by Kira Blakely
Harper is the only woman who has ever filled this crater in my chest and she just walked into my resort after 10 years.
One look from her still makes me hard in two seconds flat.
In high school, I followed Harper around like a dog wanting a bone.
But I was too much of a di@k to treat her the way she deserved, and now her guard is up.
She can hate me all she wants. We’re drawn together like magnets.
And my instincts to possess her are fu@king savage.
This time, she’s mine.
Chapter 1
Harper
Shimmering tarmac filled the window’s view as I felt the roller-coaster drop from sky to terra firma at the Miami International Airport. I’d been practicing my deep breathing as I lost count of how many times we’d circled out over the Atlantic, waiting our permission to land. By the time the plane taxied to the jet bridge, I’d managed to relax my knees and give myself permission to contemplate a future again. Each time, I swore I’d never fly again, and yet, there I was.
I let the others disembark first; it just seemed easier. Reaching into the overhead, I pulled down my Louis Vuitton knock-off carry-on bag. I checked the tag for the fourth time—Harper Filkins—yes, that was me. With wobbly knees, I guided myself toward the exit, grabbing seat backs to steady my drunken sailor gait. How do I get myself into these situations?
I wanted to deny knowing myself as I heard my voice ask the attendant at the door, “Miami, right?” He nodded slowly, eyes wide, as though acknowledging an idiot. I felt the urge to dig in my pocket for a bus token. I’m really losing it. I knew where I was, but it wasn’t sinking in.
The airport terminal was a thick stir-fry of languages and colors. Vivid hair, huge hoop earrings and Hawaiian print shirts swallowed my attention. I moved down the vaguely familiar concourse with the general current of bodies. As hoped, they led me eventually to the luggage carousel. Mine was easy to spot; knock-offs seldom survived the baggage handlers. Sure enough, my new JC Penny pink lace panties were peeking out of the mangled zipper. I quickly grabbed the bag, tucked in my unmentionables and surveyed the crowd to catch who might have seen them. No one seemed interested, and I felt a moment’s disappointment that maybe I’d wasted the last of my available credit on the Penny’s card.
My less-than-ideal financial situation was responsible for my circumstance. The alternative to accepting the nanny position with the Bonhams had been starvation while sleeping in a cardboard box. The adage, “location, location, location,” seemed particularly appropriate, considering my box would have graced downtown Cleveland. I mused that being lost in the Bermuda Triangle had its benefits, when faced with Cleveland.
I had a degree in computer science and had done some freelance programming after college. Then came the job; the one I figured would net me six figures long term. That had all gone to hell when Cleve-Mobile’s CEO, Steve Tabbott, flew off to an island somewhere with the company checkbook in his pocket. He’d made it for almost a month without being caught. When the paychecks began to bounce, people questioned his prolonged vacation. That and when the power was shut off due to non-payment. Laptop batteries only last so long.
Steve and I had become good friends, very good friends. People gave me the stink eye until they realized I was going out the door with them.
I followed daylight and was eventually shoved onto the sidewalk next to the passenger pick-up lane. Scanning the curb, I spotted a limo with its driver wearing a bored expression. He was leaning against the front bumper, ankles crossed and calmly holding a small blackboard with my name on it. I managed a half-hearted wave and headed toward it.
The rear passenger door burst open unexpectedly and a woman with too-black hair popped out, frantically gesturing. “Harper! Harper! Hurry! We’ve already been told to move on!” she shouted, gesturing for me to move faster. I felt like I was reporting for a prison term as I smiled and reached her. “Oh, so glad you’re here! We’ve been driving in circles, haven’t we, Fred?” Fred must have been the driver.
“I know the feeling,” I muttered and the slender arms with bangle bracelets grabbed at me. There was nothing to do but climb in. As hard as I might pray, there was no way the fates would let her be anyone other than my new employer.
“I hope you don’t mind that we picked you up. How lucky we are that you’d just decided to move back to Miami! Imagine the coincidence!”
I could imagine it very easily. Cleve-Mobil had given me the confidence to take a lease on an expensive apartment, max out my credit cards and I was still paying off my degree. That’s when Steve had decided to see the world. Over-extended, I was combing the job boards when I spotted a nanny position in my hometown. The job felt wrong, but the location was comforting and they were financing the whole thing. I talked myself into applying and the result was sitting next to me in a designer sundress, heels that could harpoon a whale and so much perfume that my eyes were watering. I recognized new money when I saw it. They were flashy, loud, and squandered Ben Franklins like salt on popcorn.
The driver, Fred, loaded my bags in the trunk and soon we were off, skimming the highway on our way to the Keys. Bernadette was chattering as if calling a horse race.
“Dougie, he’s eight and a little high-strung. Not in a bad way,” she threw in and watched my reaction from the corner of her eye. “He tends to overreact a little bit, and we’ve consulted with the doctors. They tell us just to let him have what he wants; he’ll get over it in time.”
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
“Then there’s Katie. She is six, very smart. She takes after her father. She is our explorer, always asking questions and her middle name should be ‘Why.’”
I took a deep breath to combat the rising panic. Maybe the younger kid I could work with.
“You and your family live permanently at Utopia?” I asked, referring the very exclusive resort to which we were now headed.
She nodded. “Ripley inherited some money from some old-maid aunt in England. We had no idea she was loaded…” She quickly snapped her mouth shut. It was obvious she’d left off, “Or we would have gone to visit her years earlier.”
“How wonderful it must be to live in such a beautiful place,” I commented, hoping it sounded like a compliment.
She picked up the strand of black beads collaring her neck. They were the size of golf balls and made her look like Wilma Flintstone. Nodding in agreement, she continued, “Well, Ripley likes to take little trips and wants me along. We think it’s better the children have a more permanent home,” she pointed out as if keeping children in a hotel room indefinitely gave them roots. Perhaps I could understand why they had behavioral issues.
“Now, you do understand I don’t have a teaching certificate,” I told her firmly. I think I almost wanted to get rejected at the last minute. After all, I was back in my hometown. Surely there was another job for me somewhere.
“Oh, yeah. I’ll just hire a tutor,” she threw in casually, as if she’d just decided to order in pizza for dinner.
I said nothing more and soon we were pulling up to the entrance of Utopia. The architecture was reminiscent of Rome; fluted columns supporting a broad, low roof behind which stood fifty floors of Atlantic-view rooms and condos. I’d Googled the place after I’d gotten the job and couldn’t believe my luck. It was a resort in every sense of the word. Two golf courses, five restaurants, a spa, tennis courts, water park, marina and even a small landing strip for private jets. Then there was the private beach.
I’d gotten it into my head to build a dating site and pictured tending two young, well-behaved, low-maintenance children while I shoved my toes in the sand and wrote code every day. My picture already needed revision.
Bernadette had a hold on my arm again and was dragging me through the revolving door into the lobby. I swore I saw her posture change, forcing her breasts forward and sucking in her gut. A moment later, I understood why.
“Brayden!” she shrieked in
an overly loud voice, as if she was hailing a taxi. “Braden! Here! Come here!” she screamed even more loudly. She began waving furiously. “I want you to meet someone.”
I wanted to melt into the marble floor. A very tall man with coppery hair was making his way toward us. I kept my eyes low, hoping people might not realize we were together.
I saw his shoes first. Italian leather draped by the lower cuff of impeccably tailored slacks. Moving upward, I noted the gold Rolex on the deeply tanned wrist. The suit jacket hung smoothly and led me to the silk tie. The crisp, white shirt hugged a sexy Adam’s apple that fueled the most deliciously low voice. I was already feeling a dampness in my panties when I took the proffered hand and finally looked upward to his face.
Jesus Christ! His topaz eyes, set on either side of his perfect nose uncorked memories of clambakes and sneaking home without a bra because it had been swept out with the tide.
“Brayden!” I blurted in shock.
There was the slightest hesitation. “Harper?”
I held my breath and then let his scent waft over me. I knew this man. I remembered his kisses and the way his bottom, full lip sucked at my bared breasts. I remembered my legs opening of their own volition and then my conscience kicking in. I had imagined the shocked voice of my mother as she hysterically screamed for me to close them and immediately go home. It had all been in my mind: her voice, the sensual reactions. Not this, though. This was the man I’d never forgotten. He was the standard against which no one compared.
Bernadette was nodding like a bobble-head doll. “You two know each other?” she asked, struggling to put the scene together.
I nodded, but couldn’t talk.
“Brayden owns Utopia. He and my husband have been friends for a long time,” Bernadette said for credibility’s sake.
“Welcome back, Harper.” That voice had given me wet dreams since I’d moved away.
All I could do was smile and nod like the ex-girlfriend I was. All I knew was that I’d finally been pardoned by the fates.
I was home—in every sense of the word.
Chapter 2
Brayden
It all came rushing back to me. As soon as I saw that hair, I knew who she was. It was that shade of ash-blonde that women spent hundreds to get, but there was no way you could buy that cloud of natural curls. Harper had always been built like a buxom pixie. It was the first reason I’d been attracted to her in high school, but her personality soon magnified anything physical.
Harper was an enigma, half sunshine and half scientist. She could aggravate the piss out of me with her stubbornness. Maybe it was the challenge of dealing with her that made me so hot for her. I knew she didn’t do it on purpose; she never broke character. I knew because I’d tried. I took a lesson from psychology class in high school and tried to find a middle ground. She wasn’t one for middle anything; she wanted to win. The problem was that I did, too.
“Well, if it isn’t Brayden. What was your last name again? I seem to have forgotten.” She was smirking, and I could see that if anything, the old Harper had perfected the art of occupied disinterest.
“Campbell, Brayden Campbell,” Bernadette supplied obliviously.
Why won’t that horrid woman go away and let me talk to Harper?
“Oh, yes, Mr. Campbell. It’s been a few years,” Harper said, nodding with a smirk on that familiar face.
I could already feel the hardening in my pants. I’d never gotten into her pants, not after two years of dating in high school. I did all the things I thought I was supposed to: class ring, proms, homecoming, buying her flowers. It never got me to home plate and Jesus, but I’d wanted her. I’d had to sit in the back of the room in any class we shared just so no one would notice my woody.
I’d finally had all I could take of it. After all, I was the man, right? I balled Mary Ann Whittaker in the girls’ bathroom and took her to our senior homecoming. I knew Harper had taken it for granted that I’d invite her, and when I didn’t, she took pity on some loser just so she could have a date to shove in my face.
I remembered the look on her face that night. The gym was decorated with some corny, outdated Harry Potter theme. There were cardboard stand-ups of wizards and pitifully not-creepy ghosts and monsters everywhere. You couldn’t even dance without knocking them over. Black and dark gray crepe paper hung in strips from the ceiling so it felt like you were continually walking through curtains. It had been a royal pain.
I’d just bent to pick up yet another stand-up of Dumbledore when this tiny body came flying at me through the crepe paper strips—green eyes flashing fire and a string of unladylike curses raining down on me. I’d had to pick her up off the floor to get her to quit kicking me. I’m not sure what happened to Mary Ann Whittaker, but I carried Harper outside and plopped her in the damp, nighttime grass.
“Calm down!” I’d told her.
“To hell with you!” she shot back, not seeming to care who overheard. I was a senior so I didn’t give a shit what people thought, but she still had two more years to go. “What the fuck are you doing with that cow?” she’d demanded, springing to her feet and taking up a fighting stance with her feet spread wide and that hair all wild around her head. Whatever she’d spent at the beauty shop had been wasted.
“Harper, look. Things weren’t going anywhere with you, you know? I’ve got, well, needs.” I tried to explain it to her and at that moment, I hated all women.
“You dumped me because you can’t fuck me?” she’d screamed and I saw others gathering at the open door. I grabbed her hand and dragged her to my car. I had to pick her up again to stuff her inside, but she’d calmed down some by the time we reached the beach.
“Oh, no, you don’t. Not our place,” she growled, eyeing the stretch of sand that led to our little grotto in the side of a dune. We’d spent so many nights there, but never did the deed. I’d gotten her bra off and my hands couldn’t stop pumping those magnificent tits. But she never let me in.
“You’ve got a problem, you know that?” I’d told her.
“Me? You’re like a dick in size thirteen gym shoes. You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t see it right there in class?” she’d accused.
“Jesus, Harper, that’s what guys do! Girls know that. I mean, what the hell? You spend hours getting prettied up and then freak out if a guy lays a hand on you. What the hell?”
“It doesn’t work like that,” she’d muttered, crossing her arms over her bountiful chest.
“Really? Then perhaps you’ll be so kind as to tell me how it does work.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Don’t change… oh, shit, Harper. Do what you want. You will anyway. Hit me, cuss at me, kick me in the balls. In fact, please kick me in the balls. I need pain right now to get rid of this ache.”
Her eyes had shot to my crotch, and she could see I was turned on. She shook her head, like I was being some crass caveman or something. What does she expect?
Instead, something kind of unexpected came out of her mouth. “I can’t, don’t you see that?” she’d asked me, her tone sort of pitiful.
“I guess not,” I said, crossing my arms. It was my turn to wear that stance.
She got out of the car and ran down the beach, headed to our spot. Naturally, I followed her. I mean, shit, I was hard and emotions were running high. Maybe this would be the night.
She was huddled in the shallow, carved-out spot in the dune. The winds changed its shape continually, but somehow, it had always been just deep enough for our two bodies. I plopped down next to her and ripped off the bow tie of my rented tux, tossing it toward the waves. “Okay, so tell me.”
She didn’t say anything for a few minutes. We both needed to let our blood cool. I guess we sensed it was one of those “last time” kind of conversations.
That was the first time I noticed what she was wearing. Harper never did things conventionally. Her dress was more of a two-piece thing, all filmy and her slender middle was bare.
It looked like something out of I Dream of Jeannie. Her tits were spilling out of the top, and I knew an ocean’s worth of cold water couldn’t help me then. Her voice brought me back.
“I can’t do it,” she was saying.
“Why?”
“Because.”
It was going to be one of those conversations. “Why not, Harper? Everyone does it.”
“Not me.”
“I noticed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You and Miss Cow got it on already, I suppose?”
I didn’t say a word. In later years, I tried to remember that silence was the worst thing you could not say to a woman. It condemned you to instant guilt.
She rolled to her knees and confronted me. “You ass! You did, didn’t you?”
I was a dead man. They would find my body the next morning, still in my tieless tux and assume I’d gotten drunk and drowned. Maybe I’d have a leg missing, like in the old, original Jaws. Harper would wear something odd, like a sombrero covered with flowers, and people would think she had gone mad with grief. She’d get away with it, though. She always did. “Well, god damn it! I’m no saint, Harper. I’m a senior, almost ready to start college! You sure as hell can’t expect me to take a vow of god-damned abstinence! It’s not healthy to store it all up!”
“I thought guys, well, you know, had ways?”
It took me a second to figure what she was talking about. “You mean to fuck another girl or to jack off?”
She’d just stared at me. The words were out and then I could tell she was surprised. Maybe she gets it? Was she finally seeing it from my point of view? Shit! Was that even possible?
“I can’t fall in love with you because you’re leaving,” she’d said, almost in a whisper, which might have been louder if it hadn’t been for the sound of the waves. “I won’t have a fighting chance. You’ll go to college and find someone, or a dozen someones, and I’ll be left here holding the broken heart.”