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She jumps like a startled cat. “Go!”
I try not to take her rejection personally. I suspect she’s rejecting men and emotions in general, rather than me specifically. “I won’t leave you when you’re upset. Your situation is way more public because of me. Because I was careless enough to kiss you in public last night, naively thinking that since I’m retired no one would care about my love life.”
Harlow doesn’t answer, just continues to pant and shake over the toilet. I notice that she’d rather hold on to it than to me.
“I’m sorry, baby. Let’s talk.”
She shakes her head, then manages to get to her feet. “There’s nothing to say. It’s done. Let’s look forward and not back. You’ve got a job to prepare for and you’re paying me well to help you. You don’t have time for me to lick my wounds. How many hours of sleep did you have last night?”
“About three, but it can wait. You need—”
“I need to move on. Since you should be nice and exhausted today, let’s get started, hopefully make progress with the evaluations.” She washes her hands, then reaches for her toothbrush. “If you haven’t had coffee, don’t. Let me throw myself together and we’ll dig in. Meet me in your office in ten.”
Like nothing ever happened. Like her life didn’t fall apart less than a week ago and she hasn’t been trying to pick up the pieces by herself since. If she’s not ready to talk, badgering her won’t help. I don’t like it, but there’s not much I can do now.
More and more, I find myself wanting to talk to Maxon and Griff. They’re on her side. They understand their sister. They might be able to help me know what to do next and why she’s seemingly broken. Why she wants a baby so desperately. And why, if her ex didn’t shatter her emotionally, is she rebuffing someone who wants to make her happy?
“All right, but we’re going to talk about you, too.”
“That’s not going to help your situation.”
“Paragraph three, clause B says that we’ll take breaks at your discretion but I can insist we continue with therapy or engage in non-therapeutic conversation as a low-key way to continue my verbal progress. So when I need to rest, you can talk.”
“You want to grill me.”
“I just want to know you better, Harlow. I’m not the enemy.”
She stares at me, arms crossed. “Everyone is, Weston. Despite your celebrity, you’re no different. You hired me to help you with your speech issues. If you still want to fuck, I’m down with that. But I don’t need you to be my hero and I’m not looking for some grand romance. Now get out of my personal space.”
Harlow shoves me out and slams the door, but not before I see tears falling down her cheeks.
* * *
I stare at the bathroom door she slammed in my face for a long second.
That woman isnotfine. Does anyone else know that?
Shaking my head, I back away. I have maybe five minutes before Harlow gets herself together and comes downstairs in some thought-robbing outfit, gumption firmly strapped in place, demanding that we get to work. I should be using this time to do more than splash water on my face and find my wits, but as I do, realizations pelt me left and right. She’s been using sex as a newfound expression of her freedom from the ex-dipshit. She’s also wielding it expertly to avoid actual intimacy. It’s easy to fuck, so I understand why she’s acted as if we’re friends with benefits. I imagine it’s much more difficult to open your heart and make love. I’ve never actually done that, I admit. But Harlow needs to.
The question is, if I tried with her—if I could make love to her—how would she respond?
Yes, a woman who wants a baby because she craves love should want devotion from others in her life. But trust is a thin commodity with her, and she can feel secure that a baby will never hurt or deceive her. Harlow acts as if she’s otherwise avoidant of attachment. I’ve never been a huge fan myself, but I like this woman.Reallylike her. I want to be something more to her than the rebound stud.
I’m also second-guessing whether I should get that deep with Harlow. The guy who finally convinces her to open up and trust should be prepared to be a staple in her life for a long while. Our relationship already has an expiration date, per our contract. Is it possible we’ll still feel as hot for each other by the end of the summer as we do right now?
I don’t know. But I also know I can’t do nothing while she’s hurting.
After some grooming, I pick up my phone and scroll through my emails. I remember seeing phone numbers in messages about my house closing. It takes me a minute, but I finally locate a missive from Griff.
“I’m ready,” Harlow calls from the top of the stairs. “I’m setting up in your office. Come down and let’s get this shit started. You’ve got a second career to nail.”
With a grimace, I duck into the bathroom. “Be out in a minute.”
If I’m going to start understanding Harlow, I need reinforcements. Reaching her will be hard enough. Doing it in a couple of months sounds ridiculous. I’d leave it alone if I thought someone else could manage it…and if I didn’t have some inexplicable urge to be the man to break through her walls.
Taking a deep breath, I dial the number in the email. Despite the fact that it’s barely seven a.m., he answers on the second ring. “Griffin Reed speaking.”
“It’s Noah Weston.”
