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I wrap my arm over her shoulder, sensing that this story must be difficult to tell and quickly make the connection with her need to wear clothes at night…in case of a fire.
“I got out. It was crazy, with all the lights flashing, people running around, and yelling. I found my dad in the parking lot, but Max wasn’t with him. I held my dad’s hand as he raced around, asking people if they saw my little brother. Finally, a woman said she saw a little boy in airplane pajamas. He loved planes. He and my dad would work on airplane models. He had them hanging from the ceiling in his bedroom.” She pauses again. “The woman said Max told her he couldn’t find his family and that Squishie was inside the hotel. Squishie was his stuffed animal. This floppy-eared beat-up puppy he took everywhere.” She stops to clear her throat. “The woman said her daughter started crying, and while she was trying to console her, Max took off. Her daughter said Max went back inside the hotel. My dad left me with the woman and went to find Max. He went into the hotel.” She sniffles. “A few minutes later, th-the building started to collapse. There was a huge cloud of smoke coming from the top. I stood there watching. I knew my dad and Max were in that cloud. I knew they were being taken from me, forever.”
“Oh, Harper. I’m sorry,” I say, again, feeling like a broken record with the apologies but sincere with each turn of the album.
“Yeah.” She sighs. “That was my dad. Always the hero,” she says with anger. “Would you do me a favor?”
“Sure, Anything.”
She pushes up from my chest, wiping her glossy bronze eyes. “Would you” —she plucks my shirt with her fingers—“take this off?”
I gaze at her, recognizing the struggle in her slight smile. I reach behind and pull my shirt off.
She settles back down, setting her face on my naked chest. “Thank you.” She wraps her arm around me, nuzzling her cheek against my skin.
A few minutes later, she’s sound asleep in my arms.
And I’m left thinking about her as a twelve-year-old girl standing outside that fire while watching her life go up in smoke.
Fuck. I think I understand Harper James a little better. Like me, tragedy has contributed to who she is today.
Life sucks.
Still, every day I’m with her, she’s making mine better.
I want to do the same for her.
Chapter 18
I glance up from the frying pan. Harper comes waltzing into the kitchen like a ray of blinding sunshine in the T-shirt she slept in. It barely covers her thighs. Her messy long dark hair is beyond sexy. Along with those pouty just-woke-up lips.
“And he cooks,” she says, puckering her succulent lips.
“Yes. He does. How do you like your eggs?”
“I don’t eat breakfast, but I could go for some coffee.” She looks around the kitchen. “And there it is.” She walks over to the pot, gazing at me. Her eyebrow lifts. “Mugs?”
I point at the cupboard with the spatula.
“Thanks.” She turns around, opens the cupboard, and stands on her toes, enhancing her calf muscles, to reach up for a mug.
The short T-shirt rises enough for me to get a glimpse of the start of her perfectly rounded ass cheeks. She looks at me over her shoulder, hand in the air, ass still teasing me senselessly, and she smiles. She holds the pose long enough for a stiffy to get going in my pants.
She slowly lowers from her toes, pours herself a cup of java, rotates in my direction, and rests against the counter.
She takes a sip of her coffee. Her eyes pore over my naked chest.
“You really should wear a shirt when you’re cooking.”
“I think I’ll be okay.” At this point, her burning eyes are the only threat to my bare chest. I go back to my eggs.
“Thanks for last night,” she says in a near whisper.
I take a quick look at her. “No problem,” I say, meaning it. I return to tending to my eggs. “You slept well, then?”
“Yes.”
I glance at her. “You met Cassie?”
