"She saw the video of us. Wouldn’t be too far of a stretch.”
Harper’s expression softens, her gaze lowering before lifting again.
"Okay," she says finally.
"Okay?"
"I'll come to dinner. I'll be honest with your grandmother. And I'll—" She takes a breath. "I'll consider the staying at your place situation."
"Consider?"
"I need to think about it. Talk to my roommate. Figure out logistics." She stands up, gathering her portfolio. "But I'll consider it."
I stand as well. “Good.”
She nods, turning to gather her things, and that's when it happens.
She reaches for her coffee cup—the one she brought in with her and set on the edge of the table. Her portfolio and laptop catch the handle.
The cup tips. Coffee—hot and dark—does a Tokyo drift through the air in slow motion.
"Shit!" Harper lunges for it.
So do I.
We collide in the middle.
Her hands grab for the cup. My hands grab for the same cup. We both miss, and the coffee lands directly on the front of my shirt.
Again.
Thank God the drink is lukewarm by this point.
"Oh my God," Harper breathes. "Not again."
I look down at my chest. At the spreading dark stain that's soaking through my white dress shirt. At the universe and Harper Beaumont’s apparent offense taken with my wardrobe.
"This is becoming a pattern," I say.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—let me—" Harper grabs a stack of napkins from the credenza and starts dabbing at my chest without thinking.
Which puts her very close.
Very, very close.
Close enough that I can smell her perfume—that same silky scent from Vegas. Close enough to feel the heat of her hands through the wet fabric.
She reaches the napkins towards the floor, blotting the wet spot, and I grab a few napkins, joining her.
I’m not much of a cleaner. Or even a squatter.
But it feels like the right thing to do after alienating my fake wife for the last few days.
Exhaling shakily, she pushes one silky caramel lock behind her ear—only for it to fall right back into place. Her hands are trembling, her normally olive skin flushed. She’s kneeling beside the table now, dabbing uselessly at the spill with a napkin, muttering to herself in frantic, breathy French.
And something inside me unsettles—repositions and rearranges.
Because I remember this.
