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“I’ll think about it,” I say, to appease him for the moment.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he says before disconnecting the call. If there’s anyone that knows how my mind operates, it is Leo.
We met at freshman orientation, both wide-eyed and so out of our respective elements—both nerds to the core. We bonded over computer code and our freshman class schedules. That friendship has lasted the past ten years and seen us through the start-up of a very successful business, taking both of us from low to middle-class upbringings to billionaires overnight. When we received the offer to sell the first app we’d created, it was life-changing. We could have retired that day and never gone another day in our lives wanting for anything. Thankfully, we’re so alike it is scary sometimes, and we both wanted to continue to work. Continue to learn and develop new things.
I finally make it out to the truck I’m driving while here. It is my granddad’s old truck. The one I learned to drive in all those years ago. I’m glad my parents never got rid of it after he passed away when I was a junior in high school.
I pull up the GPS on my phone and enter Harper’s address. It looks simple enough to get to, but she’s right that I don’t know the area, as it was all fields the last time I was here.
I make it across the small town of Sweet Valley in about ten minutes. It would take me probably ninety minutes to drive the same distance back home with all the traffic. I pull into the neighborhood and can immediately tell why Harper likes it here. It looks like the perfect little street. Cute little houses, with their welcoming colors, nice, manicured lawns, kids playing, dogs barking as a few adults walk down the sidewalk with them on leashes.
My phone alerts that I’ve reached my destination, so I pull into the drive that is marked with Harper’s address. Her house is a deep red wine color with white trim that pops out at me. The lawn almost looks fake with how green and perfectly manicured it is.
I cut the engine and grab the flowers I’d picked up earlier. I take one last look in the rearview mirror, to make sure I didn’t somehow miss a speck of something the other hundred times I checked myself in the mirror. Finding that I, in fact, don’t have something stuck in my teeth, I slide from the truck and walk the short distance to the porch. I climb the steps, skipping the middle one on my way up. I reach for the buzzer just as the door swings open. Harper is standing there in all her beautiful glory. She’s changed since I saw her at the bakery earlier, and is now in a flowy top and shorts, with her hair down, cascading around her shoulders. I’ve never had the desire to run my fingers through a woman’s hair until now.
“Hi,” Harper greets, her hand coming up to wave at me. I’m glad to see I’m not the only one a little nervous and awkward.
“Hello,” I state, my voice sounding a little raspy, even to my own ears. “These are for you,” I tell her, handing over the bundle of flowers.
“Thank you, these are gorgeous and smell amazing,” she says, sticking her nose in the bundle of flowers. “Let me just put them in some water, and then we can go.” She moves back from the door, leaving it open for me to walk into her house. I take one step inside, closing the door behind me. I look around, taking in the open floor plan of the small place. It is very obvious a woman lives here. Pictures are hung on the walls, a throw blanket is draped over the back of the couch, a pile of books sits on the end table.
The atmosphere is so different from my own apartment. My place is all modern lines, dark wood, and leather. A bachelor pad to the core. While Harper's place feels like a home. One that she could have a family in.
“Sorry for the wait; I had to dig out my vase.”
“No problem, I should have thought to bring one.”
“That wasn’t necessary. I just had to remember where I put it. I don’t frequently get flowers, so it isn’t something I use often,” she says, closing the distance from the doorway into her kitchen to where I stand by the front door. “Ready?” she asks, picking her small purse up that is sitting on the entryway table.
“After you,” I tell her, opening the door and waving my hand for her to go first.
“Thank you,” she says, stepping through the doorway. I close it behind me, then step out of the way so she can lock up.
I walk next to her to the truck, stepping around her once we reach the front of it so I can open the passenger door for her to slide in. I wait while she gets settled before closing the door and making my way around to the driver’s side.
I turn the key, and nothing happens. I try again, and still nothing. “Well, I wasn’t expecting this to happen,” I state, giving Harper a sheepish look.
“It’s not like you planned for the truck to break down.” She laughs. “We can either stay here or take my car; I’m good with either.”
“Whatever you want to do, I’m fine with.”
“How about we order some takeout and have it delivered. We can catch up, and you can call a tow truck to come get your truck or whatever.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I get out of the truck and round the front to open her door once again. I follow her back inside, taking my boots off just inside the door. I follow her into the kitchen, where she pulls out a basket filled with takeout menus. My eyes go a little wide at the sheer number of them filling the basket. When I lived here, we had exactly one restaurant that offered delivery. “Wow.”
“Things have changed a little since the last time you were here; we’ve joined the current century.” She laughs, and it is the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in a long-ass time.
The way her head falls back as she laughs, so carefree and beautiful. It has my dick twitching and my skin prickling at the thought of my fingers trailing down that exposed skin or my lips skimming over her as she comes on my cock.
“They sure have,” I say, the gruffness of my voice very noticeable. I clear my throat, doing my best to make it go back to normal.
“What kind of food did you want to order?” she asks, holding up the basket, giving it a little shake.
“I’m not super picky; what are you in the mood for?”
“Hmmm,” she hums, tapping a forefinger against her lips as she thinks. “I’m also not super picky,” she says, sifting through the menus as she tries to decide.
“What’s your favorite restaurant?” I ask.
