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I want to argue, but without words, how? Then Harlow makes everything easier when she leads me to the living room and fluffs a cushion on the island-casual couch, then gives me a saucy wink. “When I’m done, if you still want to have your wicked way with me, I’m totally game.”
Finally, I look her way. Really look. I don’t see pity. I see concern. Weirdly, that turns me on.
Unfortunately, I can’t seem to summon the verbal skills to thank her. I promise myself I’ll show her my appreciation in bed later.
When I hear water running in the kitchen sink behind me and the pop of the dishwasher opening, I close my eyes. Maybe a ten-minute power nap will resurrect my verbal agility. If not, I’ll simply have to show her that I’m really good with my tongue.
Ijolt awake. The kitchen is dark, as is the living room. I look around and find the place empty.
“Harlow?”
Thank fuck my ability to speak is back. The sleep must have restored me. It usually does.
I pull my phone from my pocket and glance at the time. My eyes nearly pop from my head. I conked out for three hours?
What. The. Fuck?
Worse, she didn’t answer. Did she decide I’m a deadbeat who can’t put out and catch a ride to one of her brothers’ pads? Or worse, decide she was better off finding someone else more capable of scratching whatever itch she has? Normally, if a hookup was too horny to wait and didn’t care who she dropped her panties for, then she would be more than welcome to find some douchebag to cozy up to for the night.
Thinking that Harlow might be on the prowl both angers me and fills me with a dread that makes zero sense.
Seriously, what is wrong with me tonight?
Stomping up the stairs, I call her name again. No answer.
Quickly, I figure out which bedroom she occupies. It’s the one that smells like her, island vanilla and gardenia. It’s the one with lacy panties folded on the dresser next to a strappy bra. A pair of red wedges are strewn around the room as if she kicked them off the second she walked in. Her suitcase peeks out from a luggage rack in the closet, visible through the cracked door.
At least if she left, she hasn’t left for good.
On her nightstand, I see her tablet, a thick biography about Elizabeth Blackwell. I have no idea who that was or what she accomplished. But after I find Harlow, I’ll Google it and figure out what fascinates the woman who’s beginning to fascinate me.
Right now, I just want to know where the hell Harlow has gone.
A check of the other seven bedrooms in this place, including mine, proves pointless. I stomp back downstairs and look from room to room—office, formal living, formal dining, exercise room—empty. I rake a hand through my hair. Where has she gone?
Then I hear splashing outside, along with the distinct sounds of Evanescence.
Darting for the pool, I see Harlow’s little red bikini lying on a lounger. She’s skinny-dipping? I glance around for confirmation and find the woman herself clutching a pool noodle with one hand and a glass of wine with the other.
“Hi, Sleeping Beauty.” She grins my way.
“Sorry about that. I can’t remember the last time I just fell off.”
“You obviously needed it. Feel better?”
“Tons. Thanks. How about you?”
“Great. I love drinking alone.” Her smirk says she’s poking harmlessly at me again. “But you gave me time to finish the dishes, do some laundry, readWar and Peace…”
“Stop,” I groan. “Three hours is a long nap. I admit it. You going to ease up now?”
“When teasing you is so fun?” She raises a brow. “What do you think are the odds?”
Shitty. “How can I make it up to you? If you want to hop out of the pool and come to my bedroom, I’ll do my best to put a big smile on your face.”
“I’m intrigued,” she admits. “But in between chapters of the sad Russian saga, I Googled you. You’re, um…a big deal.”
I feel heat rush to my face. I’m used to people talking about me, but I’ve never been completely comfortable with it. “I’m told I was. But like I said, I’m retired now.”
