Page 37 of The Truth of Us

I stayed for another drink and then headed home to my big, empty penthouse alone. I thought about the night, about Harper, about what Caleb said. But I didn’t know how to be anyone but me… I didn’t know how to live a life outside of what I was doing. People don’t just change like that… Do they?

10

HARPER

By the second week of our arrangement, Elliot had somehow become woven into my daily routine. So much so that I had considered whether he needed to be reminded that this was a temporary arrangement. He sent me gifts daily, even though I reminded him I didn’t need him buying me things and texted me constantly; it wasn’t even sexy or romantic things. That would almost make more sense. Instead, it was things like:

Elliot:

Timothy wears loafers without socks, and I don’t trust it.

Or:

Theo just called a shareholder meeting “a hostage situation with pastries.”

Who talks like that…

Why was he at our shareholders' meeting?

And the question remains: What does Theo do?

Or:

What are your thoughts on decorative pillows?

If you were to stay at a man’s place overnight…

What would you need to have there?

Julian smiled, and it freaked me out.

I should not know that Elliot only drank his coffee black when he was stressed, or that he hated sparkling water, and I definitely should not know exactly what his face looked like when he was trying not to smile. But somehow, over the course of our arrangement, I learned all of it anyway.

The problem was that Elliot made this… feel easy. Our arrangement was working exactly the way it was supposed to, publicly. We were everywhere. Lunches, charity events, dinners, cocktails, meetings, and galas. Every single time Elliot touched me in public, cameras caught it. His hand on my lower back, fingers laced through mine, or his mouth brushing my temple.

And kisses… so many kisses.

But somewhere during week two, the line started blurring. Because Elliot kissed me like a man who enjoyed it and didn’t plan on stopping. And that was a problem, a massive one. So when he pushed, I kept reminding him of the rules and why.

I noticed it most at night, specifically when he looked at me after sex. Like he forgot himself for a second. Like he wanted to say something and stopped. His eyes betrayed him more than his actions, and it was confusing enough that I started leaving faster. Which he noticed, unfortunately.

Thursday night, I arrived at his penthouse already exhausted and trying very hard not to look like I was in pain. But I failed spectacularly.

My period started early, and the cramps had started that morning. By evening I felt as though someone had shoved a knife into my abdomen and twisted it for fun. I had tried to cancel our plans, but Elliot, being Elliot, told me we had to stick to the schedule unless I was willing to attend the holiday event. So I pulled on my big girl panties and was determined to get through whatever mixer it was we were supposed to be attending and then have a date with a hot bath, herbal tea, and then bed.

I hated being visibly uncomfortable. Weakness in my world was something people noticed and filed away for later use. Especially as a woman. So I wore black tailored trousers, an oversized cream sweater over one of my silk camis, because bras when my breasts felt like they were rebelling should be illegal. And then, to top it off, one of my softest cashmere jackets and my favourite scarf. I was going for comfort to avoid murder.

The second he opened the door, his eyes narrowed. “You look… overdressed.”

I brushed past him into the penthouse. “Hello to you too.”

“You’re wearing pants… and so many layers.”

“That is normal for Chicago in late fall.”

“Harper.” His voice followed me toward the kitchen. “I don't think I have ever seen you wearing that much clothing.”

I ignored him and reached for the glass of wine already waiting for me on the counter. Elliot leaned against the island, watching me carefully. God, this man noticed everything.