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“You did that just to keep sleeping with me.”
“I might have agreed to your proposition for that reason, but I agreed to get started because I finally admitted that I need help.”
Her face softens. “You do. I want to help you in every way possible to lead a full, normal life. Besides, I enjoy a good challenge. But I also think you love football too much to leave it entirely. Broadcasting seems like a perfect next step for you, and I’m determined to see you succeed.”
I’m struck again by how complicated this woman is. She wants to cast a bright ray in my life but would rather sit alone in the dark with her own woes. She’s doing her best to help me, so I’m going to jump in and help her, too. Maybe by summer’s end we’ll both be ready to move on and tackle a brighter future. What more could I ask for?
Two days later, Harlow wakes me at the crack of dawn and tells me to dress in comfortable clothes while she makes us a lunch. Two things don’t escape my notice: First, she didn’t sleep in my bed again last night. She stays long enough for the amazing, explosive sex and waits until I fall asleep. Then I can only assume she slips out because I always wake up alone. Second, she hasn’t said a word about where we’re going or what we’re doing today.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“I have a new assessment I’d like to try. I spoke with my master professor yesterday, and she gave me some great suggestions about where to go with your case next. I didn’t use any names, of course.”
I nod, acknowledging her discretion. Not that the world isn’t still buzzing about that kiss captured on camera and whether I’m the reason Harlow ran out on her cheating ex. As promised, I helped her change her number. She also disabled all social media profiles except LinkedIn, which she kept for professional purposes. I also haven’t seen her return a single one of those stacked-up voice mails except to her brothers or their brides.
“But in order to give this assessment properly, I have to change the test conditions. We already tried getting a read on you when you were tired and you performed better than expected. Since anxiety seems to be another trigger, we’ll try this in a stressful situation.”
I’m pulling on a T-shirt to go with my khaki shorts and hiking boots when her words stop me. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing public,” she assures me. “Believe me, the last thing I want is a spectacle. I don’t need more attention, either.”
True. No one seeks less attention from the press than Harlow.
“Thanks for the reassurance, but can you be more specific?”
“No.” And she looks cheerful about having the upper hand as she hands me a cup of coffee. “If I tell you, then you can mentally prepare for the situation. I need you to be off guard for this to work properly.”
“That sounds ominous.”
Her smile turns flirty. “Am I scaring you, big guy?”
“A little bit. You’re small but mighty. And you can be fearsome when pissed off.”
“Don’t you forget it.” She winks and lifts a picnic basket. “Ready when you are.”
With a little more trepidation than I let on, I get behind the wheel and we head out of the estate. I’m semi-prepared when we open the gate to find a small cluster of reporters waiting for a photo op or a scoop. The second we emerge from behind the sweeping palm fronds, the snaps start. I can hear the speculation now. No one has seen us come or go for days, so they know damn well Harlow has been in my house. They’ll likely guess she’s been in my bed. Not as much as I’d like, but I’ll fix that soon.
Harlow keeps her head down as we pass slowly because they aren’t in a hurry to get off the damn road.
“Is your relationship with Ms. Reed serious or are you her rebound romance?” shouts one reporter.
I’m not going roll down my window to justify that stupid question with an answer.
“What do you have to say about the speculation that you’re in talks to provide color commentary for NFL games this fall?”
Nothing. If they want to speculate, I can’t stop them. But I’m certainly not adding fuel to their fire.
“Simon Butler says Ms. Reed’s public display at their aborted wedding was a stunt to whip up public sympathy when, in fact, she’s a… What did he call her?” He flips through his little notepad. “Yeah, a fame-seeking whore. Butler claims she cheated on him with you. What’s your comment?”
By silent but mutual consent, we’ve ignored most everything on our phones and turned off the world. It’s easy to do when you have no neighbors, your own beach, and utter privacy. For the past couple of days, I’ve done nothing but enjoy my moments with Harlow. We’ve gone skinny-dipping and built a sand castle on the beach. We’ve watched movies and cooked together. And we’ve had sex. Steamy quickies, followed by hours-long bouts of slow, heavy pleasure. We’ve christened the living room sofa, the kitchen counters, even the lounger on which I first spotted her. I don’t know what it is about Harlow, but every time I’m sure I’ve fucked her so much I shouldn’t want her again, I want her more.
“Was she seeing you while still engaged to her fiancé, Weston?” the reporter demands. “Is she the fame-seeking whore Butler claims?”
That’s it. I stop the SUV and put it in park.
“What are you doing?” Harlow gapes at me like she knows exactly what I intend and is horrified by the prospect.
“Putting a stop to this bullshit.”
