by Holly Hart
“You must be Skye,” she says, shooting me the subtlest of winks out of the corner of her eye. It’s almost too much to take. She’s acting like a woman my age, not a ten-year-old! But I guess she’s her father’s daughter, in more ways than one. “Pleased to meet you.”
My hand jerks up, and I have to make a conscious effort to force it down. There’s no way I’m shaking hands with Harlan’s daughter…
“So you’re the famous Poppy I’ve heard so much about,” I say, playing along as though we’ve never spoken before.
For the first time, Poppy acts like the child that she really is. “Really?” She squeaks, shooting a look at her dad. “You told her about me? Daa-ad!”
Harlan grins. “Only good things, I promise,” he says. “Come on – let’s sit down.”
I can’t stop my knee from jangling under the table. I don’t usually have a restless leg, but I don’t know how to stop it right now. I feel like so much pressure is riding on this one meal – basically my entire future with Harlan.
He loops his arm around my shoulder, pulls me in tight and whispers into my ear. “Relax,” he says softly. “She loves you.”
Poppy’s ears prick up. “It’s true,” she grins back – obviously eavesdropping – and completely unashamed about it. “I am relaxed and I do.”
My cheeks flush red with mild embarrassment. I can’t believe how precocious this young girl is. I was nowhere near as mature, calm, or composed at her age as she is now.
I feel like I’m at a job interview. In truth, this meal is way more stressful than any sit down with a future boss, because I only get one shot at this. Either Poppy likes me, or she doesn’t. If she doesn’t, that’s it…
“So, Pop,” Harlan starts, finally brushing the reason why we’ve come for lunch. “I wanted to ask you something. Skye did as well…”
Poppy lays her cutlery against her plate with a flourish. The tinkling sound it makes rings out like a bell, signifying – to me at least – the end of my relationship with Harlan. My throat clenches.
“We don’t want you to feel any pressure at all,” Harlan continues. “And I know that this is a lot to ask, and–”
Poppy grins. “Yes.”
“–And that it’s just been us, you and me, all these years since your mom died. But, we wanted to know if–”
“Dad,” Poppy groans, tipping her head back and shaking it furiously until her hair flies in a cloud about her face. “Didn’t you hear? I already told you – yes!”
Harlan blinks twice in quick succession. It’s not often that I see my boyfriend – or whatever I’m supposed to call him – flummoxed, but this is one of those rare times. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. His daughter is a chip off the old block.
“But you didn’t even hear the question yet,” he says.
Poppy rolls her eyes. “Dad, it’s obvious,” she says with all the frustration with adults’ comprehension that a ten-year-old can muster. “You want to know if I’m okay with Skye moving in with us. And I told you already. Yes.”
“You’re serious?” I blurt out. “You’re not playing with me?”
Poppy shakes her head, smiling mischievously. “Nuh-uh. It would be nice to have a girl to live with. Dad’s okay, I guess… but he’s terrible at braiding my hair …”
I turn back to Harlan with very real surprise on my face. Really, though, I’m just doing my best to hide my shock from Poppy.
“You braid?”
Harlan shrugs, looking bashful. “Not that well, apparently.”
The rest of the meal disappears in a flash. It feels like I blink twice, and Harlan’s already paying the bill. I feel like I must be living inside a dream world. Surely it’s not possible to be this happy?
I half expect someone to turn a corner at any minute and tell me it was all a joke, a reality television show. But the longer it doesn’t happen, the longer the rug doesn’t get pulled out from underneath me, I slowly begin to realize that this is no television show.
It’s real.
I get to keep Harlan for the rest of my life.
“Race you to the car!” Poppy yells. She power walks to the restaurant’s front door, and the second it’s polite to do so, she breaks into a sprint.
I start after her. “Relax!” Harlan says for the second time today. The second time this meal. “Look, Stan’s out there. She’ll be fine.”
My heart thuds in my chest. It’s strange, I’ve only known Poppy – in person, at least – for a few minutes, and yet I’m already terrified for her safety. I wonder if this is what being a parent is all about.
Harlan grabs me by the wrist and tugs me gently back as Poppy nears the waiting limousine.
“There’s one last thing,” he says – his face more solemn than I’ve seen it in a long while. It’s as if he’s struggling to figure out how to get out the words. I realize that whatever he wants to tell me – it must be serious – because he’s not acting like the Harlan I’ve come to know and love.
“Spit it out,” I grin.
“It’s–” he chews his lip. “It’s about your father.”
My stomach tumbles. I feel like I’m on a runaway roller coaster, speeding from one of the happiest moments of my life, straight down to one of the worst.
“What about him?” I groan, hiding my face in my hands. “What’s he done now?”
“Nothing serious,” Harlan assures me, holding my chin and staring at me with those glittering, ice gray eyes.
“I promise. But I wanted to ask you something. A friend of mine from the service, he couldn’t handle the bad dreams, the PTSD. I guess that’s what they call it now. He didn’t have a sexy psychiatrist to fix him,” he grins reassuringly at me.
“Instead he turned to alcohol and pills – whatever he could get to take the edge off his fears – to get him to sleep at night. Anyway – he ended up homeless–”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, cutting across Harlan’s story.
“Don’t be,” Harlan says, squeezing my hand. “I got him off the streets, and found this rehab program for him to enter. It’s coupled with this new experimental drug trial, and the early results are out of this world.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
It’s as if I’m seeing the first glittering of light at the end of the tunnel – but I don’t want to get my hopes up. I’ve had them dashed against the rocks of my father’s alcoholism so many times before.
“It’s a residential program,” Harlan says. “With a 90% success rate – if they can stick out the first month. I’ve made some calls, and your father has a place. If he wants it … that’s all.”
Harlan looks at me with a combination of expectancy, and a hint of anxiety. He looks like he’s wondering whether he has overstepped his bounds.
I fly towards him, pressing my lips against his, and kiss him fiercely. It’s as if I’m in a vacuum, and Harlan’s mouth is my only source of life, of oxygen. I don’t care about Mabel’s customers seeing us, not anymore.
“Yes,” I whisper, “a thousand times, yes. How the heck did I find a man like you, Harlan? I can’t believe you’d think to do something like that for me. Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”
“Any time,” he grins, letting out the tiniest reassured sigh. “Seriously – I was worried I messed everything up somehow.”
“You?” I choke, tears welling up in my eyes.
I wipe them away, ashamed at my weakness. It’s just, I’ve never felt anywhere close to being this happy. It’s like every dream I ever had has been realized. It’s not the money, not the trinkets, not the fancy cars or expensive artwork on the walls of Harlan’s expensive penthouse.
It’s none of that. It’s just, him. Him and Poppy, the life he’s built for the pair of them – and now for me.
And then I do something completely, utterly, unbelievably crazy. My lips move before my brain has a chance to pull them back.
“Can I ask you something, Harlan?” I say, voice cracking as I hear my o
wn audacity.
“Always,” he grins. “Shoot.”
“I know this isn’t supposed to be how it happens, but I – I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life with anyone else–”
“That’s good to hear…”
I frown at him, and he presses his hand over his mouth, zipping it tight. “I’m serious. You made me happier than I’ve been since I was a kid, since before all of this started. So I want to know something. Will you–” I choke, then power forward on a surge of energy that wells up from out of nowhere.
“Will you marry me?”
Harlan’s eyes flare with shock. He looks at me, stunned. His mouth opens and shuts – a bit like a goldfish. But the sexiest goldfish I’ve ever seen…
But for all that slippery sexiness, Harlan is still stunned into silence. It might well be the first time in his life he hasn’t been able to reach for an easy joke.
And suddenly, I’m at a disadvantage. I don’t know where that request came from. I’ve known Harlan for what, six weeks? This is just lust, not love – surely.
No.
My jaw sets with determination, because I know the truth. I know myself. Whatever Harlan’s response, I know I wasn’t wrong to ask. He changed my life. He sacrificed for me when no one else would, and when he didn’t have to. So whatever his decision, even if it breaks me, I’ll understand.
Even so – my anxious brain stammers and stutters to fill the empty silence. “Not now, I mean,” I say nervously.
“But some time. Someday. It’s just… I don’t want to spend my life searching for any other man. I found him. I love you, Harlan, and nothing’s ever going to change that.”
Harlan takes a pace towards me, holds one finger up and presses it against my lips. I flinch, anticipating the only word I can imagine him saying: no.
But he doesn’t.
“This –” he says, turning his head to one side curiously, “Isn’t supposed to be how it works. I’m supposed to ask you, not the other way around …”
My eyes fix on his. I don’t see anything other than those glittering, caring, gray orbs. I try to predict what he’s going to say – how he’s going to let me down, but it’s impossible. He’s a sphinx.
“Just tell me,” I say, unable to conceal the stress cracking my voice. “Put me out of my misery, already.”
Harlan leans towards me, his forehead wrinkling. “You think it’s going to be that bad,” he winks. “Marrying me?”
This time it’s my eyes’ turn to flare with shock. Even when I proposed to Harlan, part of me – most of me – didn’t expect him to say yes. So now, I’m shocked into silence.
“That’s a yes,” he growls, removing his finger from my lips and replacing it with his own. He kisses me again, again not caring about the startled looks from the assorted diners behind us. “I’m just annoyed I didn’t get to ask you first…”
So that’s it.
My feet fill with an unbelievable lightness, my stomach is filled with butterflies. I don’t care what happens to me now. I don’t know what lies in my future. I don’t know if I’ll go back to my job, or just spend the next decade traveling the world with Harlan and Poppy. Most of all, I couldn’t care less if the medical board finds out I had a relationship with a patient.
I’ll sign whatever disclaimer I need to sign, because I’m not Harlan’s therapist anymore.
I’m his fiancée.
Part II
The Chase
One virgin.
Two weeks.
Twenty billionaires.
She can run, but she can't hide...
The Chase. It takes place every year. If you're not invited, you'll never even know it exists.
It's a game - a Chase - entered only by the world's richest and most powerful men.
And one, lone, solitary woman.
A virgin.
Winner takes all. Literally.
But our prey isn't as innocent as she seems - she's CIA trained, and kick-ass strong.
And she gets paid $250,000 for every day she evades capture.
Sounds simple, right?
If only it was.
When I entered, it was because I was bored of easy lays and easier women.
But suddenly Cassie is back.
She's the girl who stood me up at prom - who I've spent my entire life proving wrong.
And the girl I never heard from again.
But Cassie's not a girl anymore. She's most definitely a woman.
And maybe she's not just the one who got away...
Chapter Thirty-Two
1. CARSON
I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down at the 1,500-foot drop just beyond my toes and thinking very hard about jumping off.
Under other circumstances, it would be breathtaking: the Italian Alps positioned against a clear azure sky, the dappled surface of Lake Garda in the distance, the red tile roofs of the villas in the town. If I had binoculars, I’d be able to make out the jagged fingers of granite pointing up from the valley floor below me. As it is, I have to imagine them. I’ll be seeing them up close soon enough.
It’s not a situation your average thirty-year-old billionaire playboy finds himself in, I’ll admit. One might well ask why a guy with more money than he could ever spend, more women than he could ever sleep with, and less body fat than most men could ever hope for, is standing here, of all places, contemplating what I’m contemplating.
The answer is simple: I’m bored out of my fucking mind.
The wind caresses my cheeks and I turn my face up to the diamond-hard summer sun. I’m starting to sweat under this outfit, which is kind of gross. No point in putting this off any longer.
I fill my lungs with clear mountain air and leap off the cliff. I have to make sure I clear the outcropping right below me—wouldn’t want to clip it and end up going ass-over-teakettle all the way down. That would make for an incredibly ugly corpse.
As I fall, my body naturally tilts forward into a dive position. I travel about forty feet in an instant, then I spread my arms and legs wide. Time to embrace the inevitable.
The motion allows the billowing fabric under my arms and between my legs to catch the ambient air, slowing my descent velocity by about eighty percent and pushing me forward, away from the mountainside and toward the lake. The so-called “wingsuit” carries me on natural air currents at a 2.5:1 angle of descent. That means that for every meter I drop, I gain two and a half meters moving forward. That’s important math, because I’m going to attempt something ridiculously dangerous, and I’d really prefer to live through it.
As I glide over the rooftops of Sirmione, the town on the south shore of Garda, I lower my arms several inches to reduce my angle. Easy? Hell no – it’s tougher than it sounds when you have several thousand pounds of air rushing up at you.
In the distance I can see Isola del Garda, the island where St. Francis of Assisi founded a monastery in the thirteenth century. I doubt old Frankie would approve of my current lifestyle, but I’ve got more important things to worry about.
The surface of the lake is rapidly filling my field of vision, but my goggles are polarized to keep the reflected light from blinding me. I need every sense on high alert right now to make sure that I don’t come in at the wrong angle. Too steep and I risk smashing head-first into the immense stopping power of the water. Too shallow and I’ll come in too hot, which means I might not be able to slow myself down before I hit the side of the boat like a bug on a windshield.
Timing here is everything.
Still, it would be a hell of a way to go, wouldn’t it?
The coolness of the water kisses my face as I draw parallel with the surface of the lake. Raising my arms again lowers me closer to the skin of the lake. If it wouldn’t completely fuck up my trajectory, I’d reach down and run my fingers through the cool wetness.
I feel like Superman.
In the distance, my target comes into view: a catamaran anchored about a mile off shore. As I draw
closer, and lower to the lake, I finally make out silhouettes of people on the deck – still tiny, like ants.
According to the incredibly detailed math that went into my computer simulation, that’s my cue to drop one last time. I silently thank every crunch and sit-up as my abs strafe the surface of the water, providing the friction I need to slow my forward momentum and begin my long stop.
After several seconds, I lower my legs and arms, and the water pulling against the fabric yanks me backwards, hard.
My teeth grind as the bow of the catamaran fills my field of vision, growing until I can see Maksim Orlov grab his head in his hands and hear him shout “Look out, you idiot!”
The stress on my joints is painful, but I can handle it.
Just.
I don’t spend hours a day in my gym with a giant Swedish personal trainer just to rock a tank top and dance to Europop. That’s just a side benefit. No, I’m all about functional strength. And really, what could be more functional than wingsuiting off a thousand-foot cliff?
I come to a full stop no more than ten feet from the boat. I release the handles on my arm wings to keep them from dragging me down into the depths and pull my goggles up onto my helmet.
My breathing is already starting to slow and I can feel the adrenaline ebbing out of me, leaving me faintly cold, even in the Italian summer heat. I grasp the rungs of the ladder and pull myself up, knowing that within minutes, the thrill of the experience will be all but gone. As usual.
It seems the further I push myself, the more I have to keep pushing to maintain the excitement.
“You are the crazy son of my bitch!” Maksim hoots as he clasps my hand and pulls me onto the deck. As always, his comical Russian accent and mangled English make me grin. And, as always, he’s surrounded by girls.
The latest additions to his posse are bikini-clad British tourists we met at a club last night, looking to act decidedly un-British for a couple of weeks. They swarm me, wide-eyed, passing me around in a hug train.
“That’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen,” says Joanna, a statuesque blonde who’s straining the confines of her bathing suit. She’s a little unsteady on her feet, thanks to the cosmopolitan in her hand and the baking afternoon heat.