‘Mmmm. Why is your bed comfier than mine?’ He grabs one of the pillows and punches it to create a little nest for his head. ‘Like a cloud. So soft. Mine’s too … springy.’
I don’t want to know how he’s tested that, my brain doesn’t need to produce any images right now of Harper bouncing around. Naked. With some other guy.
‘You want anything?’ I ask. ‘Glass of water, maybe?’ Of course he shakes his head.
I pull a spare blanket and pillow from the wardrobe and begin to make myself a makeshift bed on the floor. Both my back and my hips are going to hate Harper for this, but it feels like the smarter choice compared to the impact that sleeping next to him will have on my psyche.
I turn around and he’s undone his jeans and he’s desperately trying to kick them off. Of course they get stuck halfway down his thighs, leaving him trapped in just his boxers and an unbuttoned shirt. The trouble he’s having with his coordination right now would be comical if the sight of him undressing weren’t being burned into my retinas.
‘Whaddaya doing?’ he slurs. ‘I won’t bite…’ He gives me the cheekiest little side-eye. ‘Unless you ask me to.’
Shaking my head at him, I try to hide my actual reaction with a disapproving look. He, on the other hand, seems unaffected and continues to kick at the stiff denim without success. I could leave him like this, hogtied by his own incompetence, but I’m not sure the thought of him rendered physically submissive in this way will help my peace of mind.
‘You need some help there, buddy?’ I ask.
He hums his approval and in the blink of an eye, my hands are on him again. How is this the second time I am undressing Harper James?
‘Stop kicking – you’re making it worse!’ I say, exasperated by his futile attempts to help.
‘Johannes says they make myaaaaasssssslook great.’
Even I can’t deny that.
‘How’s that working out for you?’
‘Not. Great. K-Kian.’ He annunciates his response with intense effort and then looks up at me. He stops squirming and then says, ‘Tobefair –’ it comes out as all one word ‘– I’m not alone, am I?You’rehere.’
His hand clasps my wrist, stopping me from walking away.
‘It’s not like you gave me a choice, did you? When you call me drunk and alone, thrown out of a club for God knows what. I couldn’t just leave you, could I?’
‘Ev’ryone else did,’ he says with a bitter, self-deprecating laugh.
It’s getting harder to ignore his throwaway comments. It reminds me that I actually don’t really know him at all. I know he’s a party boy who doesn’t take anything seriously, and who knows how to push all my buttons, but that’s it. I don’t know anything about his family, his goals, or his life outside the circuit. We’re teammates, and somehow also strangers.
I sigh. When did I start feeling sorry for the asshole who’s been making the last couple of months an absolute misery? Okay, not anabsolutemisery, but harder than they needed to be.
He’s still clinging to my wrist like it’s a lifeline. He pulls himself up into a sitting position until we’re so close I can feel his breath on my face. I expect him to stink of beer and disappointment but instead I get a sweet, fruity aroma, as though he’s spent all night drinking cocktails.
‘Sometimes, I think you’re one of the most boring people I know.’ He’s smiling as he speaks, suddenly able to articulate his words as though the drunken fog has momentarily cleared so he can impart these words of infinite wisdom. ‘But then other times you look at me so … primal, you know? And it makes me wonder…’
‘No, I do not know. What are you going on about?’ My tone is defensive, and I hope he’s too pissed to notice. Instead, he suddenly tightens his grasp on my wrist.
No wonder his steering control is so good with this grip.
‘Aha! See…! Your eyes lit up. Bet you love a pair of cuffs, tough guy.’
‘Shut up, James.’ I try to pull away, but even when he loosens his hold there’s something still rooting me in place.
He doesn’t know. He can’t. Nobody does.
I’ve dated both men and women, but I’ve only ever been romantically linked to one person – who happened to be a woman – and I haven’t left a trail of beefcakes, starlets or wannabes to sell stories to the tabloids about what I’m like in bed. So nobody knows. Except…
Clearly, Harper’s a little bit more observant.
‘Tell that to your little friend, Mr Half Chub.’ He stares down at my crotch.
He’s right. There’s no hiding a semi in the grey joggers I’m wearing, especially when I didn’t put underwear on in the 4am haze of the dash to get my Uber.
