I set the knife down and wipe my sweaty palms on a dish towel, taking a moment to breathe deep. The sound of Connor giggling at something on the TV pulls me back into reality. I peek out to check on him, and there he is, now sprawled across the couch, completely lost in a cartoon. Thank God for cartoons. At least he’s distracted while I cook dinner.
Garlic bread is in the oven, I’ve got the water boiling for the pasta, and I’m feeling pretty damn proud of myself for managing to get the sauce simmering without burning it. The kitchen smells like garlic and tomatoes, a comforting reminder that I can cook at least one meal without catastrophe.
As I chop up some fresh basil, I hear a knock at the door.
“Connor!” I call out, knowing he’s glued to the couch. “Can you get that?”
“Sure!” His voice is bright with enthusiasm, and I can already picture him bouncing off the couch, racing to the door like it’s Christmas morning. I slice through a handful of basil, letting the knife glide expertly before shifting my focus back to the pot. Everything feels relatively under control until I hear Connor open the door.
“Coach Harrison!” he squeals, his voice echoing through the apartment.
“Hey, buddy!” Harrison replies, and I can hear that familiar warmth in his tone that sends a jolt straight through me.
My heart skips a beat.
I try to concentrate on finishing up dinner, slicing the rest of the basil, but knowing he’s here sends waves of nerves crashing through me. My knife slips, and suddenly I feel a sharp sting on my finger.
“Shit!” I hiss, dropping the knife as a bright bead of red swells way too fast across my finger.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect timing, Harper.
The blood keeps coming—because of course it does—and I grab a dish towel, pressing it hard against the cut, wincing as the sting blossoms.
“Mom?” Connor calls from the front door. “You okay?”
“Fine!” I lie loudly, my voice shaking at the sight of blood. “Totally fine. Just uh…keep Coach Harrison company!”
Fantastic. Now I’m hiding in the kitchen bleeding like an amateur chef while the man who broke my heart—or the manIbroke my own heart over—stands in my living room.
Before I can even take a breath, heavy footsteps rush toward me.
Harrison’s voice fills the doorway. “Harper? What’s wrong?”
I whirl around too fast, dizzy from adrenaline. He takes one look at the blood seeping through the towel and his whole expression changes, his eyes sharp, his jaw tense.
“What happened?” He crosses the kitchen in three long strides.
“I—uh…the knife slipped.” I hold up the towel-covered finger awkwardly, like I’m presenting him with a tragic magic trick. Part of me wants to hide the wound, hide this weakness, hide everything from him.
He reaches for my wrist but I pull back instinctively. “It’s fine, really. It’s just a little?—”
“It’s bleeding through the towel, Harp.” His voice softens but stays firm. “Come on. Let me see.”
I falter because suddenly he’s too close. Close enough that I can smell him, clean linen mixed with something warm and familiar that makes me want to both lean in and run away. His hand is steady around my wrist, thumb brushing lightly against my pulse. The kitchen feels smaller now and the air thicker. For a moment I swear time folds in on itself and we’re college students, sneaking kisses and talking about the future we were never going to have…the future I destroyed.
He lifts the towel and inspects my finger and I hate how much I like that he’s holding my hand. Even if it is my blood he’s looking at.
I hate the sight of blood.
“Damn,” he mutters under his breath. “You really did a number on it.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger at myself for needing his help. “I was just…slicing basil.”
His eyes rise with a slow, amused lift of his eyebrow. “Basil fought back, huh?”
A laugh slips out, more breath than sound, before I can stop it. “Apparently. The leafy bastard.”
