by Aven Ellis
I swallow hard and avert my eyes from his.
“Were you scared? Did they get aggressive? Because if they did, I will fucking shut down on the media,” Harrison says, his words coming out quickly, almost as if he’s afraid of what I’m going to say. “Two can play this game. And if they bother you, I will become the most un-accessible asshole athlete on the face of the fucking earth.”
I turn and look at him, and I know he’s serious. Harrison would totally trash his reputation—his hard-won, well-known persona as an accessible, fun, intelligent interview—to protect me.
And I won’t let him do it.
“I’m fine,” I say, moving my hands to his chest. “It’s done. And next time I’ll remember to smile.”
Harrison’s deep green eyes search mine. I can tell he’s trying to make sure I am telling the truth. That I’m okay.
And as I’m here, with his arms now locked around my waist, I’m telling him the truth. I’m okay right now. He doesn’t need to know anything else.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling at him. “So are you still coming over tonight?”
I see Harrison visibly relax. He grins at me, that beautiful smile that he shares only with me.
“Are you kidding? Of course. I’m dying to see how you are going to color code and organize my life with dozens of files and twenty different-colored markers.”
I begin laughing, and he does too.
“I’m seriously going to do that, you know.”
“Oh I know. I’ve seen your room, remember?”
I laugh. “Wanna come over around six? I can make dinner.”
Harrison cocks an eyebrow. “Can you?”
“Okay, so maybe I know a really good place where we can order Thai takeout.”
Harrison laughs. “Wicked good.” Then he gives me a peck on the lips. “I’m going before I have to spend $10,000 to keep talking to you. Not that I wouldn’t do that, of course.”
I really do forget that Harrison could drop $10,000 in a clothing store and not even notice the money is gone. While I get excited if I find a $5 bill left in a pair of jeans when I’m doing laundry.
“No, no need for that,” I say, although the idea of him hanging around longer is very, very tempting.
“All right. I’ll see you tonight,” Harrison says, taking my hand in his and squeezing it tightly. “And remember, if something bothers you—”
“I’m to tell you,” I finish for him. “I will, Harrison.”
“Okay, I won’t bring it up again,” Harrison says, flashing me a blinding smile that makes my heart jump. “Later, Gorgeous.”
“Bye,” I say. I watch him walk through the store, my heart pounding inside my chest.
When he exits, I exhale and turn back to my mannequin. I did tell him the truth, I think. I will tell him if something bothers me.
But only if it is really serious and worth bothering him about.
And with that thought in my head, I get back to work.
“So what I have here,” I say, flipping open a binder I have created for Harrison’s home renovation project, “is everything to organize for the renovation project. This—”
“Where did you get this?” Harrison interrupts.
I furrow my brow. We’re sitting on my sofa, and I’m showing him how I’m going to organize both the home renovation and the home reconstruction projects.
“The binder? At an office supply store.”
“No,” Harrison says, shaking his head. “This fabric. This is a Spanish print.” He taps the outside of the binder, which I have covered in a Spanish-tiled print fabric.
“Oh,” I say, smiling at him. “I found some Spanish prints online. I ordered it for the binder after I saw your house. Just to make it more personable, you know.”
Harrison’s eyes light up. “Funny, when you think of me you thought of Spain. Most people would have slapped a Dallas Demon sticker on the front and called it a day.”
I watch as he absently rubs his jaw line with his fingertips.
“That’s not who you are to me,” I say quietly. “That’s like the smallest part of you I know.”
“Well, you might not get to know that part this season at all, depending on the labor meetings.”
I pause. Harrison is bringing this up. I decide to tread into those waters and see how he reacts.
“Maybe you can look at this as an opportunity,” I say cautiously. “If you’re locked out, you can explore some things you are passionate about. Like psychology.”
Harrison shakes his head. “That ship has sailed, Kylie. I never even took the SAT.”
I pause for a moment. I can’t even imagine that, not taking the SAT because college just wasn’t going to be an option. Everyone I know has taken that test and gone to college.
But Harrison has a completely different life experience, I think, studying his profile. This doesn’t mean it’s wrong, or that he has somehow underachieved, because nothing could be further from the truth. Harrison just took a different path to become the intelligent, generous, talented man sitting next to me.
“Good God, you really did color code this,” Harrison says, flicking through the binder tabs and changing the subject. “And there are pockets for documents, swatches—” Harrison raises his eyebrows. “I’m going to have to carry around swatches?”
I burst out laughing. “Yes. You’ll have loads of swatches. And paint samples, and countertop samples.”
Harrison picks up the other binder I did—in the same print, but the colors reversed, and flips through that, too. “Impressive work.”
“Thank you,” I say, happy that he likes everything I’ve done.
“I do have to say, however, that I find your second choice of fabric uninspiring. Boring, actually.”
I stare at him, and Harrison grins.
“You’re awful,” I cry in mock anger.
“Am I now?” He laughs.
“Yes!” I giggle. I reach over to push him on the arm, but he quickly closes his hand over my wrist and pulls me closer to him.
I inhale his scent, the warm spices and vanilla that linger oh-so-sexily on his golden skin, and gaze up into his eyes.
“I find myself suddenly inspired,” he says sexily, “to do this.”
Then his mouth is on mine, his lips easing mine open in a slow and sensual kiss.
Mmmmmmm. I never want to stop kissing this man. Never, never, never.
Suddenly I hear a key in the door lock. I immediately push myself back and rub my fingertips over my lips.
“Gretchen is back,” I say, picking the binder back up and shifting it on to my lap to look busy.
Harrison grins mischievously at me. “This is like being in high school. Should I give you a hickey so it looks like we were really going at it?”
“Shut up!” I cry, my cheeks instantly growing hot at the thought. Harrison starts laughing, and I toss a throw pillow at him just as Gretchen steps through the door. She is saddled down with canvas grocery bags and a look of surprise passes over her face as she sees Harrison with me.
“Oh!” Gretchen says, stopping. “Hi!”
“Let me help you,” Harrison says, getting off the couch and immediately walking over to her. I watch as he gallantly takes all her bags out of her hands. “I’m Harrison.”
“Gretchen,” she says, amazement seeping into her voice. “And thank you.”
“Sure.” Harrison easily lifts the heavy totes into our small kitchen. “Do you have more downstairs? I’ll get them for you.”
Gretchen nods. “I do, but really I can go get them—”
“Nah, I’ll be happy to get them for you. I hear you are responsible for feeding my girlfriend so it’s the least I can do,” Harrison
says, flashing me a brilliant smile as he says “girlfriend.”
Oh God, I am so falling head over heels for this man.
“Um, okay, that’s really nice of you,” Gretchen says, raking a hand through her short blonde hair. “Spot 22, Black Honda Pilot. Trunk is still up.”
“Got it,” Harrison says, moving around her and dashing out the door.
Gretchen then turns to me, her hazel eyes wide. “Holy shit, Kylie. He’s fucking hot!”
I suddenly have all the maturity of a 16-year-old girl with her first boyfriend.
“I know!” I squeal.
“And you’ve slept with him.”
Now my face feels like it is an inferno.
“Shhhhhhhh!” I say quickly.
“Why? If I slept with any guy that freaking hot I’d be screaming it on my Connectivity page every day for a year,” Gretchen declares. “He is so . . . so . . .”
“Athletic?” I supply helpfully.
“Yes. His arms are like huge,” Gretchen declares. “And his chest . . . Holy shit, I have never seen an athlete up close like that but he is a god.” Gretchen pauses for a moment. “I never thought I would say this to you, because I know you were like obsessed with him, but Harrison is so much hotter than Prince Harry.”
“Harrison is my Prince Harry,” I say honestly.
“And he’s so . . . nice,” Gretchen says, shifting gears to his personality. “Like he didn’t even wait a second before getting those bags from me.”
I beam in response. “Harrison’s like that. He’s so thoughtful and gentlemanly . . . I’m so lucky.”
The door opens and we both shut up. Harrison has his muscular arms full of heavy bags, but it looks like it is nothing for him to carry them.
“That’s everything,” Harrison says, sweeping past us and setting everything down on the breakfast bar.
“Thank you so much,” Gretchen says, smiling at him.
“Of course,” Harrison says easily.
Gretchen moves behind the counter and begins putting things away. “Have y’all eaten yet?”
“We’re going to order Thai,” I say.
“Nonsense. I’ll make something for us,” Gretchen says.
“No, Gretch, you don’t have to—” I start, but Gretchen cuts me off.
“I can do Thai. Or a lovely sautéed chicken over some angel hair pasta.”
“You still like to cook on your days off?” Harrison asks, leaning against the countertop.
“Yes, but I cook really simple at home. Let the flavors shine through is my theory,” Gretchen explains, putting some milk in the fridge.
“I need to Connect with you on Connectivity,” Harrison says, moving over to the coffee table and picking up his cell. “You can give me some cooking tips. I’m sending you a Connection request. I’m under Wesley Harrison by the way. My alter ego.”
Gretchen chats easily back with him about cooking and my heart is so full it could just burst. Harrison is engaging my best friend, asking her about herself and her interests, and listening to what she has to say. He’s getting to know her because she’s important to me. Which once again speaks volumes about the amazing person Harrison Flynn is.
You’re such a good man, I think, watching him. And I’m so blessed to have you in my life.
So wine and beer are poured, and the three of us talk easily as Gretchen cooks. We share an amazing meal of chicken and salad and pasta, an evening filled with conversation and laughs and one that is just perfect.
I clean up—with Harrison at my side helping—after dinner and then Gretchen goes back to her room to watch TV. As I’m putting dishes away, Harrison picks up the floral accordion file on the countertop.
“What’s this?” Harrison asks.
I put the last plate in the cabinet and shut the door. “That’s my future file. My decorating ideas, baking recipes, travel destinations—all stuff I want to do someday.”
“Can I see it?” Harrison asks.
I nod. “Sure, but when you look at decorating, you won’t see any ideas for the home renovation project. We need to do that neutral, so the seller can see themselves in the home.”
Harrison removes the sheath of plastic-covered pages under my ‘Kitchen Décor’ tab.
I watch as he sits down on a barstool and begins flipping through them. “Is this really a blue stove?”
I move to the barstool next to him and take a seat. “It is. I love that robin’s egg blue against white cabinets. It’s retro and different and the color is just so cheerful. That’s what I want in my dream kitchen—a place of comfort and vibrancy. Where I can hang out with my family and smell the scent of brownies baking in the oven. It makes me happy to dream of it, actually.”
I’m going on about this stove and my dream and suddenly I feel Harrison staring at me.
I feel like an idiot and clear my throat. “Sorry. I know that was a rambling answer to the stove color question.”
“I like your passion about it,” Harrison says. Then he taps his finger over the picture. “Let’s do it.”
I furrow my brow. “Do what?”
“Let’s make your kitchen come to life,” Harrison says, running his fingertips along his jaw line as he studies my kitchen pages. “We’ll use your vision for the renovation, Kylie.”
“Harrison, no. It’s too quirky,” I say. “I don’t want you to lose money on your investment that way.”
“We’ll say it’s a home personally imprinted by me,” Harrison says firmly. “And that will be the big selling feature.”
“But it’s not you,” I say honestly.
“I want to see you complete your vision,” Harrison says, taking a lock of my hair and brushing it behind my ear. “You have all these dreams and ideas in your head and in plastic covering. I want to bring them alive for you. Not in the future, but now.”
My heart is thumping inside my chest. I see his eyes burning with belief in me. Belief in my dreams, even the ones I carefully cut out of magazines and held in a file for safekeeping.
“You’re serious,” I say, swallowing hard.
“I want to build this dream with you,” Harrison says. “Down to the vintage drawer pulls.”
I don’t trust myself to answer without crying so I nod.
“Yes?” Harrison asks.
“Yes.” I whisper back.
“Wicked good. All right, what else do you have in here?” Harrison goes flicking over the rest of the tabs and stops. “Pop Quizzes? What’s this?”
Okay. Now I’m embarrassed. “Um, I like taking quizzes to get a sense of my true self.”
Harrison lifts an eyebrow at me. “You need a quiz from some women’s magazine to tell you who you are?”
“They’re insightful,” I protest.
“Riiiiiiight. Okay, let’s see.”
“No!” I laugh, trying to rip the folder away.
“No, no, let’s just see what we have,” Harrison declares, grabbing the quizzes and standing up so I can’t get them. “Oh, here we go. ‘What your cheese says about you.’ Ah, yes, I’m going to see who you really are from this one.”
Gah! I jump up, trying to snatch them from his hand, and Harrison laughs harder.
“Give them back,” I say, laughing.
“Jackpot! ‘What you want in a future husband,’” Harrison says gleefully.
“Oh God, don’t read that,” I cry, burying my face in my hands.
“Oh I absolutely will read it,” Harrison declares. “Need to see how I measure up here, Ms. Reed.” He clears his throat. “‘Number One: Is a sense of humor important to you?’” Harrison glances at me and then back at the quiz. “Ah, good choice, Kylie. You circled ‘yes’.”
I smile proudly at him, and he winks at me.
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“Number Two,” Harrison says, continuing. “You meet a man you like but he doesn’t have a college degree . . .” Harrison’s voice trails off as he reads the question aloud.
Oh no. Oh God. I feel nothing but panic sweep over me.
“Harrison, I—”
“‘. . . He doesn’t have a college degree,” Harrison repeats over me. “How do you feel about this? A. Doesn’t matter; it is the person who counts. B. Depends on the circumstances as to why he didn’t pursue an education. Or C. This is an automatic deal breaker. I could never be with someone who didn’t have the intelligence or desire to pursue their formal education.’”
I begin to shake. Harrison is staring down at the quiz, and then looks at me with nothing but hurt in his eyes.
“So C is the answer you circled, Kylie,” Harrison says quietly. “And if this quiz reveals your true inner self, then you really don’t want to be with a loser like me, do you?”
Chapter 19
The Pop Quiz Question: Uh Oh! You have done something that has hurt your new boyfriend. How do you deal?
A) Be straightforward and calmly apologize. If you are sincere, it will blow over.
B) Profusely apologize over and over, then get him a card or little gift to show him how much you care.
C) Panic.
Oh no. I see the pained look on Harrison’s face. Fear grips me. I have to undo this. I have to make him understand that he has changed everything about what I thought I wanted—
“I told you I wasn’t playing a game with you, Kylie,” Harrison says, his voice full of hurt. “But are you playing one with me? Is this a fucking game to you?”
“A game?” I choke out, stunned by that accusation. “What do you mean, a game?”
“Do you just want to see what it’s like to date a dumb jock? Because according to the quiz that reveals what your inner self really wants, I don’t measure up in your eyes.”