“Just say whatever you’re thinking.”
She shrugs. “Looking forward to having my house back, that’s all. And eating junk all day. See ya.”
“Hey!” I shout, grabbing her wrist.
Harper stares down at my hand, so I let her go.
“Sorry. But can’t we at least talk about this like…”
“Adults?” she huffs. “Go on, say it.”
I lift her chin, and the broken look in her big blue eyes stings so bad.
“That’s not what I meant, Harper. I know you’re an adult. And I’m sorry about last night.”
It kills me to see her bottom lip quiver.
“Want some advice?” she asks. “Might help you when you run away to London.”
Keeping my composure, I nod. “Sure.”
“Women don’t like rejection,” she says. “Especiallythree times.”
Fuck. I would do anything to make this different. But wishful thinking never helped anyone.
“Maybe I don’t like you rejecting my eggs,” I joke.
Harper walks to the counter, grabs an egg, and stands in front of me. Then she crushes it into my blue shirt, and I watch the yolk bleed through her fingers.
“Oops,” she says. “I think that one’s a little undercooked.”
Shaking my head, I unbutton my shirt and toss it to the floor.
Harper’s eyes glance down my chest, but I lift her chin.
“I don’t know how many women I’ve slept with,” I tell her.
She flinches. “Are you trying to make this worse?”
“No,” I sigh. “And it would help if you just shut the hell up for ten seconds.”
Harper’s blue eyes grow wide.
“I’m forty-two years old,” I add, stroking her cheek. “I havea lot of history with women. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but money helps.”
“Please just stop talking,” she mumbles, her eyes glossing with tears.
“It’s probably in the hundreds, Harper.” I rub my thumb over her bottom lip. “Do you trust me?”
She reluctantly nods.
“Good,” I say. “Then believe me when I tell you that you’re the sexiest, smartest, funniest, most irritating woman I’ve ever had the good fortune to spend time with.”
A tear leaks from her eye and she mumbles, “Not good enough naked though.”
I shake my head. “If you were standing here, you’d know how wrong you are.”
“Doesn’t feel like that.”
Tucking her hair behind her ear, I take a moment to stare into those stunning eyes.
“Remember Bouncer?” I ask.
Her eyes flicker with memories. “My pet Labrador?”
“Yup,” I say. “You loved that little pooch. But what happened when he was two?”
She gulps. “That was before dad made all the money. He got too big for our little house. And we didn’t have a garden, so we had to let someone take him.”
“Yeah,” I say, tracing my finger along her ear. “You cared about him and?-“
“Ilovedhim,” she says.
Fuck.
“Okay. You loved him. And so you wanted the best for him, no matter how much it hurtyouto let him go.”
Harper blinks out another tear, and I fucking hate myself for doing this to her.
“Now do you understand?” I whisper.
“Yeah.” Harper bites her lip and steps back into the doorway. “I understand you just compared me to a dog.”
I groan and throw a hand to my forehead. “You’re doing this on purpose. You just want to fight.”
“Correct,” she admits. “Because maybe that’ll make it easier to watch you leave.”
Our eyes lock.
“Unless you love me like I loved Bouncer?”
My body floods with adrenaline and my fingers coil into fists.
I’d never hurt her. It’s myself I want to punish right now.
This moment feels more intense than being shot at.
Andthis is exactly why I don’t do this shit.
“Sure you don’t want eggs?” I ask, turning back to the pan.
“Coward,” she mutters, but I pretend I don’t hear.
“You going to tell your dad about what I told you? About the snitches keeping tabs on you at college?”
“Haven’t decided yet,” she says, her voice growing quieter as she walks away.
“Okay.”
I hear the front door open, but I know she’s looking back at me.
“Relax, Mr. Collins!” she yells. “I’m not going to tell him.”
“Thank you,” I whisper as the door slams shut.
Scraping the fried egg into the trash, I toss the pan back to the stove and spot something on the floor next to the table.
I bend to pick up the flier and frown.
“Columbia University Gallery. Featuring the artwork of students including…”
Scanning down the list, I smile when I spot the name
Harper Reeves.
“I promise I’ll make this up to you,” I say.
“And I don’t break promises.”
Three hours later, I’m standing in the middle of Duncan Maguire’s living room. The truck driver who tried to molest Harper looks different in the daylight.
He looked like a monster the night I caught him at the gas station. But now, as he stares up at me from his sofa, he looks like a lost little boy.
“Anyone mentioned your ear?” I ask him, gesturing at the gunshot wound I inflicted.
He shakes his head. “No. Not seen anyone. Just been waiting for you to arrive, sir.”
“Don’t call mesir,” I snap, lifting my gun.
The living room and sofa are covered with plastic sheets. It makes cleaning the blood simpler, and I never leave evidence.
Glancing around the room, I spot a family photograph on his mantelpiece.
“What happened?” I ask, nodding at his wife and kids.
“Lost my business,” he mumbles. “Started drinking when I got the trucking job. Lost my way. You know how it is.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Been there. Don’t condone what you tried to do to Harper though.”
“I know. My wife took the kids to her mother’s last year. I don’t blame her.”
Duncan’s legs shake when my two colleagues leave the room.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.