I stand, shake off the nerves buzzing under my skin, and head toward his bedroom. If I’m really doing this—waiting for him in his bed like some kind of bold, fearless woman—I need to shower, get myself together, and not look like I’ve been having an emotional crisis over an old photograph.
I pull the lingerie I purchased before coming over here out of my bag and lay it on Harrison’s king-sized bed. I light the candle Antoni forced on me, and then pull back the duvet, smoothing the sheets.
My heart thrums with anticipation.
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
Harrison’s coming home tonight.
And this time, I won’t be waiting from a distance.
I’ll be right here.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HARRISON
By the time the elevator reaches my floor, my body feels like a collection of aches held together by caffeine and stubbornness. Ten days. Ten hotels. Ten nights of wanting her so bad I couldn’t sleep right. I considered driving straight to her apartment but it’s late and I have a feeling she’s asleep. Plus, what would I have said if Connor had heard me?
Tomorrow.
I’ll get a good night’s sleep and see her tomorrow.
I enter the lock code and the door clicks open, and everything in me freezes.
The apartment is quiet. Dim and soft just as I left it.
But it’s not empty.
There are shoes by the door that are not mine and a purple jacket on the hook.
A faint scent—vanilla and coconut and whatever shampoo she uses that always makes me want to bury my face in her neck—drifts through the air like an invitation.
My bag drops to the floor with a thud.
“Harper?” I call out softly.
There’s no answer, but there’s a faint glow coming from my bedroom.
Holy shit.
She’s here?
She came?
For me?
I turn and lock the door behind me, toe off my shoes, and then forget everything else. All I want to do is get to her. Not knowing what I’m going to find when I get there, I pad quietly down the hall to my bedroom and when I step inside, my heart actually stutters.
Fuck me.
She’s here.
Curled on her side right in the middle of my bed like she belongs there, Harper is fast asleep, blankets tucked up to her chin, hair spilled over my pillow. For a second, I’m convinced I’m delirious from the flight. Like this is some sort of jet-lag hallucination. But then I see the duffel bag on the chair in the corner. Laid out across it, draped like she hadn’t finished deciding on it, is some sort of black, lacey, barely-there undergarment.
Lingerie?
She brought lingerie?
