"Nice place." She looks around, taking in the space. "Very... clean."
"Is that a compliment or an insult?"
"Yes."
A mover walks past carrying a box that's making ominous plant-related sounds. Another follows with what appears to be approximately six hundred cookbooks.
"How many books do you own?" I ask.
"Enough." She grins. "Don't worry, I'll keep them in my room. Won't mess up your feng shui or whatever billionaires call interior design."
Before I can respond, another mover appears carrying a small plant that looks half-dead.
"Where does this one go, ma'am?"
Harper winces. "That's Herbert. He's been through a lot. Just... anywhere with light?"
The mover looks at me, and I motion in the general direction of a nearby window. He sets Herbert on the sill and flees.
"Herbert?" I ask.
"He's a succulent. They need names."
"Do they?"
"How else will they know you love them?"
"I'm fairly certain plants don't—You know what, never mind."
Harper's phone buzzes, and she checks it, a frown deepening on her pretty face.
I take a step forward. “You good, Beaumont?”
"Fine. Just my sisters being... my sisters." She types a quick response and pockets the phone. "Where did you say the guest room was?"
"West side. Down the hall, second door."
"Great." She grabs a box labeled "DEFINITELY NOT EMBARRASSING STUFF" and heads in that direction. "I'll try not to disrupt your whole Ice Prince aesthetic."
"I don't have an Ice Prince—" But she's already gone.
I stand in my living room, surrounded by the evidence of Harper Beaumont's existence—boxes, plants, the faint smell of whatever floral perfume she wears that's making my space feel suddenly less empty—and realize I've made a terrible miscalculation.
By 8 PM, the movers are gone, and I'm in my home office trying to work while being acutely aware that Harper is somewhere in my apartment.
I can hear her moving around. The soft pad of footsteps. The sound of boxes being unpacked. At some point, music starts playing—something upbeat.
I try to focus on the acquisition proposal.
We need a new strategy, a better offer, something that will convince CulinaryVision's board that StreamEats is the right choice.
But I keep hearing Harper humming along to her music.
The sound drifts through my apartment like an invasion—warm and unconscious and entirely too comfortable.
Finally, I give up and head to the kitchen for coffee. Where I find Harper standing at my espresso machine—which cost $3,000 and has approximately forty buttons—looking at it like it's a bomb she's been asked to defuse.
She's changed clothes since the movers left.
