Enduring. That’s what it should’ve been. Instead, it was the best night I’ve had in years. I look at her and she looks at me. The silence between us is warm and charged, like static before a storm. If she leaned in just a little, I don’t know if I’d have the strength to pull back.
I clear my throat. “We should head in. It’s cold.”
“Right.”
She smiles, small and real, and walks inside. I follow, trying to ignore the way that smile lodged itself somewhere around my frozen heart.
♥♥♥
The room is warm when we enter, the fire glowing low in the hearth like our butler and maid were expecting us. Harper sets her coat over the armchair, brushing snow from the sleeves. I kick off my boots, suddenly too aware of how big and awkward they look in a room built for romance.
She moves around the suite with a soft kind of clumsiness. It’s like she’s nervous but trying not to show it. She picks up her makeup bag. Sets it down. Folds her sweater. Unfolds it. Stares at the bed with panic she tries to disguise by smoothing the blankets.
“We survived day two,” she says, her voice high with an edge of nerves.
I nod. “One day at a time.”
Harper moves to the bathroom to change. I force myself to breathe normally. She comes out a minute later in pajamas that should be illegal. She’s wearing soft gray leggings and anoversized sleep shirt slipping off one shoulder. Her hair is loose. My brain short-circuits.
I brush my teeth and change into sweats and a t-shirt. It’s more than I would wear at home, but I don’t want to scare her. We climb into the bed again—her side, my side—leaving the Grand Canyon between us.
She pulls the blankets up to her chin. “Just … don’t drift.”
“I don’t drift,” I lie.
She gives me a look that says she absolutely does not believe that.
The fire pops softly. Snow drifts against the window. The room is too warm. Or maybe I am. Ten minutes pass. She shifts. I shift. We both pretend not to notice.
Then — lightly, barely above a whisper, “Ethan?”
My throat tightens. “Yeah?”
“I … um … I don’t know how I ended up so close to you last night.”
I stare at the ceiling. “You drifted.”
“I don’t drift.”
“You do now.”
She lets out a tiny, embarrassed groan and covers her face with her hands. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say quietly.
“It’s not,” she mumbles. “I practically crawled on top of you.”
“Harper,” I say, voice low, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Okay.”
The air between us thickens. If I leaned over—just an inch—we’d be — No. Not yet. Not like this. I turn onto my back, forcing a breath. “Sleep. We’ve got another big day tomorrow.”
She nods. “Right. Sleep.”
But neither of us move. Neither of us close our eyes. And neither of us will sleep tonight.
Not while the spark between us is burning a hole straight through the dark.
