Clad in flannel pajama pants covered in little cartoon cats, her soft light caramel hair is down now, loose waves falling past her shoulders, and her red-painted toes are bare against my heated marble floors.
She looks... soft, rumpled.
"Need help?" I ask.
She jumps, spinning to face me, pressing a hand to her chest. “Jesus, you’re quiet. What you do, practice walking silently or is it just a CEO thing?"
"Natural talent."
"Creepy talent." She motions to the machine, and I notice her nails are painted the same soft red. "How does this thing work? I've pressed six buttons and all I've gotten is steam and judgmental beeping."
I cross to the machine, forcing myself to focus on the controls instead of the fact that she smells like lavender and something sweeter—vanilla, maybe, or honey.
"What do you want?" I ask, my voice coming out strangled.
"Coffee. Regular coffee. Not fancy espresso or whatever. Just... coffee."
"This machine doesn't make regular coffee."
She stares at me, hazel eyes wide. "What kind of person doesn't have regular coffee?"
"The kind who invested in a professional espresso system."
"For your home."
"Yes."
"Where you live alone."
"Your point?"
She shakes her head, and a strand of hair falls across her face. "You're exhausting.”
I'm about to respond when I realize how close we're standing, close enough to notice the way her flannel shirt falls slightly open, revealing the thin strap of whatever she's wearing underneath.
Close enough that if I leaned forward just slightly?—
I step back, focusing on the espresso machine.
"I'll make you something," I say, pulling out two cups from the cabinet above her head. My arm brushes past her shoulder.
"Thanks," she says quietly.
I start the machine, the familiar hiss and gurgle filling the silence between us, as the scent of fresh espresso begins to bloom in the kitchen—dark and rich and grounding.
Harper leans against the counter beside me, watching with open curiosity as I work.
"You're very precise," she remarks.
"It's espresso. Precision matters."
"Is that your answer for everything? Precision matters?"
"It's served me well."
"That sounds lonely."
I glance at her sharply, but she's not looking at me. She's studying the machine, her expression thoughtful rather than pitying.
