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I noticed the way she watched me when I was reading her book, and the almost tangible way I could feel her holding herself back from asking me about it. I was almost finished with my second of her books, and she wrote a chapter toward the end that was so chilling, I went to bed with a slight pit in my stomach. I couldn’t tell her that she gave me restless sleep because I was thinking about fucking murderers in graveyards, but the entire night, I felt eyes on me, simply because she was so damn good at her job.
I noticed how drawn she looked when she returned from her parents’ house, but she never complained. And I didn’t ask because I knew her well enough that she’d talk about it when she was good and ready. Like me, Harlow hated feeling like someone was trying to yank the thoughts out of her head.
Telling my brother and sister and Wade any of this was pointless because there was a simple solution. I needed to stop noticing and get back to the truth.
Harlow was my best friend.
None of my guy friends in high school believed she and I didn’t fool around. They didn’t believe I could watch movies with her or go on long drives and not end up touching or kissing or sleeping with her. The reality, back then, was that it was more likely she’d tell me that my ass stunk after football practice. Or that my music sucked. Once, we fought over movie choices so badly that she stormed out of my house, calling me names over her shoulder.
That brought a smile to my face. We could get back there.
I could get back there. Because that was all this was. Me confusing things that didn’t need to be confused, and noticing things that didn’t need to be noticed.
I finished the workday without snapping at anyone else and only flipped off Greer once when she told me I was acting like a man-child. Bright lights were coming from the downstairs windows of the house when I pulled up, which meant she was working at the kitchen table. All week, she’d been scribbling in notebooks, on sticky notes, and nibbling on the edge of her pen while she typed something out on her computer. Not chapters, she told me, but chapter ideas. Some big-ass outline that she was really excited about but wouldn’t tell me what it was.
I approached the front door and stopped with a tilt of my head at the sound of bass thumping through the walls. It was the day of the week when Sage went to her grandparents’ after school so Harlow could write until five, and apparently, she was taking advantage of that by listening to filthy music.
The grin on my face spread easily, and I stifled a laugh as I pushed the door open as quietly as possible. The pulsing beat of the song practically dripped with sex, and the man rapping sounded French maybe. His accent was thick, and the filthy lyrics had my eyebrows rising slowly.
With her back to me, Harlow had her legs tucked up on the chair, typing furiously. I caught a brief glimpse of a few words that had my eyes widening.
Things like wet, soaked nipples and tongues. When I squinted, I caught a glimpse of rock-hard penis and knew she’d probably murder me for even taking a single look.
Gently, I reached forward and tapped the pause button on the screen of her phone. The music cut off immediately.
“Whatcha writing, sparky?” I asked.
Harlow screamed, slamming her laptop shut and pushing back from the table too quickly. The chair wobbled dangerously on two legs, and if I hadn’t been right behind her, she would’ve fallen straight back.
I caught the chair and grinned down at her. “You got some filthy stuff coming out of those hands, Harlow. Does your mother know what you’re writing?”
Her hand was slapped on her heaving chest, and her eyes were wide, cheeks pink and mouth hanging open as we stared at each other. “Holy shit, Ian, you scared the absolute hell out of me.”
I righted the chair slowly, and at first, she didn’t move, just stared at the laptop as her shoulders rose and fell on a massive breath.
“Sorry,” I said as I sat on the bench by the door and started pulling off my work boots.
When she turned in the chair, she aimed a lethal glare in my direction. “Yeah right, you look really sorry.”
I smiled. “Quite the mood music you had going.” Honestly, the color of her cheeks was a little shocking.
“Inspiration. I’ve had that song on repeat for the past hour.”
“Interesting.”
She huffed. “You’re home early.”
“I am.” I kept my eyes on hers. The secondhand embarrassment was almost enough to make me feel bad. But this was the kind of thing I’d give her shit about before, so if I wanted to get us back to normal, I wasn’t going to pretend. “This what you’re working on for your editor, right?” I waved my hand in the air. “The romance thing Poppy mentioned.”
She swallowed. “Maybe. Haven’t been in a very murdery frame of mind.” Then she tilted her head. “Except for when you do what you just did. All sorts of creative things just sprang to mind for that.”
I laughed. “Does this mean Hollis King will be writing some sexy romance?”
“If my editor likes this pitch, yeah.” Her chin rose an inch, challenge lighting her dark eyes into something irresistible. She practically dared me to give her crap about it.
“Good for you. Nothing wrong with wanting something new,” I said.
But the words felt a little uncomfortable coming out. I didn’t want anything new, did I? I wanted things the way they used to be.
