Nolan watches and finally the smile he is holding back breaks and takes over his face. That’s all it takes. I definitely made the right decision.
Ten square feet separateus, that’s it. The length of my kitchen island but I might as well be wandering through the Sahara. Harper’s here though, sitting in front of me, in a seat I’ve imagined her in a thousand times, so that has to account for something. Maybe she’ssimply curious or maybe, just maybe, she’s really here for what we both want.
The last thing I want to do is pressure her, but the easiest way to loosen someone up is food and the bowl I placed in front of her is nearly empty. “That was great. Normally I don't eat pasta but this was really good.” Harper sings my praises.
“I know.”
“You know what?” The words come out a bit garbled as she sucks up a rouge strand of spaghetti.
“You do eat pasta, you just don’t eat pasta with sauce.”
She blinks, staring at me like six heads have sprouted in the span of a few seconds and cocks her head to the side. “How do you know that?” Harper shakes her head. “Actually, better question, why do you know that?”
An internal war breaks out. Do I tell her exactly how long she’s been in my head? If I do, it might send her running again. I shouldn’t, I know I shouldn’t, but the beast is back, frantically pacing in my chest.
Fuck it.
What I want isn’t fair unless I also bear myself completely to her.
I’m not a man of many words, but I am a man of action with a keen sense of observation. I’ve watched Harper, studied her.
Harper’s a work of art that should be displayed in the Louvre. The type of painting people travel across the world for even a glimpse. I spend hours looking at her and each minute I find something new to fixate upon. Like the one soft brown freckle on the side of her mouth or the one tendril of hair at the nape of her neck that naturally spirals into the perfect ringlet.
I notice more about Harper than I should but who can blame me?
“I notice everything about you. From the fact you prefer all your food plain, or how when you're really focused or concentrating on work, you stick your tongue out. At work, you wear heels but only on Mondays and Fridays. You are on more social committees than I knew existed because you love people. You hang renaissance artwork in your office, and when people ask you why, you tell them no real reason, just that you like it. But I think it’s because you miss working at the museum, so you surround yourself with pieces you miss the most.”
“Oh,” she whispers.
“I see you, Harper. I see you more than anyone else.”
Her mouth parts and her next breath is ragged. “I lied to you,” she says suddenly.
I straighten up. Those are never good words. “About what?”
“Well kind of lied. At Midnights.” Her words are shaky, teeth gnawing at her plush bottom lip. “If we’re going to do this I want to make sure you know what you're getting into. And after that display of…well, I don’t know what, but I feel like I lied to you.”
I wait as she fidgets in her chair, mumbling something under her breath.
“Harper, I can't hear you.” I said gently.
She inhales deeply. “I have zero experience with any of this.”
Silence drops over us, only a slight hum fills the room.
“But you said you weren’t a virgin?” Now I’m getting nervous. It wouldn’t change my answer, not now, I’m in this, but it would change some aspects.
“I’m not.” She pauses for far longer than I expected. “Technically.”
“Technically, you're not a virgin. I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean.”
“It means I’ve had sex but before the other night it had been a while since I had even done that.”
“Define awhile.”
“Years,” she says, almost like a question.
“You're joking.”
