Tentatively, Harper opened her lips and took a bite. When she reached up to wipe it from her mouth, he stopped her with his free hand.
“Hmm,” Trent murmured before leaning in to nibble her lips slowly. “Chocolate.” He breathed against her. His tongue brushed across her lips, teasing her with a sugary kiss.
She shivered as her mouth opened.
Trent let out a soft groan as his tongue brushed across hers. He tasted delicious and was soft and warm, a calm to the craziness in the rest of her life.
“Batter up.” The hammering on the door shook Harper out of her trance. She jumped away from him on the sofa. Outside the door, Cujo laughed.
“Fuck off!” Trent yelled and then groaned. “Sorry about that. Guess my five minutes are up.” He leaned forward to give her a shorter but equally mind-blowing kiss.
“Thanks again for dinner. I was beginning to dread the next few hours.” He brushed her hair behind her ear and stroked her cheek with his thumb for the briefest moment.
“My pleasure.”
“Mine too.” A grin appeared on his face. “I’ll walk you out.”
* * *
Trent loved Sundays. For one thing, Second Circle closed early. It was a little after six when he finally flipped the Closed sign and turned down the main lights to the studio. The televisions had stopped their flickering and the sound system was finally off.
A sigh of relief escaped him. The boys would think him pathetic if they knew how much these moments of silence meant to him.
For a solid hour, he pored through the week’s receipts and bank statements, made sure it all added up. Finance was not his favorite subject—he was never going to get an MBA—but Junior had taught him enough to manage his own books and never be taken advantage of.
The week had been good to the store. All the craziness meant more money rolling through, and more clients meant their fixed overheads were covered more easily.
The more the team’s reputation grew, the bigger some of the jobs had become. Over half of his current clients were repeats who wanted big pieces. Full back panels or sleeves.
The cash flow had made it possible too, for him to afford to do more free work in conjunction with the local rehab unit, the one responsible for his sister’s recovery. He remembered the moment Kit had walked into Junior’s shop with tears in her big brown eyes. She’d been fourteen, her dark brown hair still in pigtails, so unbelievably young, and his initial reaction upon seeing her crying was to wonder which asshole he needed to kill for breaking her heart. But then she raised her sleeve, showing him the fresh, red wounds, and the collection of silver lines that scarred her upper arm.
“Please fix them for me,” she’d whispered to him. His stomach lurched at the memory. He’d recognized the lines for what they were straight away. What he didn’t understand was what on earth could cause a sweet young girl from a good family to self-harm in that way. He’d pulled her to him, holding her tight as she collapsed against him, thinking if they just stayed that way, he could stop her from doing it again.
They’d gotten through Kit’s cutting as a family, learned about the group of seniors who made Kit’s daily life hell, and worked through the impact they’d had on her self-esteem. The rehab unit had given her the tools and skills to handle the challenges of life in a more productive way. And he’d promised Kit that once she was through treatment, he would be good enough and knowledgeable enough to help her cover the evidence of her pain, that silvery trail up her arm.
When the ledgers balanced, he closed the laptop and headed out of his office back into the studio. As he pulled on his jacket he looked around, remembering the day when they’d installed the new full-motion hydraulic beds. He and Cujo had gotten so drunk in celebration that they’d slept on them that first night. Now, Second Circle was way past the point of breaking even. Trent smiled at the thought of doing well enough to move into a bigger condo. Or maybe even a house with a garage where he could fix up muscle cars. Not that he had any time to spend on cars right now. The studio consumed most of his waking hours—and if the TV show took off, he’d have even less free time.
The picture of the studio’s opening day hung next to the alarm panel. None of them were looking straight at the camera. They were outside the shop. Cujo’s arm was draped over Trent’s shoulder, but he was looking around to say something to Pixie, who had her head thrown back laughing. Trent had almost forgotten that Cujo used to have longer hair. He’d been as shocked as anyone when Cujo had shaved his head to raise funds for the rehab unit. Trent, huge smile on his face, was looking over the top of Pixie’s head to Lia who, dressed as demurely as a fifties pinup, was flipping him the bird. After that shot, his mom had given up trying to get them all into a straight line saying cheese.
He set the alarm and locked up. His stomach rumbled. Dinnertime, and he doubted his little delivery angel was likely to drop by again. It felt like forever since he had seen her, though it had been only yesterday. She was working the late shift. Maybe if he got his shit together quickly he could fit in a gym session and grab a bite before swinging by to drive her home.
* * *
“You were right,” Harper told Drea as she cleaned the steamer on the espresso maker. Twenty minutes until closing. She prayed that nobody came in wanting a latte.
“I’m always right, Harper. About what this time?” Drea wiped down the counter. Joanie was still in the back, getting ready to leave, and the café was empty.
“About giving it a shot. I kissed Trent. Again. Twice.”
“You did not!” Drea squealed. “That’s awesome, Harper. How was it?”
“I’d be lying if I said it didn’t give me chills.”
“Does he have serious skills in the lip department? He looks like he would.” Drea tossed the cloth across the counter, landing it in the sink.
“Drea!”
“Come on girl, give. You’ve forgotten how to do this after all this time.” Drea pulled up one of the customer stools, facing Harper. “This is where you spill all the steamy details.”
“I’m not sure what to do…”
“No, no, no, no, no! This is not where we talk about the past, or what it means, or where it’s going. This is where you go all dreamy-eyed and gooey and tell me how your heart almost pounded out of your chest. How his hands drove you to the brink of distraction. How you almost had an orgasm when he kissed you. Do not deprive me of this moment. I’ve waited years.”
The expectant look on Drea’s face was too much. Harper couldn’t contain her laughter.
“Oh, come on! I’m serious. Do not make me get angry.”
“Okay, okay. It was hot. First time was on the beach after our date and the second time was yesterday at the studio. I brought him dinner.”
“LOGISTICS!” Drea groaned, banging her head against the table. “I don’t want freakin’ logistics. Wow. You really are useless at this. Why didn’t you tell me this last night? Wait, no … Tongues? No tongues?”
“Seriously. What are we? Twelve?” Harper stifled a laugh at the frown on Drea’s face. “All right! First time we were lying down in the sand and we made out and he was very excited, if you know what I mean. The second time, he kissed the chocolate from one of our famous éclairs off my lip, and yes, there were tongues. Smoking hot, mind-blowing tongues.”
“Did you get to size him up? How big?” Using her palms, Drea gestured varying lengths as she raised her eyebrows.
“Oh my … seriously, Drea?” Harper blushed. “I am so not answering that question. Did I not share enough already?”
“Share enough about what?” In walked the man of the hour. “You gonna tell me what put that color on your cheeks, darlin’?”
He got better looking every time she saw him. With his strong build, Trent certainly knew how to fill out a door frame. He wore faded jeans, black boots, and a black T-shirt that highlighted his beautiful tattoos to perfection.
His hair was still wet from a recent shower. It was a tough call. Which
was more spectacular? His deep, dark eyes or his playful dimples?
“Your ears must have been burning. We were just talking about you, sugar,” Drea offered, grinning impishly.
“DREA!” Harper shouted, feeling her cheeks running redder with embarrassment. “Seriously learn to filter!”
Both of them laughed at her.
“I came by to see if I could give you a ride home if you’re ready. If not, I can just hang out until you’re done.”
Drea waved her hands toward the door. “Go, Harper. There ain’t anyone else coming in, and if they do, I’m sure I can handle it.”
Joanie came out of the break room clutching a sheet of paper to her chest and handed it to Harper.
“It’s my Tom Sawyer assignment. I did what you said with the structuring and stuff, but I wondered if you would take a look at it for me before I hand it in. Be honest with me?”
Harper looked down at the character assessment of Aunt Polly, and smiled with pride. It was an interesting choice, as many people would have picked Huckleberry Finn or Tom Sawyer.
“I’d love to, Joanie. You made a great choice. I’ll bring it back to you in a couple of days, okay?”
After Joanie left and Drea disappeared into the back, Trent reached over the counter, using her apron pocket to pull her toward him.
“You gonna tell me what you were saying about me?” His voice was low and husky.
Not trusting her voice with an answer, Harper simply shook her head.
“Thought not,” he murmured before pressing his lips to hers. “Been thinking about doing this all day.”
The swinging door to the staff area opened and Harper swiftly returned to her rightful side of the counter. Trent grinned.
Drea deposited Harper’s jacket and purse into her hands. “Ditch the apron and leave before I fire your sorry ass. Now go. I promise I’ll lock up right after you if you don’t tell José.”
* * *
“How on earth did you end up with a Plymouth Road Runner 383?” Harper asked, rubbing her hands across the smooth dash with its chrome fittings. “This is one of my favorite cars.”
“It was my mentor, Junior’s. I apprenticed under him when I first started. He left it to me when the big guy called, and I overhauled it.” The pride was clear in his voice. “This is my baby. I love old cars. I don’t drive it all that often, to be honest.”
“You did all this? I’m so jealous. What is this—the original model? So that would put it 1968 to 1970, right?” Her fingers trailed reverently over the old dials.
“Yup, 1969. A car girl? You surprise me, Harper. Just how do you know so much about classics?” he teased.
“Reid. My brother. He was always fixing cars and bikes up. He worked in a shop that made custom bikes. He’d let me help him when I was younger. Promised he’d get me one of these.” Tears threatened as Harper trailed off.
“And did he?”
“No.” Harper shook her head. “One of those things we just never got around to.”
They pulled to a stop outside of her building. Trent turned off the engine, silencing the loud growl.
“You wanna know why I like this car?” Trent asked, pulling her toward him into the strong hold of his arms. “The bench seat. No one is making bench seat cars, and future generations will miss out on the opportunity to make out on the front seat without having to crawl over the hand brake.”
He lowered his lips to hers with a deep groan. Closing her eyes, Harper felt herself collapse into him, enjoying the sense of security that washed over her. He smelled of fresh soap and pure male, a deadly combination.
His tongue swept across hers, tentative at first and then claiming. She was burning for him. Drawing in oxygen was a challenge as her heart beat out of her chest.
Trent’s hand moved up her side and brushed over her breast, his thumb circling her nipple and sending tremors through her. Harper tingled in places that hadn’t tingled in a really long time.
“I need you, Harper,” he groaned, his husky voice spreading warmth through her stomach. She felt his hand slide up and around her neck, tilting her head slightly so he could get deeper.
The feel of his hand on her back, pulling her closer to him, was a startling reminder of her past. A cold chill skittered across her, an unwelcome intrusion. Harper tried to focus on Trent, his touch, and his smell, but his hand tightened in her hair, pushing her back to the past. The interior walls started to close in on her. He gripped her shirt, tightening it around her middle, his fingers dragging up her spine. The light-headedness she’d suffered on the tattoo bed returned, all the warmth seeping from her as quickly as it had come.
“Stop.” She scrambled quickly to the other side of the seat and grabbed for the door handle. Embarrassment engulfed her. Could she really be any more pathetic? She threw the door open, needing desperately to escape.
“Harper, wait,” Trent called out to her as she jumped out of the car. She heard his door open as he got out to come after her.
Running for the door, she grabbed her key.
“Don’t,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m sorry.” The door clicked shut behind her.
Her phone rang a few minutes later. “I’m so sorry,” she said, without looking at the caller I.D.
“Taylor?” she heard a female voice say. Hearing her old name was strange.
“Oh, Lydia. Sorry … I thought you…”
“How are you?” Her lawyer didn’t sound like her usual, in-control self.
“I’m fine. Are you okay?”
“I’m sure I will be. I don’t want you to worry, but I was carjacked tonight. I got out, but the guy got away and unfortunately, my laptop bag was in the car.”
Harper gasped. “Are you hurt? What happened?”
“Just shaken up a bit. The police think it’s probably just a random car theft—that the laptop was just a bonus for whoever took it and that it’ll get wiped clean and sold. But Taylor, I did want to let you know because your contact information, where you live now, is on there.”
“You think what happened has something to do with Nathan?” Harper’s heart pounded.
“I don’t know. I’d like to think not, but we both know he’s been able to make things happen from inside. I’m letting you know as a precaution. He isn’t out of prison so organizing this would be hard but not impossible. I’ve told the police about the confidential nature of the files.”
Harper’s hands shook. “You didn’t tell them about me, did you?” The idea that the police would end up with the laptop and find out where she was frightened her. Nathan had terrorized her; she’d been tailed at night, had received threatening letters and late-night visitors to her parents’ home. The police had pulled her over every time she went out in her car. The harassment left her emotionally vulnerable, unable to think straight or be alone.
“I didn’t mention you specifically. But I’m sure it’s on file that I’m your lawyer. You have people there you can count on, right?”
“Yeah, I do.” The lie stuck in her throat.
“Good. I’ll be in touch if anything else comes up. Take care of yourself.”
“You too, Lydia.”
Harper looked around her apartment, wrapping her arms around her middle. She was on her own. But that would make it easier to run.
Chapter Eight
She was a horrible person. The thought crossed Harper’s mind for the thousandth time that morning. Trent had done nothing more than she had thought she’d wanted. Sitting in a vintage muscle car with the hottest guy in town, she’d wanted him to drag her onto his lap and hold her tightly. Kiss her softly.
Instead, she’d freaked out as soon as his arms had wrapped around her. Sure, sitting here, looking into the third cup of coffee she’d made, it was easy to separate Trent from Nathan.
But in Trent’s car, in the dark, when she had finally released control and let emotion take over, she couldn’t distinguish the man holding her from the one who’d hurt her. The pull on her ha
ir, gentle as it had been, had confused her. And the pressure of Trent’s hand on her back reminded her of both men. Her past and present had become one jumbled mess.
She picked up her phone and then put it down, tossing it onto the thrift store table she’d refinished herself. Would he even want to talk to her? He probably thought she was freaking crazy.
Coward. That’s what she was. Trent had told her she was brave, but she wasn’t. She avoided everything. She’d avoided the aftermath of the trial by running. She’d avoided any future run-in with Nathan by hiding a thousand miles away under an assumed name. She’d avoided having to face him by sending a victim impact statement. And she was avoiding Trent now.
It was time to accept responsibility for her future. Avoiding wasn’t going to work in her new life, and there was no time like the present to fix it.
Harper gathered her work things and headed to Second Circle. Hopping off the bus a few stops early, she meandered the boardwalk, taking the time to calm herself. The sea breeze soothed her nerves. She recalled how the high-pitched squeal of the cicadas had scared her when she’d first arrived. Now the sound was synonymous with the waterfront that she loved.
There had been moments after the attack when Harper had thought she would never get warm again. The cold Chicago winter had added a freezing layer around the cold shell she’d been wearing. Therapy had been doing little to crack through the defenses she’d put up, and her body had been slow to heal. As soon as the doctors had declared her physically healthy, she’d used cash and the bus network to make her way south to warmth.
Harper lifted her face, enjoying the feeling of late spring sunshine on her skin.
The boardwalk was her favorite place. Not that she lived too close, but it was a short hop on the bus. She’d run or walk a couple of miles on Sunday afternoons, daydreaming of taking a leisurely stroll along the stunning Atlantic Ocean in the lingering light of day with someone special. A surge of warmth flooded through her as she saw the spot where she and Trent had sat to talk a few nights before. Maybe there was still hope for them.
Nerves spurred by adrenaline, Harper approached Second Circle. Lia and Trent were outside, leaning on the window, engaged in animated conversation. Her feet turned to lead. She struggled to move forward, her brief bloom of confidence wilting faster than a flower out of water.
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