HANNAH
Itell Happy everything. And I meaneverything.
I tell Happy how Chris drove me home one night after a benefit last year, and how he was telling me that he and his wife were separating, and how he played such a convincing victim. That he wasn’t allowed to say anything to anyone because she’d threatened going for full custody if he so much as mentioned a word about their separation, therefore making it so I couldn’t tell another living soul at the risk of him never seeing his children again.
I tell Happy how Chris started to use me for emotional support through his apparent separation. Coming here, to my apartment, late at night, often drunk. And then one night, when he came by, he told me all the things any twenty-something-year-old single woman is desperate to hear from a slightly older man. That I was beautiful. That I was special. That I was perfect. And if he could have his time over, I’d be the woman he would want to spend the rest of his life with. He even told me that when the divorce was finalized, maybe I could give him a second chance at true love. Shamefully, I tell Happy how that’s all it took to get me into bed and embroiled in a scandalous affairI wasn’t even aware of; a little sweet talk and a couple empty promises did me in.
I tell Happy that my relationship with Chris lasted two months. For two months, he wined and dined me. He took me to the Catskills for a romantic weekend away. He took me to his house in the Hamptons. He even took me to the hotel he told me he was living in until the divorce was done. For two whole months, I believed every word that came out of his mouth. But then, suddenly, one night Chris told me that his allegedlyestrangedwife was pregnant, and that they were going to try and make things work. It took me less than sixty seconds to realize that there was never any separation, and that Chris Garret is a lying sack of shit.
I tell Happy that it stopped then. That as soon as I found out the truth, that I was unknowingly the other woman, I stopped seeing Chris. And for a long time, that was that. But for the last couple of months, he’s been calling me. I blocked his number, but then he started messaging me on social media. When I blocked him on social media, he started emailing me at work, knowing I can’t have him blocked without it raising questions since I work at SNN, the top sports streaming broadcast companies in the country. And recently, like tonight, he’s been showing up here. And no matter what, it feels like the more I try to stay away from him, the harder he tries to get to me.
After a long and deafening silence, I look up at Happy, my eyes bouncing between his, searching for something—anything—some semblance of recognition, at least. But this whole time, he’s been nothing but a vapid, blank canvas showing little to no emotion whatsoever.
My shoulders sag beneath the weight of resignation, and I look down, afraid that if I keep looking into Happy’s eyes, I’ll see the judgement I can’t stomach seeing. I already hate on myself enough; I don’t need the likes of Happy Slater looking at me like I’m a shitty human.
“I know I’m not completely innocent,” I say more to myself than to Happy. “Separated or not, Chris was still legally married when we first kissed. But I was so naïve and gullible andstupidthat I believed every word he told me. If I could go back in time and turn down that offer of a ride home, I would. In a heartbeat. I hate myself for what I did.”
“Hey,” Happy finally says, and I suck in a gasp when I feel his forefinger slide under my chin, tipping my face up and forcing my eyes to his. His dark gaze implores mine, searching, a crease burrowing between his eyebrows the longer he stares at me.
“You arenotto blame, Hannah,” he says through gritted teeth, his voice low and dangerous. “That asshole manipulated you. He took advantage of you. He’s a goddamn predator.”
I release the breath I’ve been holding as traitorous tears prick the backs of my eyes because I didn’t realize until this very moment just how much I needed to hear that.
I’m not the bad guy; I’m the victim.
“Baby Draper, I need you to promise me something, okay?”
Swallowing the emotion that’s balled into the back of my throat, I look up at him, waiting.
“I don’t care what time of the day or night it is. I don’t care if I’m on the other side of the goddamn Canadian Rockies. If that asshole shows up here, you call me, you got that?” His eyes flit between mine, a startling seriousness in his coffee gaze.
I nod once, looking down.
“And you arenotstupid,” he says softly, so softly I almost miss it.
My eyes lift again, meeting his as the faintest hint of a smile ghosts his lips.
“You’re feisty as hell.” He sniffs a laugh. “And fuck me, this right hook?” He looks down at my hand, pulling away the bag of now thawed broccoli. “Hell, I wouldn’t wanna be on the receiving end of this haymaker.” He drags his thumb over mynumb knuckles, and an involuntary shiver rolls through me, which is when I realize just how close we are.
I peer up at him through my lashes, taking him in. And my God, Happy Slater is unfairly hot. I mean, his mother was one of the nineties’ top supermodels; of course, he’s hot. But his hotness is that intimidating level of hot. Dark brown eyes with subtle flecks of gold and thick black lashes framing them. High cheek bones that look as if they could cut glass. Full lips. And the darkest hair that’s almost black, with this one lock that I’d swear is a paid actor, falling forward over his forehead as if on cue. He’s tall. And broad. And all the things. And, did I mention he’s hot?
My gaze drops to his lips just in time to see the tip of his tongue poke out, almost tauntingly, and a breath catches in the back of my throat because the way my body is reacting to him, it’s like I’m under a spell; he’s pulling me in like some sexy man-witch. Our lips inch closer and closer, and like a moth to a flame, I’m ready to sacrifice myself for just one taste.
As I lean in even closer, craning up on my tiptoes, from somewhere deep in the abyss of my subconscious, I can hear myself.Happy Slater? Really, Hannah?And she’s right. Gross. I should be ashamed of myself. But in my defense, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a decent dicking.
“Whatcha doin’, Baby Draper?” Happy rasps, looking down at me, his smirk so cocky my palm itches to smack it off his smug face.
“Give me a break,” I mutter. “It’s beensolong.”
His big hand finds my hip, pulling me flush against his hard body, the look in his eyes turning molten as he murmurs so low, I feel it between my thighs. “Tell me what you need.”
I search his eyes, considering myself. What do I need? I mean, I know what I need. I haven’t had sex in almost five months. And I know to some that might not be a long time, but I like sex. I love sex. Sue me. Five months is a fucking eternity for a sex fan, and there’s really only so much a dildo can do. But amI actually considering fucking Happy Slater right now? My gaze drops down to his naked torso, from the pelvic V that dips down into the waist of his leather pants, his stacked abs, his perfectly proportionate pecs, to the one solitary tattoo inked into the skin directly over his heart that just saysluckywith a heart circled around it. I don’t know what it means, and it looks like it was done by a toddler, but there’s just something soHappyabout it.
“Use your words, Baby Draper…” Happy taunts.
I look up at him again, and with a deep breath, I wrap a hand around the back of his head, fingers tugging on his hair as I urge him closer with a muttered, “Fuck it,” before crashing my lips against his.
Happy’s lips part, his mouth warm as my tongue slides in, finding his. Our tongues dance, battling for dominance, and when I pull on the longer lengths of his hair, he submits to me, groaning into our kiss, the sound only spurring me on. When his big hands slide down over my ass, lifting me up off my feet, I go willingly, wrapping my legs around his waist and grinding myself against the impressive bulge that’s formed inside those tight leather pants.
