There's a lot else.
Don't smile at me like that.
Don't exist in my space in those ridiculous cat pajamas with your hair down and your adorable feet bare and your body smelling like something I could scoop up with a spoon.
"That's it," I say instead.
"Okay then." She finishes her espresso and rinses the cup—without being asked, I notice. Even does it properly, the way it's meant to be done. "I'm going to finish unpacking. Thanks for letting me stay here. I know it's not ideal."
"It's fine."
"Liar." But she says it gently, almost fondly. "Goodnight, Mr. Kade.”
"Goodnight."
She leaves, and I'm alone in my kitchen that now smells like lavender and espresso and feels fundamentally different.
The warmth of her presence lingers—in the air, in the faint scent of her perfume, in the rinsed cup she left in the sink.
My phone buzzes. Text from Christian.
CHRISTIAN: Heard Harper's moving in. Roman and I are taking bets on how long until you admit you're in over your head.
CHRISTIAN: I give it two weeks. Roman says three days.
ME: Neither. This is a business arrangement.
CHRISTIAN: Sure it is. That's why you're texting me at 8 PM instead of working like you always do.
CHRISTIAN: Good luck. You're going to need it.
I pocket my phone and return to my office, where I proceed to accomplish exactly nothing for the next two hours because I keep hearing Harper moving around my apartment.
The soft pad of her footsteps. The occasional laugh at something on her phone. The sound of boxes being opened and closed.
And underneath it all, the lingering scent of lavender.
I sigh, heading back to my home office.
This is sure to be a very long two months.
11
KEEP IT PROFESSIONAL? NOPE.
HARPER
Two weeks after the deal with Victor and moving into his penthouse, and I'm standing on the set of Weeknight Wins at 7 PM on a Thursday, covered in flour and realizing I might be in serious trouble.
Not the “pelmeni exploded on the ceiling” kind. The emotional kind.
Because somehow, impossibly, I am… comfortable.
And that should terrify me more than it does.
It’s mid-November now—the kind of New York November where darkness falls at 4:30 PM and the cold feels personal. Outside the studio windows, the city glitters with that slightly manic pre-holiday energy.
Inside, the set smells like browned butter, caramelized onions, and twelve straight hours of production sweat.
