by Hazel Jacobs
Kayla nods, the disappointment clear. Slate winks at Harper, who blows him a kiss and shoves her grin down. She wants to lean over and kiss him on the cheek but the man is too tall, and besides she doesn’t want to push her luck. But she does want to push her luck. But she doesn’t. The different emotions warring in her mind make her feel like she’s got whiplash. She gives it a moment of thought before leaning into Slate’s side and is rewarded by the feeling of his arm wrapping around her waist.
He wants me too. He just won’t let himself have me.
Kayla’s eyes zero in on the hand around Harper’s waist, and Harper doesn’t let herself get petty about that. She knows that Kayla is staring down the barrel of an awful marriage. She can’t begrudge the woman who wants to feast her eyes on a man like Slate. Though, honestly, Harper thinks that Slate would look far better in his leather jacket and jeans.
Someone clinks their glass and everyone turns to see Peter in the corner with an empty champagne glass in his hand and a knife banging against it. Slate’s muscles flex under Harper’s fingers.
“Sorry to interrupt everyone,” he shouts. His cheeks are flushed and he has a sparkling look in his eyes as he gazes fondly just to the left of Slate and Harper—at Grayson and Kayla. “I know the toasts are coming soon, but I wanted to get in early before everyone starts singing Grayson and Kayla’s praises.”
There is a smattering of applause. Grayson looks pretty pleased with himself. Kayla rolls her eyes and Harper is probably the only one who sees it. Harper gives the woman a nod and Kayla, after a beat, returns it.
“Grayson is my nephew…” Peter continues, “…and I couldn’t be prouder of him. He’s grown into a fine young man and he’s been lucky enough to attract a beautiful wife. I know he’s going to keep making me prouder.”
Harper feels Slate tense up next to her, but when she looks over she sees that he’s smiling. His eyes are crinkled at the corners and he looks for all the world like he’s having the time of his life. If it weren’t for the tense muscles beneath her fingertips, Harper wouldn’t even know that Peter’s words were affecting him. Martha is at Peter’s side. She’s watching Slate as closely as Harper is.
Someone shouts, “Kiss,” and Grayson and Kayla engage in what is probably the most awkward lip-lock that Harper has ever witnessed. When they pull apart the crowd hoots and hollers.
Someone shouts for a kiss again. Harper frowns and looks around, trying to figure out who they’re shouting for, but all she can see is people pointing at Grayson and Kayla. Or slightly to the right of them.
At Slate and Harper.
Grayson still has his arm around Kayla, but he’s got this weird smirking grimace on his face that makes Harper wonder if he’s trying to be encouraging.
“Come on, Slate,” he shouts over the calls from the crowd. “Give the girl a kiss. She’s the first one you’ve ever brought home. Let us have a little fun.”
Slate’s arm is even tenser. He leans across Harper as though he means to protect her from the view of everyone still watching them. Harper can feel the eyes of everyone on them. Martha looks amused, Peter looks deflated as though someone has stepped on his moment. Harper can’t even tell who started the shouting, but now everyone has joined in. Grayson has a point, after all, Harper is the first girl that Slate has ever brought home. She’s been getting curious looks all night, though mostly she’s stayed close to Slate and away from the various relatives who are trying to pretend that he’s not there.
She pulls him closer and leans up to whisper in his ear, “Come on, babe,” she says, feeling a rush of heat go through her because she knows she’ll probably never get the opportunity to be close to him like this again. “Don’t be shy. It doesn’t suit you.”
He looks down at her and gives her a grin, bearing his teeth. Then he leans over and wraps both of his arms around her waist, hauling her up for a kiss.
Harper throws her arms around his neck, letting Slate lift her off of her feet with the enthusiasm of his kiss.
A dim thought in the back of her mind tells her that she should have expected it to be like this. Slate kisses like he does everything else—like he’s having the time of his life. There’s a smile on his lips and she can feel the way they curl up at the corners. He tilts his head just so and draws her tongue out of her mouth and into his, sucking gently, causing her to curl her toes and be grateful that he had the presence of mind to pick her up because her legs would have given out from under her by now.
Not one to be outdone, Harper makes sure to kiss him back as hard as she can. To pour all of the desire she’s felt for him since the moment she met him into that kiss. It’s an exhilarating, intoxicating moment and Harper knows without even giving it much thought that this kiss has ruined her. It will never be like this with another. She will never be this attracted to someone else. She sinks her teeth gently into Slate’s bottom lip and feels a growl in his chest, which is pressed up hard against hers.
The howls from the crowd bring Harper back to the present. It’s a big response from a group of people who had been content to ignore Slate until then. Harper and Slate reluctantly part, only to see the men and women in their audience shouting, waving their hands, and applauding loudly. Harper is definitely blushing, both from desire and embarrassment. And when she looks at Slate she sees the sheepish grin on his lips, which are still pink from their kiss. His pupils are blown-out again, and she can see the curls in his suit jacket from where she’d gripped the starched material too tightly.
Oh fuck, she thinks as she fondly flattens the material. I shouldn’t have enjoyed that so much.
But she did, and there’s no going back now. All she can do is tuck herself under Slate’s arm and wave shyly at his gathered relatives. She can see his mother in the crowd, still looking amused but with a much more thoughtful turn to her gaze. Peter’s got his eyebrow raised as though he’s surprised but not unpleasantly so. Harper realizes that Slate’s cologne has invaded her senses, and now all she can smell is chocolate and leather.
It’s only when the crowd stops applauding and the people begin going back to their conversations that Harper realizes they may have upstaged the bride and groom. She turns to see the pair of them still watching Slate and Harper. Kayla’s got a look in her eye like she’s trying really hard to stay calm and her smile is hanging by a thread. Grayson looks like he wants to fist-bump Slate and luckily chooses to resist that impulse.
“That was quite a kiss, man,” he says. “You’d think you two had never done that before.”
“It’s always like the first time,” Slate says, his arm never wavering from Harper’s side. “It’s what makes her so special.”
This time, Harper does kiss his cheek. She has to get on her tip-toes to do it, and she only manages to graze his jaw, but it’s something. She’s allowed to now, she reasons. She just kissed him in the middle of a crowded room, and she can still feel the kiss from her lips to her fingertips.
Slate says the goodbyes and Harper is barely listening. Then he’s steering her away to a private corner next to one of the trees on the outside edge of the tent.
When he looks at her, Harper shivers. There’s heat in that look and longing as well. He looks her up and down like he’s seeing her for the first time.
“That was quite a fucking kiss,” he says. His voice is low and hot like melted caramel. “Wasn’t planning on doing that.”
“I wouldn’t have done it,” she says, as earnestly as she can manage while still trembling with want. His head is ducked down and it would be so easy for her to lean forward and claim his lips again. “But everyone was shouting—”
“I know.”
“Are you… you’re not angry, are you?”
He smiles. It’s soft and calm and Harper feels herself relax. “Of course not.”
“I know that you don’t—”
“I’m not angry, I promise.”
“Okay. That’s good. I don’t want you to be,” she says. Then a thought occu
rs to her and she leans forward again. His eyelids flutter and his nostrils flare, is he smelling her perfume? She hopes that he is. It’s her favorite. A light vanilla to match his chocolate. “Did you… enjoy it?”
He grins at her with a raised eyebrow. “Are you asking for a review of your performance?”
“No! No. I’m just… curious,” she says. She’s blushing, goddamit. She had wanted so badly to be cool about this, but apparently the ease with which they flirt with each other does not extend to asking him for his honest opinion of their kiss. “I enjoyed it,” she adds boldly. “But I knew I would.”
His eyebrow all-but disappears into his fringe. “You knew?”
“Of course. Look at you. No one can be that hot and not be a good kisser.”
He just keeps grinning, like what she’s saying is the most amusing thing he’s heard all week. Then he leans forward so he can speak directly into her ear, his lips brushing the shell of it and making her draw a sharp breath. “I fucking loved it.”
Harper’s fingers twitch with the need to reach out and touch him. But nobody is shouting for them to kiss. So she doesn’t feel like she can.
“Well, you just let me know if you want a repeat performance,” she tells him. “Really. Literally… any time. I’m up for it. You just say the word.”
And now she’s babbling, but it’s worth it for the fond look in his gaze.
The sight of him there, haloed by the fairy lights in the tree above them does strange things to Harper’s heart. Even out of his element, wearing that suit that he clearly despises, and surrounded by people who offer waves but otherwise ignore him, he’s still beautiful.
I can help with that, she thinks. Not the out of his element part, or the suit part. But maybe the other part.
She reaches out and grabs his hand.
“Come on,” she says as his expression turns confused. “We’re going to schmooze the shit out of this wedding.”
And that’s exactly what Harper does. Dragging a bemused Slate behind her, Harper proceeds to introduce herself—or get Slate to introduce her—to every one of his relatives. It takes some time. She starts by the bar, where his maternal grandmother is enjoying a strong scotch and talking the bartender’s ear off about her late husband’s colon cancer. She transfers the discussion to Harper, who manages to steer the conversation to Slate’s charity work and the story he’d made up about how they’d met. Slate just stands next to her, looking increasingly flattered in that shrugging, half-embarrassed way of his. And when Harper is satisfied that the old woman is proud of her grandson—or at least looking at him with more interest—she moves on to the next relative.
It goes on like that for most of the evening. Harper pulls Slate along, meeting family members who had snubbed him, and smiling politely while she listens to their stories before steering the conversation to how wonderful Slate is. Since Slate’s not the one talking himself up, it seems more genuine, and if Harper seems a bit over the top about it most of the people in the room will put it down to her being hopelessly in love. They’d all seen that kiss, after all.
“Slate is so great with kids. Did you know his band actually goes to high schools to help with music classes? It’s usually a surprise so the press doesn’t swarm the place…”
She’d read the article on the plane, saw the photos of him with the young drummers, and heard him talk about it with sparkling, excited eyes.
“One of the writers for the Hamilton musical… you know the one, it won all those awards… said that the lyrics to Black Lilith’s songs are near-genius. When a Pulitzer Prize winner tells you you’re good…”
Harper read that little tidbit on Twitter as she was getting ready for the wedding.
“The charity they work with has raised millions. It’s changed so many lives…”
“Oh, I love yoga. Did you know, I tried to get Slate to come to yoga with me, but his band is planning a world tour right now, and he couldn’t really take the time…”
“I’d love to help you with the crossword. Slate, you’re a musician, what’s a four letter word for a percussion instrument?”
By the time dinner has started, Harper all but collapses in her seat with a flush of triumph. She’s spoken to half the room and she’s already eyeing off the other half. Slate is at her side, leaning over to speak to an uncle who had apparently been unaware that Slate’s band was nominated for a Grammy. They’re talking about all of the previous Grammy winners who have died horrible deaths—a morbid topic—but Slate seems to be really into it and his uncle has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the subject. It had apparently never come up before. Probably because the uncle had hardly ever spoken to him before.
Dinner is a delicious lamb stew with fluffy white bread. Harper eats hers quickly, listening in on Slate’s conversation with half an ear as she gazes around the room.
I need a cigarette, she thinks.
Instead, she taps Slate on the elbow and mimes a drinking motion. You want a drink?
He sighs and nods, still half-listening to his uncle. Harper wonders if she’s imagining the look of gratitude in his eyes, or if her mind is exaggerating it. Either way, she pushes herself to her feet and realizes belatedly that she doesn’t know Slate’s drink order. She can’t ask. She decides to just bite the bullet and get the man a Red Bull.
The bar is pushed off to the side of the room. Since most people are still eating, there’s only a couple of red-faced men standing around clutching scotch and sodas. That’s one thing Harper was surprised about—all the drinks are free. Not just the champagne and soda. But then again, with Peter and Martha footing the bill why wouldn’t they be? They seem like the kind of people to go all out.
“Red Bull?” she asks the bartender when she makes her way over. The man nods. “Can I get one of those and a water, please?”
He gets to work. Harper’s eyes start to glaze over as she watches him. When she feels a hand on her elbow, she turns to see Martha standing behind her in her elegant cream dress.
“Hi, Martha, did you want a drink?”
“Soda water?”
The bartender nods and starts pouring that one too. He’s a no-nonsense man, and after half an evening of schmoozing, Harper can appreciate someone who doesn’t fuck around or talk unnecessarily.
“How are you enjoying the wedding?” Harper asks as Martha sidles up to join her on the bar.
“Oh, it’s lovely. Peter is really happy with it.”
Harper waits a beat, expecting Martha to continue. But she doesn’t. “And… are you happy with it?”
“It’s a big success.”
That’s not really an answer, but Harper realizes it’s probably the most she’s going to get out of the woman, so she nods. “Absolutely,” she replies.
Martha surveys the room and sighs. She looks older under the soft light. When her eyes land on Slate and his uncle chatting over at the fifth table, she smiles. “Do you know, I don’t think I’ve seen Slate enjoy himself so much at a party before.”
“Really?”
“Hmmm…” She gives Harper an appraising look. “I saw you, walking around. Making sure people speak to him.”
For some reason, the fact that she’s been found out makes Harper blush. “I… uh—”
“I’m glad,” Martha continues, looking at Harper like they’re sharing a secret. “You might have noticed that my son doesn’t get along with his family as well as I would like.”
“Then why…” Harper stops herself. She wants to ask why Martha isn’t the one taking her son around the room. Why Martha isn’t the one initiating conversation, and then segueing into a story of Slate’s, giving him the chance to shine.
Martha seems to read the question in her eyes anyway. She sighs again and it’s softer but more pained. She leans over so she’s speaking almost right into Harper’s ear.
“Has my son told you his real name?” she asks.
Harper frowns at her. “Not yet,” she replies. “But I’ll get it out of h
im eventually.”
“You mustn’t push,” Martha says. Her eyes drift back over to where Slate is sitting with his uncle. “There was… well, Slate has made some mistakes. And so has his father. And so have I. I think I’ve made more mistakes than anyone in this family. When Slate was a teenager, he and his father had a bit of an argument, and when he started calling himself ‘Slate’ at first his father refused to indulge him. None of the family indulged him, but then he refused to speak to anyone unless they called him Slate.”
Harper raises her eyebrows. She’d had no idea. If she’d known, she might have changed her tactics a little bit—both when it came to ingratiating Slate with his family, and when it came to finding out what his name is. But when she looks over at the table where he’s still sitting, waiting for his drink, she sees that he’s smiling. So the tactics she’d used were successful no matter what.
“He just refused to talk to you?”
Martha nods. “He didn’t speak a word to his father or me until we called him Slate. It took his father nearly ten months to accept it.”
“And… how long did it take you?” Harper asks.
His mother sighs again. She seems to do a lot of that. “I would have accepted it a lot sooner, but Peter was determined…” she pauses then glances over at her husband. Peter is on the other side of the garden clapping Grayson on the back and looking at him like he hung the moon. Harper hasn’t seen the man speak to Slate all day. “It’s difficult, you know? Loving two men who are so stubborn.”
Harper doesn’t know how to respond to that. She knows how she would like to respond, but she’s not being paid to antagonize Slate’s mother. She’s being paid to impress her.
“What made Slate want to change his name in the first place?” she asks instead.
Martha smiles. It’s a soft, almost fond smile. “I’m sure he’ll trust you with that soon enough,” she says. “He already adores you.”
Harper feels a blush creeping up her cheek. “He’s only known me a… a month.”
People are starting to turn toward the main table, where the bride and groom have finally made their way to sit down with the bridal party. Martha notices and sighs once more. She reaches over and gives Harper’s hand a squeeze.