My eyes slide to the passenger seat.
Focusing on what’s important, I grab the bottle of champagne and large bouquet of flowers, and get out of the vehicle. I’ll make a second trip for the bottles of beer later. Still riding high from my unexpected meeting, I whistle a tune as I stroll across the space.
This Monday was weighing heavy on my shoulders as the fight with Harley had created a wedge between us. Coming face to face with my ex-wife turned a bad day into a shitty one. The few minutes I spent in that woman’s presence were like standing in the bowels of hell. I didn’t think anything could turn my mood around. Hoppy Joe proved me wrong.
When I open the door leading from the home office to the rest of the house, music coming from the surround sound system greets me.
Looks like I’m not the only one whose day took a turn for the better.
I climb the steps to the kitchen and when I reach the threshold, I freeze.
My heart gallops at the sight.
My blood pressure can’t handle seeing Harley so carefree in my house.
The scene is so… comfortable.
She’s standing in my kitchen, wearing my navy-blue and white charity jersey with my name and number on her back, swaying her hips left to right, as she stirs something on the stove while belting out the bridge to the song playing. Had it not been for yesterday’s fight and this morning’s cold front, I’d be puffing my chest out right now, taking credit for her song selection—‘A Natural Woman’.
She bangs the wooden spoon on the pot a few times before bringing it to her mouth and singing the bridge.
She can’t carry a note to save her life, but damn those hips. She can dance.
I take in the kitchen.
It’s like a tomato farm exploded here.
Harley is a messy cook, but instead of being freaked out by the chaos, I can’t help my smile.
When I lived with Devlyn, her social calendar was so packed, she was never home. Even without her calendar as an excuse, the idea of my ex cooking a meal is laughable. The woman would put on disposable gloves to peel an avocado so she wouldn’t ruin her manicure.
But this is my space. And this beautiful blonde is occupying it like my queen?—
She isn’t your queen.
She isn’t even your girlfriend.
She wants things to remain fake.
I shake my head.
Harley McKenzie Lancaster is a real fucking problem.
The petite bombshell who knocked my world sideways made our position clear.
The errant thought has my palms and forehead sweating. I wipe the moisture away with the back of my hand.
I tamp down my feelings of rejection and clear my throat. “Someone is cooking up a storm.”
Harley jumps and whirls around. “Holy shit. I didn’t hear you sneak up on me. You move through the house as if you were a ghost. For a guy your size, that shouldn’t even be possible.”
“Between the singing and the stirring, it’s no surprise you didn’t hear me come in. It’s not like I was trying to be quiet.”
She laughs. “You’re right.” She drops the wooden spoon on the spoon rest on the oven, strolls to the other side of the kitchen, grabs the remote, and lowers the music. She turns to face me. “For a minute there, I thought I was pretending to be a contestant on a talent show. But since I can’t sing to save my life, I have to be content with being a closeted performer.”
Her playfulness unfurls the knot of dread that’s been sitting in my gut since yesterday’s fight.
I drop the champagne on the countertop and stride towards her. “For you.” I hand her the bouquet.
