And would you mind rolling down the windows? I don’t feel very good.” Harlow’s last sentence is muffled by her hand clamping over her mouth.
While placing the back of my hand on her sweaty forehead, I ask, “How far from the bakery is your house?”
“It’s right there. Just direct him to my bakery, and we can walk the rest of the way.” She swallows numerous times during her repl
y.
After telling Augustus I don’t care how many tickets he gets during our trip, I tug Harlow to my side. Her glassy gaze reveals she is intoxicated, but the mad beat of her heart exposes alcohol isn’t the only thing she is combatting.
“That salty thing we ate after dinner. What was that?” Her lips quiver as she coerces her words through the bile sitting in the back of her throat.
“The orange beady-looking paté?”
Harlow’s nod is halfhearted but strong enough for me to feel.
“That was salmon roe, kind of like caviar just more . . . refined.” I nearly say expensive, until I remember its high monetary value won’t alter Harlow’s opinion of it, so I don’t bother.
“Salmon? As in fish salmon?” If her tone wasn’t laced with worry, her response would make me smile.
I nod. “Why? Didn’t you like it?”
Moisture glistens in her eyes. “It was good. I liked it. I just can’t eat fish. I’m allergic to fish.” Her face pales when her eyes stray to the street. We’re stuck in the middle of a traffic jam. “Please tell him to hurry,” she whispers under her breath, her voice dire.
“Do you need an epi pen? Should I take you to the hospital?” Nothing but sheer panic rings in my tone. I have a cousin who is allergic to peanuts. Even a simple cross-contamination is near fatal for him.
“It’s not that. . . type of a reaction. . .it just makes me. . .” Her voice heaving between words settles my question.
I search the cabin of my car for something she can get sick in. There isn’t anything. “Do you want Augustus to pull over?” If she vomits in my car, so be it. I just can’t guarantee I won’t be barfing alongside her. When it comes to bodily byproducts, I’m a wuss.
Harlow’s sorrowed-filled eyes dance between mine before she weakly nods her head. The tires of my Bentley barely come to a stop before she darts out of the backseat and charges into an alleyway. Not trusting my weak stomach, I linger back a few paces. I feel like an ass, but I’m certain there is a law that you can only have one vomiting patron per alleyway in the state of Florida, so I’m best to stay where I am.
Harlow’s violent heaves are loud enough to wake three blocks, but they do return the color to her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes as she unsteadily heads my way.
Any neurosis I’m having disappears in an instant when her glassy eyes lock with mine. She needs me, yet I’m floundering on my duties like a man without a cock.
After handing her a handkerchief, I scoop her into my arms. “You have nothing to be sorry about. You’re having an allergic reaction.”
The guilt lying heavily on my chest eases when she burrows her nose into my neck and inhales deeply. To have a woman as strong and independent as Harlow accept my assistance without qualm makes me feel invincible.
“Is she okay?” Augustus asks when I slip into the Bentley with a quivering Harlow in my arms.
I trace my finger down her sweat-beaded cheek while nodding. “She will be. I’ll make sure of it.”
By the time we make it to Harlow’s bakery, over an hour has passed, and Harlow is on the verge of collapse. I don’t know if alcohol is the cause of her tiredness or the numerous trips we made down darkened alleys on the way home. But whatever it is, she is clearly confused.
“Where is your house?” I ask again.
I’ve already relieved Augustus for the night, so I can only hope Harlow wasn’t being deceitful when she said we could walk to her home from her bakery.
It takes a mammoth effort for Harlow to raise her head, but when she does, she points to a paint-peeled door halfway down the alley her bakery runs along.
“You want to sleep at your bakery?” I try to keep judgment out of my tone. I do a good job. I wish I could express the same sentiment for my humor, because the instant Harlow hears my faint laugh, shame clouds her eyes.
“I’ll take you wherever you need to go, Harlow. If you want to sleep at your bakery, we’ll sleep at your bakery.”
Pretending I didn’t just invite myself for a sleepover, I guide Harlow to the door she gestured to. Because her legs are barely working, her canary yellow shoes drag along the asphalt. After taking a mental note of the size and style of her shoes so I can replace them, I shove the key she handed me earlier into the lock, then swing open the door. Its loud creak isn’t a security alarm, but it is close enough. It announces to half the population of Ravenshoe that someone is entering the premise.
“Stairs,” Harlow says in a half-grunted groan as her glazed eyes stray to a wall on our left.
My lips quirk when I discover a set of narrow stairs hidden by a wall in her kitchen. Recognizing Harlow’s legless state prevents her from climbing stairs, I lift her into my arms and carefully ascend the staircase.
By the time we reach the top rung, Harlow is passed out, and my confusion about why she wants to sleep at her bakery clears. She doesn’t just work here. She lives here as well. The clothes hanging in the corner of the room raised my suspicion, but the family photos sprawled across the shelf above a double bed confirmed them.
After a challenging swallow, I pace to a bed in the far corner of the room. Harlow murmurs softly when I place her in the middle of the mattress. After removing her asphalt-scuffed shoes, I make my way to an ensuite bathroom on the other side of the room. It only takes me three strides. Her loft is spotlessly clean, but it is extremely compact. I’d even go as far as saying tiny.
Remaining quiet, I rummage through her medicine cabinet before scanning the contents of the cupboard under the sink. I’m not snooping; I’m merely seeking something to clear the vomit from Harlow’s lips the bad lighting in the Bentley concealed from my view.
When I find a washcloth in the cabinet next to an upright shower, I dampen it with warm water then make my way back to Harlow. The scratchy material gives her lips the same kiss-swollen look they wear after we’ve kissed, but she remains asleep. I can’t say I blame her. Tonight is the first night I haven’t crashed before 7 PM.
Since I’ve crawled out of bed at 2 AM every day this week, I virtually fall asleep during commute to my residence. Although I could have maintained my usual pattern of late to rise, late to bed, pledges I made years ago kept my focus on track.
Once I am confident Harlow’s face and hair are vomit-free, I tug up the blanket folded at the foot of her bed. I watch her for a few minutes, conflicted and full of guilt. If my endeavor to secure her bakery had been successful, she wouldn’t have just had to relocate her business. I would have upended her entire life. The thought makes me sick to my stomach. Where would she be if she weren’t here?
As I make my way to the couch opposite Harlow’s bed, I take in the space. Her loft is tiny, but it embodies who she is. The hand-painted lead light in the roof skylight makes moonlight dance around her loft, making her furniture look well-loved instead of dated, and the delicious smells of her bakery wafting through the wooden slats eradicates the sooty scent most attics usually have. Her quirky, yet homey space eases the guilt sitting on my chest, but it doesn’t completely erase it.
After unbuttoning my dress shirt, I drape it over one of the chairs nestled around a two-seater dinette. My shoes are the next to go, closely followed by my belt. Although it would be more comfortable to sleep without my pants, I don’t want to startle Harlow. I already invited myself to stay, so I don’t need more creepiness factored into the equation.
I lay in silence for the next two hours. It isn’t Harlow’s uncomfortable sofa responsible for my lack of sleep; it is my guilt. I’m crushing hard on this woman. Harder than I’ve ever crushed before. She occupies my thoughts at all times of the night and day. Even when she is with me, I’m thinking about something she said earlier that day or a previous one. She has me under a spell.
If I didn’t love the new lease on life her attention is breathing into me, I’d be pissed. This wasn’t in my ten-year plan. A relationship wasn’t in any of my plans. But I want this. I want Harlow more than my lungs
desire their next breath.
Sitting up, I snag my cell phone off the glass coffee table. With it being a little after four AM, it takes several rings before Levi answers my call.
“What’s going on? Are you alright?” I hear the ruffling of sheets before he whispers to someone he’ll be back in a minute. My brows shoot up. His stance on relationships has been as pessimistic as mine the past nine years. “Did you get arrested?”
Harlow stirs when the chuckle I am unable to stifle booms through her ears. My laughter can’t be helped. There is only one person on this call who requires frequent bailing. It isn’t me.
I shift my laughter to a smile before replying, “No. This just couldn’t wait until the morning.”
A lengthy stretch of silence passes between us. It is as uncomfortable as Harlow’s springless sofa.
“Levi?” I ask. “You there?”
I hear him run his fingers through his inky black hair. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m just trying to work out what’s so urgent it couldn’t wait for the sun to rise. You’ve never been the early bird catches the worm man.”
My smile grows. He has clearly missed my change in schedule the past week.
After a deep breath, I put him out of his misery, “I want you to scale back the takeover.”
Levi sighs, my tone alone ensuring he doesn’t need confirmation on which takeover I am referencing. I called him into my office three times already this week to discuss Harlow’s bakery, so he knows what project is occupying my thoughts.
“Scale back or drop the proposal altogether?” He sounds angry. And rightfully so. A majority of his salary is made up from a percent of the assets he secures on my behalf. With Harlow’s offer in the millions, he is losing a generous purse. “If I scale it back any more, we’ll bow out of the campaign altogether. Is that what you want, Cormack? Do you want to backpedal on dreams you’ve pursued since college? Let your dad win?” He throws in the father card, well aware I am defenseless to it.
