by Hazel Jacobs
“Too long,” Slate agrees. He’s smiling but it looks more like a grimace.
Sunlight flows through the lace curtains in the living room. Harper hangs back next to Martha, watching the reunion unfolding in front of them. Grayson looks like a younger, slimmer version of Slate—less muscle, less hair, less wild—though their faces are so similar that they could have been brothers instead of cousins. When he smiles Harper is reminded of those apes on the Discovery Channel who have learned to mimic humans but don’t understand what any of the movements they’ve learned mean. He smiles like he’s trying to convince himself that he’s happy. Or maybe that’s what Harper thinks because she’s seen Slate’s cheery, unguarded smile, and now that she knows what that looks like anything else feels like a cheap imitation.
Standing behind Grayson is a slim redhead wearing a dress just on the edge of too small. Her shoulders are slouched, but she perks up when she sees Slate.
“Kayla,” Slate says, stepping past his cousin and kissing the woman on the cheek. Harper thinks she catches a tiny movement from Kayla, turning her head as though she intends to catch his lips with hers, but Slate moves too fast. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s great to see you, Slate,” she replies, smiling radiantly at him.
Harper raises an eyebrow and smothers a smile when she glances over at Grayson. He seems to have no idea that his fiancée is eye-fucking Slate—he’s more interested in shaking hands with Peter. It’s that same formal, stiff handshake that makes Harper think that she’s sitting in on a business meeting. But Peter reaches over to clap Grayson on the shoulder and give him a warm smile. Much warmer than anything Harper had seen him give his son since she met the man.
“How’s work?” Slate asks a very general question, but the look on Kayla’s face would make someone think that he was asking about her darkest secrets and desires.
“Oh, it’s nothing interesting. Nothing like your work, you know. I’m so glad you could take time away from being a rockstar! It’s so good to see you.”
“You know I wouldn’t miss your wedding, Kayla.”
There’s the tiniest emphasis on the word ‘wedding.’ Just enough so that a keen observer would notice. Kayla’s smile hangs onto her cheeks despite her eyes drooping. They flicker over to Grayson, then stare meaningfully at Slate’s face, chest, and crotch.
“It wouldn’t be the same without you,” she says, her voice dropping into a low purr like she’s in a soap opera and this is her big scene with the forbidden love of her life.
Harper hastily turns her snort of laughter into a cough. That has the unfortunate side-effect of drawing Grayson’s attention to her.
“Slate,” Grayson says, reacting to Harper like she’s an adorable puppy that Slate brought home. “I thought you were kidding when you ticked plus one.”
“I never kid about bringing dates to weddings,” Slate says easily. He steps away from Kayla and comes around to stand at Harper’s side. “Grayson. Kayla. Meet my girlfriend… Harper.”
Harper feels his arm curl around her waist and doesn’t need to pretend to be happy about it. Martha, who was standing with Harper while Slate was being flirted at by his future cousin-in-law, perked up when Slate made that comment. Harper is cheered by the thought that Martha is already in her corner. Peter doesn’t seem to have even noticed that anything was weird about the situation.
“Harper, huh?” Grayson asks, bestowing one of his formal handshakes on Harper. His palm is sweating, and Harper is unsure of whether it’s from the heat or whether it’s just his general state of being. “Nice to meet you. Where’s your family from?”
Harper gives him the spiel—that she’s from Omaha, and her family is probably English—and he looks surprised that she’s not sure about it. Like there’s nothing in the world that should interest a person more than where their last name came from.
“Martha, do you think you could get us some coffee?” Grayson asks as he takes a seat in one of the couches.
Slate frowns at him. It’s the first time that he’s shown anything other than bland cheer since his cousin showed up at the house.
“Mom, you relax… I’ll get the coffee.”
“Oh, no. Slate you have to stay and fill us in on what’s happening in LA.”
“I live in New York.”
“Hey, Grayson,” Harper says loudly, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “Why don’t you tell me about your pension plans? Slate’s been talking them up since I met him.”
Slate shoots Harper a grateful look as Grayson’s eyes light up comically. Peter and Grayson settle in on two sides of one big couch while Harper settles herself in between them. The couch is hard and uncomfortable. Harper crosses her hands in her lap and allows herself to be inundated immediately with Grayson’s ten-year plan while Slate disappears into the kitchen. Martha and Kayla each take a seat, though Martha had made an aborted movement as though she’d meant to follow Grayson’s instructions anyway.
Kayla keeps looking Harper up and down. Harper can feel the other woman’s eyes on her while Grayson regales her—and the room at large—about interest rates and whatever else makes a pension plan important and interesting. Harper stops listening almost immediately, plastering on the mildly interested face that she uses in lectures at college.
The room smells of Kayla’s perfume. Peter keeps nodding along to Grayson’s hideously boring spiel, a look of pride in his eyes that Harper hadn’t known to expect. Slate had mentioned that his cousin was boring, but he never mentioned that his father was so amped about it as well. The longer that Harper sits between them, basking in the combined weight of their mutual admiration, the more she feels terrible for Slate having to see his father—who is so openly disapproving of him—faun over Grayson.
“Grayson is planning a development meeting in a few weeks,” Peter tells Harper, nudging her as though she should be impressed.
“That’s great,” says Harper.
Kayla looks bored. Harper can’t blame her. She keeps looking hopefully at the door to the kitchen, clearly wishing that Slate will return. Harper can’t blame her, again. When she had been confronted with Slate in all his well-sculpted glory, Harper had nearly had a malfunction, and she’s been openly flirting ever since. She can’t exactly judge another woman for doing the same thing. The willful ignorance of her fiancé just makes it all funnier for Harper. Martha watches Grayson and Peter talking each other up with a forced smile.
“Just need to take some time for the honeymoon.” Grayson winks at Kayla and Harper feels embarrassed on Kayla’s behalf.
“Where are you going?”
“Disneyland.”
Harper doesn’t say that she thinks Mickey Mouse might be a little less than romantic. She couldn’t imagine that a guy who can wax poetic about quarterly reports would be capable of anything more.
“So are you looking forward to the wedding tomorrow?” Harper asks, taking advantage of a brief pause in the conversation to give Kayla something to distract her.
Kayla looks over and flicks her hair over her shoulder at the same time in a move which makes Harper both envious and impressed. In the sunlight still streaming through the window, Harper can see delicate freckles sprinkled over the woman’s nose.
“Of course,” Kayla replies. Her voice is forced through her throat like she’s trying to put as much effort as possible into the words. “I can’t wait! Have you seen the backyard? It’s everything I ever dreamed of.”
“The backyard?” Harper asks.
“That’s where the wedding will be,” Slate’s voice cuts through the conversation and everyone turns to the door to see him standing with a tray covered in coffee supplies and a wide grin. He seems to have taken the time in the kitchen to recuperate some of his vibrant energy. “Harper and I only just got in, I haven’t had the chance to give her the tour yet.”
He sets the tray down on the table, waves off his mother’s attempts to help, and makes coffee for everyone. Milk for his mo
ther, black for his father and Grayson, and two sugars for Kayla. When he wavers over Harper’s mug, Harper nearly finds herself telling him how she takes it before she remembers that they’ve been ‘dating’ for a month and he should know how she takes her coffee.
She discretely catches his eye and mimes tipping her hand on an invisible cream jug. Slate pours her some milk. His fingers skate over the sugar bowl, Harper’s head twitches in the negative, and he casually reaches over the bowl of sugar to the spoons. He mixes her coffee and hands it over to her.
“Thanks, babe,” she says, giving him a wink. Apparently, they’ve settled on ‘babe’ for each other’s pet names.
Slate dips down to kiss her cheek. Harper lets herself smile at him. She lets herself look at him adoringly because she’s his girlfriend and she has that right. Kayla sips her coffee loudly while Grayson guffaws next to Harper.
“Never thought I’d see you so sappy, Cuz,” he says, and then he pauses for laughter. Martha and Harper oblige him with some awkward chuckles. “Maybe we should leave the decorations up in case you guys need them?”
If Harper had really been Slate’s girlfriend and they’d only been dating for a month, she’d be horrified right about now.
“Don’t scare Harper off,” Slate tells Grayson. He takes his own coffee—milk and three sugars, which makes Harper wince—and sits down on Martha’s armrest, slinging an arm over his mother’s shoulders and pulling her close in a half-hug. “I’m hoping to keep her around for a little while longer before she comes to her senses and leaves me for a powerlifter.”
“Never,” Harper says. She sips her own coffee and stifles a wince when it burns her tongue. “I prefer the yoga instructors. They spend less time in the sauna.”
Slate crosses an ankle of his knee while his father snorts derisively on Harper’s other side.
“I’m surprised you’ve stayed as long as you have,” he tells Harper. “Haven’t you gotten bored watching him beat his drums all day?”
“He breaks up the drumming sessions with meeting fans and giving to charity,” Harper says without batting an eye. “I’m never bored.”
Martha gently guides the conversation toward the wedding and Grayson immediately dives into the various ways he’s saved money for the weekend. Then Harper is ushered outside so she can see the backyard in all of its glory.
“Oh. My. God.” Harper can’t say anything else as she takes in the sight of Slate’s family backyard dressed up ready for the wedding.
There’s a massive, rectangular pool sunk into the emerald grass and a ring of old, healthy-looking oaks and completely unnecessary palm trees that are strung up with unlit fairy lights. They’ll probably look gorgeous when they’re lit up and twinkling for the reception dinner. Across the yard, past the intimate ring of tables with shining white table cloths and black wrought-iron chairs with matching white cushions on the seats, is an archway dressed with white flowers.
“This looks like a dream,” Harper tells Kayla.
The other woman has a soft smile on her face as she looks around. She graces Harper with that smile, and then Slate and then her fiancé. “I can’t wait,” she says. Her eyes glide meaningfully over to Slate as she speaks.
Harper makes a round of the garden with Grayson and Kayla, listening politely as the pair of them explain how much everything cost and where they bought it, while Martha and Peter observe from the back porch. Cooper runs around them with his tail wagging, but whenever he comes near Kayla her nose wrinkles and she dances out of his way. Harper pauses for a moment next to the pool. Slate sidles up next to her and slides his arm around her waist.
“Remember when we went to that concert and you said the fireworks looked like fairy lights?” he asks.
“Yeah, and you said that there’s no such thing as fairies.”
“I know, I didn’t mean to trample on your whimsy,” Slate replies easily. “But later tonight we’ll turn the lights on. You’ll get a kick out of it, I just know it.”
Harper leans over to rest her body weight against his side, thinking once again that they’re so easy together. They work so naturally that they can make up a backstory without even trying or thinking much about it, adding pieces to each other’s stories and weaving the web of their lives together. It’s as easy as taking a breath and letting it out again. It’s as easy as falling.
Speaking of falling… Harper eyes the pool and then looks at Slate’s white shirt.
“Do you have your phone in your pocket?” Harper asks.
Slate pats his pants. “No, why?”
Harper shoves him hard in the back and Slate only has the chance to let out a loud yelp of surprise before he’s falling into the pool. At the last second, he twists and grabs Harper’s arm. With a shriek, Harper tumbles in with him.
They both submerge with a loud splash. Harper feels the cool water immediately envelop her body, chilling her skin, sinking into her jeans and shirt with little effort. Slate’s hand on her wrist a warm reminder of the world above. She holds her breath and takes a moment to enjoy the weightlessness, her eyes tightly closed in case the pool is chlorinated, before Slate’s hand coaxes her back up.
Slate and Harper break back through the surface of the water. Harper gasps for air and she knows she’s got a huge grin on her face—and it only gets wider when she sees Slate, wearing an equally wide grin. His white T-shirt soaked and lovingly caressing every tattooed muscle on his torso. He’s as well-toned as she’d hoped. His pecs and abs bulge attractively as he gasps for air as well.
“You sneaky little shit,” he says, without a hint of annoyance.
Martha and Peter are both watching from the back porch, looking concerned but apparently recognizing that the situation is intentional. Grayson and Kayla are watching from the side of the pool—Grayson looks annoyed that his spiel was interrupted by the shenanigans, while Kayla gazes openly at Slate’s wet shirt.
“At least you had the pleasure of bringing me with you.”
Slate steps right into Harper’s space, wraps his warm arms around her, and kisses her forehead and dunks them back under.
The next morning, Harper wakes up in a bundle of sheets which smell like leather and chocolate, her face buried in Slate’s chest.
He’d offered to sleep on the floor, but Harper had shot that idea down in flames.
“Don’t be ridiculous, we’re adults we can share a bed.”
He’d given her a sly look. “Promise not to molest me in my sleep?”
Harper would have been lying if she’d said she hadn’t considered it. But there’s a difference between thinking about it and doing it. She’d thought about how she would feel if she’d made it clear that she didn’t want to sleep with someone, only to have them try something while she was sleeping. The thought made her a bit ill.
“I swear,” she’d said, completely serious, “I won’t molest you until you ask me to.”
He laughed at that. She’s starting to fall in love with that laugh.
But there’s still a part of her that stings at the thought that Slate is not willing to sleep with her. She’s never been so interested in a man before. She’s never wanted to throw herself at a man like this. The open way she flirts, the way she’s made it clear over and over that she would be down for anything Slate wanted, and to have nothing but a negative reaction? It’s a blow to her self-esteem.
When she wakes up, Harper takes a moment to enjoy the warmth of his body. They’d curled together while they’d slept, and Harper would feel guilty about that if she couldn’t feel Slate’s massive arm curled possessively around her waist, holding her against his chest. They’re fully clothed—sweatpants and T-shirts. Harper hadn’t brought pajamas because she hadn’t thought that she’d need them, but Slate had graciously given her some of his clothes. Grayson and Kayla had stayed for dinner the night before, and pretending to care about Grayson’s stories had exhausted Harper to the point where she’d practically collapsed into bed when she’d gotten the chance.
Harper cranes her neck a bit to watch Slate sleep. His brown eyelashes look delicate and sweet caressing his cheekbones, and his lips are pouted as though he’s dreaming of something annoying. His chest rises and falls gently beneath her head.
Pushing herself carefully out of his arms, Harper slips out of the blankets and trudges over to the shower.
“Harper?” a tired voice calls from the bed.
Harper turns to see Slate rubbing his eyes, looking adorable with his hair a mess and his lips pouted, though his sexy tattooed biceps are on display in the short sleeves of his T-shirt.
“Morning,” she says.
“Is it?” He looks at the clock and sighs. “Today’s the wedding, isn’t it?”
She nods. “I’m gonna take a shower.” She can’t help but add, “You want to join me?”
Slate sighs with exasperation. “You’re really testing my resolve here, Harper,” he says. “At least give me a few hours to wake up before hitting me with that kind of temptation.”
He stays where he is, though, so obviously she isn’t as tempting as he says she is. She tries not to show how much that stings.
“It’s an offer, not an obligation,” Harper says. She blows him a kiss. “See you in a bit.”
She steps into the en-suite and closes the door behind her. It is just as vintage/high-tech as the rest of the house—the décor is old-school country cottage, with ceramic frogs on the window and a decoupage doily on the toilet lid. But the shower is one of those dual-headed masterpieces that make Harper glad that she became an escort just so that she could experience them.
Almost as good as sex, she thinks when she strips herself bare, turns on the shower, and steps under the spray. Since there’s not a lot of sex happening this trip, I’ll have to enjoy this.
Harper doesn’t want to take too long. She quickly washes her hair and scrubs her body with the chocolate shower gel on the wall. It smells like Slate and she takes a moment to bask in the scent and pretend that he’s there with her, enveloping her, breathing her in with the same interest.