by Aven Ellis
“Harrison, that’s not true,” I cry, putting my hand on his arm. The second I touch him he angrily jerks it away and takes a step back from me. Tears fill my eyes. I put my hand down and swallow hard. “You know I believe in your intelligence. You know I do.”
“But that doesn’t matter to you if I don’t have a fucking college degree to prove it,” Harrison snaps.
“No,” I protest, feeling that I’m on the verge of losing everything now. “I’m embarrassed to admit I used to think that way. It’s how I grew up. It was expected of me, of Brandon, of everyone we knew in our neighborhood and went to school with. That doesn’t excuse my thoughts on a college degree, and I’m the first to admit I was wrong. Very wrong.” I take a deep breath and continue. “Don’t you see? Harrison, you are changing the person I am. You’re the one who is making me see things in a different light.”
Harrison stares hard at me. “And why am I different? Because I have 150 fucking million dollars in my bank account? Because I’m famous? Yeah, that probably makes the lack of education a little easier to swallow. If I were just a contractor we wouldn’t even be in the same room right now because you wouldn’t give me the time of day. Unless I was working for you, that is.”
His accusation slaps me hard across the face, and for some unexplained reason, I find myself wanting to fight back.
Harrison is worth fighting for, I realize. I can find the courage to speak up. I’m willing to fight for this man. Because in the short time I have known him, he has become my everything. And I won’t lose him over this. I won’t.
“How can you even say that about me, Harrison? Do you really believe I could be that superficial? I don’t care about your money. You know I don’t care about you being a superstar. And after that night at the Rattlesnake Bar, if you would have told me you were a contractor, it wouldn’t have mattered to me at all.”
“Bullshit!” Harrison yells, angrily swiping his phone off the kitchen counter. “You would have walked away and never looked back if I didn’t have that fucking degree and a white-collar-approved job. Because obviously I’m not ambitious or intelligent enough for someone like you.”
I feel him pulling back from me, emotionally and physically. Harrison is pissed off and shaken and I don’t know how to reach him. I don’t know how to make him believe me.
“So what happens when my novelty wears off?” Harrison continues. “Or when my hockey career ends and I’m a nobody with no professional future? Is that when you’ll regret overlooking the qualifications I’m lacking? Is it? Will you be just as disappointed in me as my parents are?”
I stop breathing as I absorb his words. I realize this is about more than me right now.
“This isn’t just about what I think, is it?” I say softly.
Harrison blinks. “What?”
“This is more than me,” I say, continuing. “This is about your parents, too. And maybe it’s about choices you regret as well.”
“Don’t fucking go there,” Harrison snaps, his voice shaking with anger.
“You aren’t the only one who can analyze people, Harrison,” I say calmly, praying with all my heart I can reach him. “I know this is more than me. I know this is.”
“No!” Harrison yells. “Do not make this about my family, Kylie. Do not. This is about me not being what you really want. In fact, I’m not sure what I want now, as far as we’re concerned.”
I gasp out loud. “What?”
“I’m saying we both need to think about this,” Harrison says, staring hard at me. “And if we should go any further.”
Tears spill down my face. “You aren’t serious,” I whisper.
Harrison’s eyes lock on mine. “I am,” he says firmly. “Because you need to be honest with yourself, Kylie. I don’t know if I can be the man that you need me to be. And I don’t know if I can continue being with you knowing this is how you really feel inside.”
Then Harrison storms out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.
I stare at the door, stunned. This quiz—this irrelevant, stupid quiz—has hurt him badly. It struck a nerve in him, and Harrison is so defensive and furious he can’t see straight. My honest answer—of how I used to feel—could be the thing that ends us right when we were back at a future of endless possibilities.
Suddenly all kinds of feelings are whipping around inside of me with fury. I’m hurt Harrison didn’t believe what I was telling him. I’m anguished that Harrison has unresolved feelings from his family that have just blown up in both our faces. I’m ashamed that I was a superficial idiot when I took that quiz and put value on something that has no meaning to me now, no meaning at all.
And with all of this swirling inside, I burst into tears.
I’m an emotional mess.
I pick up a large quilted leather tote bag and drape it over the mannequin’s arm. I’m in the front window of Boutique Dallas, putting together the pre-fall launch display celebrating our black and white collection.
Normally I’m in my zone doing this. It’s my big window, launching a collection, draping mannequins with gorgeous designer clothing in luxury fabrics to reflect a vision that will lure shoppers into the store.
But all I can do is blink back tears and try my best to swallow down the permanent sob that is lodged in my throat.
I haven’t heard from Harrison since our fight last night. Nor have I tried to contact him. I have no idea what he is thinking, or if he even wants to be with me.
And while I am dealing with my own emotional crisis, a lone paparazzo has been stalking me with a high-powered lens, taking pictures of me working in the window for the past half-hour. I feel utterly trapped. Violated. I keep my back to him the best I can, but I just want to be left alone with my misery.
I glance over my shoulder again. The paparazzo has given up on me. Thank God.
I move to the middle mannequin and pop the collar up on a retro inspired, white wool coat, and my thoughts immediately go back to Harrison. I feel my heart ache inside my chest at the mere idea of Harrison wanting to end things over this—
Suddenly I hear a rap against the glass window.
I jump, startled by the unexpected sound.
If it is that damn photographer I will kill him, I think. I whirl around, furious, but it isn’t a paparazzo looking at me.
It’s Harrison.
My heart stops. Harrison is standing still on the sidewalk, his aviators clipped on to his shirt collar. I draw a sharp breath of air as I see fear reflected in his deep green eyes. And the second I look into them, I know he is here to make things right. Harrison’s gaze has not left mine, and I know he is desperately trying to read me like I’m trying to read him right now.
I’m able to breathe again the second I realize this. Harrison motions that he’s coming inside, and I nod okay in return.
I climb down from the window, my heart hammering against my ribcage. I step on to the sales floor, and Harrison is walking straight toward me, a worried look on his handsome face.
I glance around. It is two-thirty in the afternoon, and the store is absolutely dead. Laurel is off today; Mona is helping a customer on the other side of the store; Bradley and Alyssa are up front and engrossed in conversation, as seeing Harrison drop in is not unusual at this point.
I look back at Harrison, who is now in front of me, and do my best not to burst into tears.
Harrison tugs on the brim of his University of Texas baseball hat and clears his throat.
“Kylie,” he says softly, his eyes searching mine, “I’m so sorry about last night. I promise you that our relationship will not consist of me storming out and coming over here to ask your forgiveness on a regular basis. I’m not like this. I’ve never been like this. But the idea of . . .”
His voice trails off for a moment and he looks awa
y. I watch as he swallows and turns back to me. “But the idea of losing you scares me to death. And that quiz—”
“Was done by a stupid girl with not a lot of life experience outside her own narrow world,” I say honestly, my voice shaking as I interrupt him.
“No,” Harrison says firmly. “That was about me being afraid I wasn’t enough for you, like I wasn’t enough for my parents. You were right about that, Kylie.”
I take a deep breath. “You aren’t just enough for me, Harrison,” I say quietly. “You’re everything for me. And there’s nothing that will change that.”
I watch as Harrison absorbs my words. Suddenly his face goes from anxious and worried to relieved.
“I’ll explain everything when we are alone,” Harrison promises. “But I have to tell you this now. I don’t deserve you, Kylie. I really don’t.”
“Good. Because I don’t deserve you either,” I say, smiling at him.
That does it. Harrison’s face lights up and he flashes me the smile that is mine, and only mine, to see.
“I think I deserve a trip to the penalty box,” Harrison says. “As punishment for my idiotic behavior last night. So there’s really only one solution at hand.”
“What’s that?” I ask, creasing my brow.
Harrison steps closer to me and puts his hands on my face. I breathe him in, his familiar scent washing over me; and I relish the feel of his skin against mine.
“I’ll pick you up after work,” he whispers sexily, tracing his fingers over my cheekbones, “and I will personally allow you to put me in the penalty box. For as long as you see fit as my punishment, that is. Because I have been very, very, bad, haven’t I, Kylie?”
Okay making up with my ginger Hockey God is going to be spectacular tonight.
“Yes, bad,” I manage.
“Atrocious.”
“Horrible.”
“Mistakes that should be rectified,” Harrison says, cocking an eyebrow at me. “However you see fit.”
Did Mona just shut off the air conditioning? Because right now it’s very hot in here.
“Sounds like endless possibilities are in play this evening,” I say smartly.
Harrison flashes me a sexy grin. “You have no idea.” Then he gives me a quick kiss on the lips. “I’ll be back in a few hours to pick you up. Now go finish your window.”
Then he turns and casually strolls out the door.
And I’m left with the utterly hopeless task of trying to focus on a display window when all I can think about is the endless possibilities that await me tonight.
Chapter 20
The Pop Quiz Question: How much do you know about your new boyfriend’s past?
A) Who cares? I live in the present.
B) I have asked him a zillion questions because I need to know everything about my new man.
C) When the time is right, he’ll share it with me.
“Harrison, when you said ‘penalty box,’ I have to admit I had something completely different in mind for this evening,” I say, smiling at him.
Harrison laughs as he holds my hand. He is leading me down the tunnel to a hockey-training rink, which he has reserved just for us this evening. When Harrison picked me up, he told me I had to change, so now I’m in my True Religion jeans, black T-shirt, and a women’s replica of Harrison’s Dallas Demons jersey, which is now my most prized possession.
“Why, Kylie Reed, you have quite the dirty mind, don’t you?” Harrison teases. I blush like mad in response and he laughs louder. “Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time for you to punish me later.” Then he cocks an eyebrow at me. “In any fashion you find appropriate.”
I laugh as he eases me on to the ice. “I like your style, Harrison Flynn.”
He laughs as we step on to the ice. “Be careful, Gorgeous Girl. It’s really slick.”
I carefully walk on the ice, holding Harrison’s hand in mine as he leads me a few steps over to an area enclosed on all sides.
“Now this here,” Harrison says, opening a door, “is the penalty box. I thought this might be a good place to talk about what happened last night.”
He leads me inside, and we sit down on the bench. He wraps his hand over mine and clears his throat.
“I haven’t really told you much about my parents,” Harrison says slowly, his eyes cast out over the vacant hockey rink.
I nod. I know they live in Cambridge, they’re involved in education, and they don’t approve of his hockey career.
Harrison takes a deep breath and squeezes my hand. “When I told you they work in education, that was an understatement, Kylie. They are professors. At Harvard.”
I feel my jaw drop as I stare at Harrison. They are Harvard professors? Suddenly everything about last night makes sense.
“My mother is a professor in the Department of Celtic Languages and Literatures, the only Celtic department in the United States,” Harrison continues. “My father is a professor in the Department of Classics.”
Harrison pauses for a moment. “They are brilliant, Kylie. They’re passionate about books and research and teaching literature. Sports are useless and irrelevant in their world. In fact, they’re horrified by what I’m paid to play sports.”
I furrow my brow. “So if they don’t like sports, why did they sign you up for lessons at age three in the first place?” I ask, as I remember reading that about him on his web page.
“I was a mess at preschool. I was wound up and acting out. I had an endless amount of energy. My parents kept enrolling me in children’s art and music classes to give me an outlet but that was an epic fail. I wasn’t interested in sitting still. So the preschool teacher suggested an athletic activity might be a way for me to get all this energy out.”
“And that is how you ended up in hockey,” I say quietly.
Harrison smiles softly. “Yeah. And I took to it immediately. On the ice I was free. The little boy who was forced to sit still and do things he wasn’t interested in could fly on the ice, to learn to stick handle, to feel the energy of skating hard and shooting the puck at the exact right moment to hit the net. From the first moment I stepped on the ice, it felt right. And I loved it. I still do.”
“So your parents,” I say gently, “they obviously saw you had a gift for hockey, right?”
Harrison sighs. “Actually, they were completely bewildered. Nobody in the family history had any sort of athletic skill. The coaches started throwing around words like ‘prodigy’ and they were like, ‘Whoa, this is just a way for him to get energy out. Not a career.’”
I tuck a lock of my hair behind my ear. “They thought this would be recreational for you.”
Harrison nods. “Yeah. Except I kept excelling and moving up the ranks. When the coach suggested I go study in Canada so I could live with a family there and pursue junior hockey, my parents went nuts. They told me absolutely not, I was staying at my prep school here. Then they told me no more hockey, it was time to focus on school.”
“Oh, Harrison, that’s not right,” I say, squeezing his hand in mine. “They didn’t encourage you to pursue the thing you were passionate about. You could have managed both with their guidance.”
“That’s the ironic part,” Harrison admits. “But when they said no hockey, you’re going down this path we’ve picked, I rebelled. Big time.”
“We both had paths chosen for us,” I say, reaching up and playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. “But you were strong enough to rebel. I just did what I was told,” I say, thinking of how my parents told me I was going to SMU, end of story, and even though my dream was Parsons, I never argued it.
“I don’t know if it was strong or stupid,” Harrison says, looking down. “But in essence I blackmailed them. I told them if they took hockey away from me I would purposefully f
lunk every class and humiliate them. They would be known in social circles as the Harvard professors with the idiot jock son.”
I swallow hard as I see the embarrassment flicker across his gorgeous face. Then he looks up at me. “I’m not proud of that,” he whispers, his voice filled with regret.
“Harrison, you were a kid,” I say, shaking my head. “We all do things we aren’t proud of. And hockey was your gift. You fought for it the only way you knew how.”
“I guess so,” he says quietly. “So then they said I could play hockey, but they begged me to go to college, play there and get a degree. Makes sense, right? Unless you are stubborn and a teenager and hear numbers like 50 million dollars being waved in front of your face. A college injury could have ended all of that in the blink of an eye. So I signed with the Demons when I was 18.”
“Harrison, I totally think you made the right choice,” I say honestly.
“Did I?” Harrison asks, his eyes searching mine. “Financially, yes, absolutely I did the smart thing. And I love playing hockey. I love everything about it—the excitement of figuring out how a play is breaking out, of hearing the crowd scream because you just shot the winning goal. Hockey is who I am, Kylie.”
“No,” I say.
“No?”
“You’re more than hockey. That is one part of the real Harrison Flynn. Because you aren’t always in the No.22 jersey. And that is the Harrison—”
Oh Jesus. I was about to say, “I fell in love with.” But that’s crazy. We have known each other for like what, two weeks? KNTGAG. Kylie Needs To Get A Grip.
“Yes?” Harrison says, his eyes locked on mine, waiting for me to finish that sentence.
“Um . . . that’s the Harrison I know,” I say, keeping my original thought to myself. “And that’s the Harrison I want to be with.”
“But Kylie, I’m not educated,” Harrison says simply. “What the fuck do I know about anything?”