Chapter 1
Harley
Hazy light filters through our bedroom curtains in lazy golden stripes. I blink away sleep, finding myself in that peaceful space between dreams and reality. Beside me, Skyler breathes deeply, one arm flung across the pillow, his dark hair rumpled against the white pillowcase. There’s the slight furrow between his brows that never fully relaxes, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the barely perceptible twitch of his fingers as he dreams.
These quiet moments feel stolen. Precious.
Our bedroom tells the story of us better than words ever could. My case files are stacked neatly on my nightstand, color-coded tabs marking urgent client needs. Skyler’s architectural magazines spill across his side, dog-eared pages marking inspiration for future projects. The dresser holds framed snapshots of our life together—hiking in the mountains,laughing at his cousin’s wedding, my head on his shoulder at sunset by the lake. A silver ring box sits in my top drawer, waiting for the perfect moment. Four months, and I’ll be Harley Thompson. The name still feels strange in my mouth.
I slide from beneath the covers, careful not to disturb the mattress. Skyler shifts, reaching unconsciously for the warm space I’ve vacated. My heart catches at the gesture.
The hardwood floor chills my bare feet as I pad to the bathroom. I shut the door softly before flipping on the light, squinting at my reflection. My hair stands in dark waves around my face, defying gravity in ways that would fascinate physicists. I splash cold water on my face, brush my teeth, and attempt to tame the wild mass on my head into something resembling a professional social worker rather than someone who stuck their finger in an electrical socket.
Today’s schedule scrolls through my mind: two home visits, a court appearance for the Johnson case, paperwork that multiplies like rabbits every time I turn my back. I apply minimal makeup, just enough to look alive under the office’s harsh fluorescent lighting.
When I emerge, the apartment smells like dark roast coffee with hints of chocolate and cinnamon. Skyler stands at the kitchen counter, his back to me, shoulders moving slightly as he hums something under his breath. He’s pulled on sweatpants but remains shirtless, the morning light catching on the planes of his back. I allow myself a moment of appreciation before he senses my presence.
“Were you planning to wake up today, or should I have called in sick for you?” He turns, coffee mug extended like a peace offering, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
I accept the mug, inhaling the steam. “Some of us need beauty sleep.”
“Clearly, it’s not working.” His eyes dance with mischief as he reaches out to tug at a particularly rebellious strand of my hair.
I swat his hand away, failing to suppress my smile. “You’re supposed to say I’m beautiful no matter what.”
“You’re beautiful,” he says, suddenly serious. His finger traces my jawline. “Even with that impressive bird’s nest situation happening up there.”
I roll my eyes, but warmth spreads through me that has nothing to do with the coffee. “Charming.”
“It’s why you agreed to marry me.”
“I agreed for the coffee.” I take a deliberate sip, maintaining eye contact. “This is excellent blackmail material.”
Skyler laughs, the sound filling our kitchen. “I’ve created a monster.”
We move around each other—him reaching for mugs while I open the fridge, me ducking under his arm as he grabs plates from the cabinet. Three years of practice have turned us into choreographed partners, anticipating movements before they happen.
As I lean against the counter, his phone vibrates against the granite, a sharp, rhythmic buzzing that cuts through the quiet. Skyler’s gaze flickers to the screen, his smile faltering for just a second before he catches himself.
I arch an eyebrow, gesturing to the device with my mug. “You’re criticizing my bird’s nest when your phone is chirping like that?”
He huffs a soft laugh and immediately slides the phone into his pocket, out of sight. “Sorry, baby. I know how much you hate it when I’m on that thing while we’re together.” He steps back into my space, pressing a lingering kiss to my forehead. “The world can wait ten more minutes.”
He retrieves eggs from the refrigerator while I steal a piece of bread from the toaster. Our fingers brush when I hand him the butter, a casual touch that still sends electricity through my skin.
“You have the Henderson meeting today?” I ask, leaning against the counter.
“Nine o’clock.” He cracks eggs into a bowl. “Dad’s sending over preliminary numbers for the project.”
I nod, ignoring the slight tension in my shoulders at the mention of his father. Robert Thompson’s name has that effect on me. It’s always like someone’s suddenly adjusted the thermostat down ten degrees.
“How about you?” Skyler whisks the eggs, not noticing my reaction.
“Court at eleven for a custody case. Then paperwork until my eyes bleed.”
“Sexy.”
“Social work…where the paperwork is endless and the crying happens in bathroom stalls.”
