Harper
Eric releases me and I am instantly cold again where I was warm moments before, and I want to be warm again, the kind of warm that I know from experience only his touch creates in me. I climb into the car, letting the soft leather absorb my body. He shuts me inside and in a few moments, he’s here with me, the implication of what just happened between us, and where it leads, expanding and consuming us and the small space we share. The promise of more is with us, and I don’t even know what that means. I just know I need to know. I need to know now because this man does that to me. He makes me need and want on a level I don’t even understand.
I just do.
He doesn’t immediately turn on the car. He sits here next to me, staring forward and there is this sudden shift in energy in him that I can’t explain. I feel it even before he looks at me, and asks, “Are you hungry?”
Am I hungry? Not, are you lying to me? The question settles easily between us, the tension of moments before uncurling just that easily. This is new territory for us. We have never shared a meal or a real conversation and I am quick to welcome such a thing. “Yes, actually, I am. I had a power bar today. That’s all.”
“I had a bag of peanut M & M’s which I promise you were better than the power bar. Let’s go to Cherry Creek and eat. I know you live there and it’s also where I booked my hotel and not because I’m stalking you. It’s my old stomping grounds and I wanted to revisit some of my favorite spots while I’m here.”
“I didn’t know you lived in Cherry Creek. How long?”
“Four years. I went to undergrad school around there. My favorite Italian restaurant is there, which is on my list of places to hit while I’m here.”
I perk up. “North?”
“North,” he confirms. “You like it?”
“Love it. My favorite, too.”
“Is it?”
“It is.”
We have this moment of connection then, that isn’t really over North or Cherry Creek, but rather us. Just us and that drag between us that refuses to be ignored. “Then North it is,” he says finally, revving the engine and backing us up. “How’d you end up in Cherry Creek?” he asks once he’s driving us through the parking lot.
“I went to a lunch there with my mother when I first moved here and fell in love. It reminds me of home.”
“New York City?” he asks, pulling onto the highway.
“You’ve read up on me,” I say to the reference of my home state.
“I did,” he says, offering no apologies or explanation.
“Is there a file I can get on you?”
He casts me a sideways look. “I’m right here. Just ask me.”
“As if you’re that approachable.”
“I am,” he says, glancing over at me again. “Tonight, I am.”
“Why tonight?”
“It’s time.” He doesn’t give me a chance to ask what that means. “Why does Cherry Creek remind you of New York City?”
“We lived in a tiny pocket of the city there. Everything we wanted was in a small space. Cherry Creek is like that in that everything is right there, within reach, minus the smog, rats, and crush of people. It’s quaint and safe, hidden from the rest of the city in so many ways.”
“It’s the hidden part I liked,” he says. “It’s like a small city boxed off from the rest of the city.”
“So, after your undergrad, you went off to Harvard?”
“Yes. And then I went off to Harvard before joining the Navy. And yes, that’s a complicated story.” He turns us into the Cherry Creek neighborhood. “And yes, you can ask me about it while we eat.”
“I will,” I say, “and actually, I live two blocks from the restaurant. You can park there if you like. Though, I guess if you’re at the Marriott, North is practically next door.”
“I am at the Marriott, but I’ll park at your place.” He doesn’t ask me where I live. He just cuts right and then left and pulls into the driveway of my gray-finished house, then around to the back. “The address was in your file and I have a photographic memory.”
I look at him. “As in literally?”
“Yes. Literally.” He opens his door. “I’ll come around to get you.” He exits the car and I hear the trunk pop. I open my door and by the time I’ve settled my legs on the ground, he’s in a sleek black leather jacket, and pulling me to my feet and to him.
He shuts the door, and I end up against the car with his hand on the side of my face, this warm, intimate blanket surrounding us, consuming us. There are no lies, no doubts, no divide. There is just this crazy, hot connection we’ve always shared. “I’m going to have to kiss you now, Harper.” His mouth comes down on mine, his tongue pressing past my teeth in a slow, deep stroke that has me gripping his jacket and leaning into him.
He pulls back, his mouth just a breath from mine, lingering there before a band seems to snap between us and we’re kissing again, and this time he doesn’t hold back. He kisses me deeply, completely and when I whimper with just how much I need more, he pulls back. “Let’s go eat, sweetheart. We need to talk and we won’t talk if we walk in your door.”
“Sweetheart? Not princess?”
His hands go to the lapels on my trench coat. “You were right. I use it to divide us. No more princess.”
“Why? What changed?”
“You hit a few hotspots back there in the car. This place makes me too like my father and my brother. I’m not the me I know as me now when I’m here. They taught me to distrust and attack. The SEALs and the Bennett family taught me to reserve judgment and give people the benefit of the doubt. I prefer that version of me.”
“Meaning me?”
“Yes.” He strokes my hair behind my ear. “You. Definitely you, but I don’t trust my judgment with you, Harper. I’m too invested.”
“Invested?”
“You know I am or I wouldn’t be here.”
“You have a lot to be invested in here that isn’t me.”
“Nothing I want to be invested in but you.”
“But you—”
“Left. I know. And as I said, I’m here now. This time is different. I feel it. Don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. Despite you being angry at me. I feel the difference now.”
“We’ll talk about my anger. We’ll talk about a lot of things.” And with that coded promise, he wraps his arm around my shoulders and turns me toward the front of the house. “Let’s go get that pasta.”
He sets us in motion and we walk in what is surprisingly comfortable silence, but my curiosity about this man gets the best of me. “I’m surprised someone with your academic capacity stayed here for school. Why not Harvard all the way?”
“I got into some trouble when my mother was sick. We had money issues and I shoplifted. It fucked up my academic history.”
I’m stunned at this confession and I want to ask about it, but we’ve reached the door of the restaurant. He opens the door for me and we’re greeted by a hostess that takes our coats and promptly escorts us to a half-moon-shaped booth. I slide in one side as Eric goes to the other and when I think we’ll sit across from each other, he scoots all the way around and pulls me close, his hand on my leg. “This okay?”
“Yes. This is good.”
“Good.” His voice is a low rasp, his eyes warm and reluctant as they leave my face and focus on the waitress. “Let’s start with drinks.” He looks at me again. “You do like wine, right?”
“Love it. Red, white, and trying new variations.”
“Then I’ll order my favorite here and you can tell me what you think.” He gives the order to the waitress and refocuses on me. “Do we feel like enemies, Harper?”
“You never felt like my enemy. And if you think taking over the company makes me see you as that, it doesn’t. The only thing that makes you my enemy is if you turn on me or my mother.”
“Your mother is aligned with my father.”
“I know. I’ve tried to get her to see that we have real problems, but she’s is blinded by love. I feel like there’s something illicit going on. She’s not involved, she’s just not helping to solve the problem. So, I’m asking you to please keep her out of this.”
“I will,” he says, his fingers brushing my cheek, sending a shiver down my spine. “You have my word.”
I reach up and catch his hand. “Thank you,” I say, a wave of heat between us and I think there is something real between us, something that isn’t fantasy sex and “what if” but real.
“Your wine has arrived,” the waitress announces and we linger together, seconds passing before we turn our attention to the waitress who hands Eric a sample of the wine and waits for his approval before filling our glasses.
Once we’re alone, I sip the wine, a sweet yet oaky flavor touching my tongue. “It’s excellent,” I say.
“Glad you like it.”
I set my glass down. “About that anger.”
He sets his glass down on the table and his hand slides under my hair, settling on my neck. “I’m angry at you for making me want you so fucking bad that I had to come here.”
Those words are raw and real, vibrating along my nerve endings. “Are you going to make me regret it?”
“There are many things I want to make you feel, Harper, but regret is not one of them.”