She bites her lip, holding out her hand. “Give me your phone, Ace.”
I unlock it and hand it to her. She types in her number and gives it back.
“When you do decide you’re ready, call me. I’ll ease you back in real gently.”
A chuckle rolls out of me. “I don’t do anything gentle, Monica.”
She winks. “Good. That’s exactly what I want. Now, can you drive me home? Or should I call someone?"
"I'll drive you. Give me a second."
She heads for the door. I reach over and kill the speaker.
I stand in my kitchen. Alone. The two whiskey glasses on the counter. The condom still in my pocket, unused.
I tried. I really fucking tried. And I couldn't do it. Couldn't even get close. Because my body knows what my brain won't accept—that there is no moving on from Harper Jones. There is no post-Harper life. There's just the life I live until she comes back, or the life I live pretending I'm not waiting.
I grab my keys and drive Monica home. She's kind about it. Doesn't push. Doesn't ask questions. Kisses my cheek when I drop her off and says, "Good luck, cowboy."
I drive back alone.
The empty side of the bed is waiting.
It's always waiting.
I rest my head against the steering wheel and let out a breath that feels like it's been trapped in my lungs for weeks.
"Fuck, Goldie," I whisper to no one. "What have you done to me?"
The stars don't answer. They never do.
I go inside. Leave the lights off and fall into bed with my boots still on.
And I don't sleep.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Harper
Five weeks later…
"Mrs. Blake." The receptionist calls.
I don't look up from my phone. I'm editing my report for this week's submission. It’s a piece about last week's runway show. It's been a fun little distraction. I got to see the catwalk and meet some models and designers. Turns out, Lola's parents' company was there with their collection. A small, strange thread connecting my two worlds.
"Mrs. Blake."
I glance up.
Oh, shit. That's me.
I was expecting Miss Jones. Because that's who I am. Harper Jones. Not Blake. Never Blake. But the private clinic needed ID, and the only ID I have now is the one with his name stamped over mine.
I smile and stand, putting my phone in my purse. "Sorry. I was doing some work."
"No problem." She glances at the empty chairs on either side of where I was sitting. "Are you here on your own?"
"The father doesn't know I'm?—"
