We hold hands in the truck.
I make her laugh and make her blush and ask her a million questions.
On the way back, we ride long stretches with a kind of comfortable silence between us I’m not used to. It’s nice. It makes me want to take her to the hotel and pull her into my arms for more.
But my mom is waiting, so we head to my parents’ place instead.
“These turned out so pretty,” my mom coos, checking over the hand-done calligraphy with Harlow at what used to be our dining room table. Currently, it’s covered with every kind of crafting DIY supply you can imagine.
“What’s with the hot glue gun?”
She rolls her eyes and laughs like I’m pulling her leg.
Harlow gives up one of those soft smiles that’s somehow twice as potent as its full-bodied counterpart.
Then she’s offering to help with the “embellishments,” and even though I don’t know what the hell that means, I’m assuming it’s this arts-and-crafts stuff. “Yeah, I’ll help too.”
Both women turn to me with raised brows.
Okay, so my hands are twice as big as theirs, but I think I can handle some glitter and sticking a few of those beady things to a card.
“Wade, honey, you don’t have to help. Why don’t you call your brother or Tommy? Relax a while.”
Harlow bites her lip against a smile. So cute.
“Nah, I’ll help.”
She peers up at me. “When was the last time you did anything crafty?”
“Art class in high school.”
My mother’s hand moves to her hip, her eyes going narrow. “You got a C.”
Harlow coughs, her eyes going wide like she’s just uncovered my greatest shame and doesn’t quite know how to face me.
Jesus.
“C-plus.”
“Only because Sandy White did half your projects.”
How the hell does Mom know that?
I straighten, digging in because I can’t fucking help it. “The bad half.”
And then I’m pulling out my chair and sitting down. End of discussion.
Two hours later, I’m going blind beneath the glare of my mother’s makeup mirror, my two favorite women in my face, both fussing at once.
“I told you not to touch your eyes.”
“Jesus, it’s in his ear.”
“Have you seen his hair?”
“We may have to cut that out.”
I try to push them away—gently—but my mother says my name in that way that has me slumping back.
“It was an accident,” I groan.
“We have more glue, honey.”
“I can drive back out for more of those card things.”
Harlow pauses from working the coconut oil into my face. “This one’s like a glittery beauty mark. I kind of want to leave it.”
They both fall into another bout of teary-eyed laughter, and suddenly, I don’t really mind at all.
When they can breathe again, my mom pats my chest and then sighs at the fresh coating of glitter on her hand. “Honey, don’t worry about the place cards. I only gave you the ones for the guests that canceled after we placed the order.”
“What?”
My mom points at my left eye. “Get his lashes.”
I’m sentenced to a shower, but first I’m forced to endure the indignity of standing in the backyard while my mom empties a can of Aqua Net, spraying down my clothes. I don’t even get to use my own shower, instead being banished to the first-floor shoebox off the utility room where I strip and hand my glitter-coated, hairspray-soaked clothing to Harlow through the door.
After washing my hair with olive oil and then a crusty bottle of baby shampoo I suspect has been squatting under our sink for the last twenty-five years, I dry off with a torn towel from the rag pile. When I’m done, there’s a neat stack of folded clothes waiting outside the door, probably left behind from my college days.
I pull them on and mutter a curse.
Mom and Harlow are in the dining room, their backs to me, the glitter miraculously contained to the tiny bowls of its origin.
Standing in the doorway, I wait for them to notice me. And when they do, it’s everything I’d hoped for.
Harlow catches me in the corner of her eye and turns with a smile that goes slack as her eyes drop south to the sweatpants so snug they’ve got to be two sizes too small and… make everything under them look two sizes too big.
“Umm, Wade…”
“Yeah, babe?”
My mom turns. Her eyes bug and then squint shut as she throws her hand out to block her view. “Jesus, Wade!”
Uh-huh. “I’m going back to the hotel to grab some clothes.”
Hand still blocking her view, my mom fumbles out of her seat. “You aren’t leaving this house, mister. If Kelsey comes home from the courthouse early, lock yourself in your room.” Then to Harlow, “Grab his keys, we’ll get his clothes.”
Harlow
I make it all the way to the truck before I crack. Grace slides into the passenger seat beside me, the horror still lingering in her eyes. She takes my hand in hers and we both fold forward, laughing so hard I’m not sure it will ever stop.
“I’ve never seen anything so—”
“He should have warned us—”
“Were those even his?”
Grace wipes her eyes and sits back. “I thought so, but maybe they were Walt’s?”
I shake my head. “From middle school?”
She scrunches her face in thought. “I don’t think so?”
And I die laughing some more.
I get a text from Wade telling me the circulation is being cut off to my favorite “fun park” and to put the truck in gear and go. After adjusting every setting six hundred times, it’s about as good as it’s going to get.
“I don’t normally drive Wade’s truck. Are you sure you want to come along?”
Grace buckles up. “Absolutely. You see what I have to deal with raising these boys? I’ll take every minute with their girls I can get.”
I don’t wreck the truck and Grace waits in the lot while I grab the clothes. She peppers me with stories about Wade as a boy, and I’m grinning so hard I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to ice my cheeks from the workout they’re getting.
When we get back, Walt’s car is in the drive and I can only imagine his reaction to his brother’s nothing-left-to-the-imagination ensemble.
But when we walk in, it’s not Walt I see.
“David?” I choke out.
Chapter 19
Harlow
“Harlow Richards, what the heck?” David chuckles, rushing over to shake my hand with both of his. “This is unexpected. How do you know Walt?”
I blink, holding my smile in place as my worlds collide.
A warm hand smooths over my back, circling around to my hip in a possessive hold. And my breath stalls in my lungs, any hope—irrational as it might have been—of keeping David Carlson from human resources at PHR from finding out who I’m here with goes out the window.
His brows bump to his hairline. “You’re Wade’s—” He turns to Wade, who’s still wearing the obscene sweats, not that anyone’s paying attention now. “Wow, man. I had no idea. When did this happen?”
My heart starts to pound and my mind spins.
When did this start? What did we agree to say? Are we both about to be caught?
“It’s pretty new,” Wade offers casually, rubbing his hand over my side. “We’ve been trying to keep it quiet, off social, you know.”
“Right, that makes sense.” He leans in and gives me a conspiratorial wink that has Wade’s hand stilling where it is. “Harlow, I assure you, no one’s going to hear it from me. Just gotta make sure we don’t end up in any of the same pictures. Plausible deniability, right?”
Wade frowns.
But then Grace is edging past me. “Davey, come here.”
His face splits into a wide grin as he steps into her hug.
Everyon
e starts talking at once, about the drive down, wedding prep, Wade’s sweatpants, and the “trouser snake” Walt can’t unsee.
Grace shoos her oldest off to change and ushers everyone into the kitchen, where she pulls a pitcher of tea from the fridge. I get the glasses down and hand them out as she pours.
When Wade reemerges, he’s wearing the cargo shorts and T-shirt I picked for him. I hand him a glass and tuck myself into his side. The smile he gives me as he pulls me closer isn’t that far off from the ones he’s given me while we were deep in the fake, but somehow it feels completely different.
All grins, Grace pats the counter. “So talk about a small world. How do you two know each other now?”
This is not a big deal. “David and I both work at PHR.”
David’s head bobs. “I’m in HR, so we don’t work together. But of course”—he shoots me a smile—“I know her.”
Walt raises a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching as he exchanges a look with his brother. I want to tell Wade it’s not what he’s thinking—that there’s nothing between us. Because the possessive way his arm circles around me says he’s thinking there is.
Grace’s lips purse. “Harlow, honey, I know you said banking. But what do you do there?”
My belly drops. David knows. I can’t just brush over it. If I say I’m still working in compliance, it will seem like I’m embarrassed and lying. There’s no other choice. “I’m sort of between positions right now.”
And those muttered apologies make it even worse. “No, it’s not—”
David shakes his head with a laugh. “Grace, she’s fine. ‘Between positions’ isn’t the same when your dad owns the bank.”
Wade chokes into his tea and David’s eyes bug, all the color leaving his face. “Dude, you didn’t know her dad owns the bank?”
My boyfriend should totally know.
Real or fake. I should have mentioned it earlier, and now—
“What? No, man, of course I knew.” Wade chuckles from behind me, easy as can be. “New to the whole swallowing thing.”
Walt snorts and Grace rolls her eyes, knowing exactly what her youngest is thinking. Wade steps away from me, wiping his chin with the back of his arm. He’s only setting his glass in the sink. That’s all. It’s reasonable. Normal.
Except Wade is so good at weaving fiction into the fabric of what’s real. What if he’s not just putting his glass away? What if he’s upset because I didn’t trust him with the truth?
A cold sort of dread snakes through my belly, different than the one that lives there most of the time. This one feels… worse.
I watch the muscles of his back as he washes his hands. He turns around, drying his hands. “It’s no big deal about the bank. But not what we lead with, you know.”
David gulps air, looking more relieved than I feel. Grace waves her hand in the air, moving on.
It’s very polite, and I’m trying to be polite too. Trying not to give in to this almost soul-deep pull to go to Wade. To make sure we’re okay. Which is ridiculous because this thing between us is only a week. It’s not real in a way that should matter.
But it does.
It matters. And when he crosses back to me, brushing a light kiss at the corner of my mouth, my breath rushes out in relief. And then he’s holding me close again, and I’m turning, wrapping my arms around his middle to hold him tighter still.
It’s only a week. But I don’t want to give up a second of it.
Wade
We hang out at the house for a while. Catch up with Dave, share my snafu with the place cards, and hear about Janie’s cousin who eloped this past weekend. Harlow stays close to my side, but it’s not enough. I want to be alone with her. After what I’m calling a reasonable amount of time passes, I pull her to her feet and tuck her into my side.
“Guys, we’ll see you later. I’ve got a call with my agent in not too long, so we’re going to cut out.” It’s true-ish. The call isn’t actually for another couple hours.
Mom nods, grabbing a baby carrot from the dip plate she set out. “Don’t forget your clothes from the dryer.”
Right. We grab my stuff and head out, but don’t even make it to the walk before Dave’s behind us.
“Harlow, you have a second?” he asks, following us down the front step.
I don’t like the way her body gets tense every time this guy opens his mouth.
“Of course. What’s on your mind?”
She sounds crisp, professional. I’ve heard it before, but I haven’t seen this side of Harlow since we arrived in town. And it’s a little weird, but not nearly so much as seeing that polite professionalism from the kid who stuffed French fries up his nose when he was ten.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you how sorry I am about the way things shook out with your brother. Everyone knows that job should have been yours.”
Her brother is the guy who got her job.
And her dad owns the bank.
I don’t want to believe it. I don’t want Harlow’s father to be the man she doesn’t think likes her. It’s possible it’s an uncle, another relation. But my gut doesn’t think so.
Beside me, Harlow smiles a workplace smile. But it’s not real.
“Thank you for saying so, but I’m certain Junior will do a terrific job. We’re happy to have him back on board.”
Damn.
Once I’ve got her in the truck with my parents’ place in the rearview, I ask, “Junior?”
She laughs softly, shaking her head. “I thought when he started working he’d go by Philip—but no. He’s a Junior, through and through.”
“Sounds like an asshole.”
“I mean, he kind of is.” She takes a breath, lets it out. “He’s self-centered, entitled, elitist. But he’s not a terrible person. He’s just kind of… careless. And because of who he is, he gets away with it.”
We come up to the intersection and instead of turning left, I go right, taking us away from town.
I expect Harlow to ask about it. No way she didn’t notice, but she’s quiet, holding my hand as we drive a few miles into the country. I pull down the dusty gravel road, wondering if the kids still come out here.
We pass a small, dark house with a broken window, an overgrown yard, and a handful of dilapidated outbuildings before I pull to a stop in front of the old sway-back barn.
“What’s this?” Harlow asks as I help her out of the truck and pull a Slayers blanket from the back.
“Another quiet spot.”
“Good for thinking?” she asks, holding my hand as I lead her around the side.
“Good for talking.” And because I can feel her on the brink of asking, I tell her. “I might have brought a girl or two out here… back in the day.”
She laughs, and the sound of it warms me from the inside.
When we get to the clearing past the building, she stops, her breath catching in a pretty way.
“I was hoping they still did this.” The back side of the barn is the only part of the property that’s seen a fresh coat of paint in probably twenty years. Maybe more. “Every year, the seniors paint the back with something significant to their class—the science lab with the empty desk is about Mrs. Green retiring—and those squares along the bottom are individual student quotes or tags.”
“They did this when you were in high school?”
“Yep.” I find a spot beneath an old oak, kicking a bit through the field grass to check for broken glass or anything I wouldn’t want Harlow sitting on, but the kids must have maintained the tradition of cleaning up whatever mess they bring in as well.
She helps me spread the blanket and we stretch out.
“Bet you can’t guess what they painted my year.”
“Hockey stick? You scoring with your parents weeping in the stands?”
“You’d think, right?” My girl is catering to my ego. Will wonders never cease? “Actually, it was a football jersey with Jordan Jamison’s name and number. He took us to State.”
“Got that right.”
I fold one arm behind my head and draw Harlow in with the other so she’s tucked into my side, her hand flat over my heart.
It feels good.
“How about you? What did you put in your square?”
“‘If you want something, work for it. If you don’t get it, work harder.’ One of those unknown-origin quotes off the internet, but I had it taped into my locker for about six years.”
She peers at me, the softest smile on her lips. “That’s so you. I love it.”
I hold her tighter.
After another minute, she takes a deep breath. Bracing. And I know she’s ready to talk.
“I wasn’t trying to hide who I was from you. It’s just… I didn’t think it would come up. Most people don’t know his name. And I guess I didn’t want to have to answer all the usual questions. I didn’t want to tell you what it’s like working for him or whether he’s proud to have me following in his footsteps.”
That quiet admission kills me. Makes me struggle to keep my hold loose and my breath even. She doesn’t need to be trying to calm my ass down.
“Your dad’s the one you… don’t have a good relationship with? The one you want to prove yourself to.”
“It wasn’t easy telling you that stuff.” She buries her face in my side and gives another small laugh, this one missing any trace of humor at all. “But it was way easier without you knowing who he was to me.”
“Hey, come on, Harlow,” I urge gently. “Don’t hide.”
“It’s so embarrassing. Wade, everyone knows what happened. I’ve been working at corporate in one capacity or another since I was sixteen, and I’ve never let on about the issues with my father. Until this, no one knew. And now… everyone does.”
There’s nothing I can say to ease that sting. Dave’s show of support this afternoon probably only served to underscore that greater hurt. The one that’s less about the job and more about her colleagues witnessing the lack of respect her own father showed her. There’s nothing to make it better. But I tell her anyway. “I’m so sorry. I wish you didn’t have to go through that.” Then, “Did something happen between you and your dad?”
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