Marek
I have a tumbler of whiskey in my hand when my thoughts are interrupted with Harper’s entrance into the main living room.
I could hear the click of her heels as she descended the open staircase above me, but I intentionally kept my eyes on the fireplace, worried if I looked up to watch her, those thoughts would betray me and I’d end up doing something stupid again.
Instead, I down the remainder of the drink and purge all the inappropriate fantasies that have been whirling around my head since last night. Well, truthfully, for weeks.
My brain knows and logic tells me there is no spare room in my life or my schedule to begin a relationship or to get involved with Harper. It would be ludicrous on my part. It’s one of the reasons my marriage ended because I didn’t have enough time to devote to my wife.
But my dick has other thoughts and suggestions on the matter.
I swallow thickly when she clears her throat and I swivel around to find her standing at the edge of the room. Yep, my dick definitely has other thoughts.
Harper stands before me wearing a tight-fitting black cocktail dress that hugs every ample curve of her body. While it’s tastefully elegant, it’s without a doubt going to turn heads tonight because it showcases every part of her gorgeously fit body.
“Harper…wow, you look—”
Her chin drops to her chest, and she shakes her head. With urgent fingers, she tries in vain to tug the bottom hem of the skirt past her mid-thigh. All it does is narrow my focus on her long, athletically toned legs.
“Like I’m vying for everyone’s attention.”
I hold back the rumble of thunder that threatens to burst from my chest, and instead shake my head in adamant argument to the contrary. “You look beautiful. And sophisticated.”
“It’s too short,” she laments in a frustrated huff, continuing to pull and wiggle, which does little to help in my resolve to keep from ogling her.
“I borrowed it from my friend, but I failed to try it on with the heels she lent me before I left.”
Her eyes peer up at me with a pleading look. “People are going to think you hired me as your escort.”
Placing my empty tumbler on the table, I stride toward her. I raise my hands and place them on the top of her shoulders with what is meant to be a reassuring gesture. But when my fingers graze over the thin straps of the dress bodice—which do nothing to prevent me from feeling the soft skin of her arms—I inhale deeply and drop them quickly so they land at my sides.
“Harper, no one will think you are anything but my glamorous date.”
She snorts, wobbling a bit on her heels. I quickly reach out and clasp my fingers around her biceps to hold her steady.
“I assure you. I’ve never been accused of being glamorous. By anyone. I’m used to wearing my Chucks, not these murderous things.” She lifts a heel, wiggling her foot as my eyes follow, taking in the full length of her silky leg. “If I don’t wipe out tonight, it will be a miracle.”
I laugh at her self-deprecating joke, but in all seriousness say, “I won’t let you fall.”
She gives me a skeptical look as I take her by the elbow and lead her over to the sofa, where she takes a seat.
“Can I get you a drink before we leave?”
“Are you kidding? I already have questionable balance.” She laughs, leaning over to unstrap the shoes and wiggle them off her feet with a sigh. I quickly avert my eyes and go to the bar to refresh my drink. I’m going to need it.
“Well, I will say this. I’d never want to wear heels,” I add, filling my glass with two fingers and taking a seat next to her on the couch. I cross one leg over the other, propping my elbow over the edge, waggling my dress shoe between us. “Men do have it much easier in that department.”
She gives a snort of agreement. “No doubt. Men have it easier in every department.”
Her comment, while loaded with sarcasm, reminds me of what I witnessed earlier this afternoon with Charlie Milton. It makes me wonder if that’s a common occurrence. Do those sexual advances happen more often than not?
“Harper, can I ask you something?”
Her hands stop nervously fiddling with the edge of her skirt and she slowly raises her eyes to me, the green so deep it’s like getting lost in the forest. “Of course.”
I hesitate for a moment, hoping not to rock the boat or create any unnecessary tension with my question. “What happened today with Coach Milton,” I begin, clearing my throat that’s suddenly become dry, even after the sip of bourbon. “Does that happen often? Where you have to defend yourself against unwelcome advances from men like Milton?”
Harper inhales sharply, dropping her gaze to her folded hands in her lap, inspecting them as if they hold the answers to life’s problems. Or in this case, the problem involving my question.