“JimBo?”
She nods and yawns, “Lewis was actually just a restart, I think. Rebound, I mean. Lewis was a rebound. I never loved him. So you’re JimBo. I’m Marion.”
“You wanted to settle down and…JimBodidn’t?”
Her eyes are closed, which I dislike. But her guard appears to be down due to the fatigue. She’s talking. Which I very much like.
“He did, and then he didn’t. Did you tell poor Marion you loved her and you were going to marry her and give her lots of babies? I bet you were engaged, right?”
“What? No,” I say quickly. “We dated for a year but when she started to talk of settling in London I told her the truth, I wanted to travel.”With her.Marion had other plans, though. Namely screwing one of my flatmates behind my back. I don’t share that bit. I don’t need Harper’s pity.
“Hm,” she says. Her words are so slurred I think she may actually be asleep, “Maybe you are more of a Lewis then. Did you stick her with a giant dog before you left?”
I ignore her question, “Where did Lewis go?”
“Cedar Point!” She laughs in a delirious, exhausted sort of way. “Not even the big city. They do have an AmeriMart though. We don’t have an AmeriMart.”
“And JimBo?” I try, knowing she’s about to nod off completely and suddenly desperate to learn as much as I can, as quickly as I can.
“He’s all over the place, you know JimBo,” she snorts like she’s talking to Steven and not me.
I push, “And he told you he would marry you and give you lots of babies, then?”
“Mhmm.”
Last question, man, let her sleep! “And you loved him?”
“Rip.”
The word is barely a whisper. She means yup. Or right. I should probably be alarmed that I know that. That I “Speak Harper.”
I wonder if she’s dyslexic? Or just so exhausted her brain can’t keep the words straight. A few silent turns later, we’re at her door. I hate to wake her, I do. But her neck is twisted in a way that will hurt like hell in the morning.
I kill the truck’s obnoxious engine. She doesn’t stir. I open my door. Still nothing. I walk around and open her door. Not even a twitch.
“Right,” I whisper, pumping myself up. I’ll have to carry her in. It’ll be no trouble, I’m fairly certain I lift heavier than her body weight regularly. But I’ll be…touching her. Which makes me nervous?
A Vanderwell does not get nervous.
Right. I reach across and unbuckle the seat belt. It gets caught. I reach out and grasp her wrist to lift her arm and—
“Huh? What! What are you doing?”
“You fell asleep, I was going to carry you inside,” I explain softly, frozen in place.
“You think I could sleep through someone carrying me upstairs? No one is sleeping through that unless they’ve been drugged. W-was I drugged?”
“Harper. You fell asleep for all of four minutes.”
“Oh,” she says, her brain starting to sort through the sleepy haze. “Right. Man, I died. Sorry,” her voice softens like she’s embarrassed.
“It’s fine,” I say.
Here we are again, nearly nose to nose. “I’d like credit again,” I whisper, inching closer.
“For what?” She asks, whispering too.
“Displaying immeasurable restraint right now,” I croak back, unable to stop staring at her perfect lips, lips which areright there.She frowns, confused and sleepy and utterly lovely, asking me what I mean with her frown. “Not doing exactly what I want, right now when I want it.”
