Page 7 of One Wrong Move

I lean against the fountain and wait with my arms crossed over my chest.

Her coworker, the black-haired woman who loves to flirt, emerges first. I’ve always flirted back in the past. After all, game respects game. But now I look down at my shoes and run a hand over my face. She doesn’t notice me. Two men I don’t recognize follow. And, finally, ten minutes past the gallery’s official closing time, Harper exits.

Her blonde curls are pulled up into a ponytail today. It’s messy, with a few tendrils loose around her face. She’s in a pair of thigh-high boots and an oversized gray coat, a hint of a green turtleneck peeking out from beneath the collar.

She’s always looked so uniquely herself. Artistic and effortless, like she doesn’t have a care in the world for what others might think when they see her.

I take a step forward.

She stops in her tracks when she notices me. Her green eyes widen, and she blinks rapidly.

“Nate?”

“Hey,” I say. “We didn’t get to finish our discussion the other day.”

“No, but you purchased two art pieces,” she says curtly. She starts walking again, her heels making small clicking sounds against the cobblestones. I fall in step beside her. “What were you thinking, waiting for me outside of my work? What if someone saw you?”

“They didn’t.”

“But what if they did? This would look… look… so weird.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That you’re meeting with a client you have an established relationship with? I’d say that looks very diligent. As a boss, I appreciate employees who take initiative.”

She shoots me a glare. “Yes, but that would be giving a false impression.”

“Is it? Am I not a client of the gallery? Are you not in the business of selling art and maintaining client relations? Fake it till you make it, Harper.”

“You know what I mean,” she snipes. Her steps speed up, taking us in the direction of the King’s Road and the crosswalk. “Look, I really don’t want to be rude, and we’ve had fun in the past, but I don’t want to be in any kind of contact with Dean. I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want to talk to you, and have it relayed to?—”

She steps out onto the street and straight into oncoming traffic. I react on instinct, grabbing the back of her coat and pulling her sharply toward me. The double-decker bus honks loudly. She stumbles into my arms, and I move us a few extra steps to the safety of the sidewalk.

“Are you okay?”

She sweeps a few strands of hair off her face and looks over her shoulder. “Oh my God, that was… he just came out of nowhere.”

“Yes,” I say, “he came from your right. They drive on the opposite side of the road here. Did you get hurt?”

Harper shakes her head. “No, no, but that was so close. Holy shit.”

“It takes getting used to. You have to look both ways. See that?” I lift a hand off her waist and point to the street, where look left is emblazoned with white letters on the asphalt. My voice comes out sharp. “Don’t do that again.”

“I don’t intend to.” She blinks up at me, and that’s when I realize that my right palm is still pressed to the small of her back… with my arm wrapped around her middle.

She’s closer than she’s ever been before. Looking up at me with her wide eyes, a few freckles sprinkled over her nose, and I could look at her forever. I’ve always been able to do that. Look at her without needing to breathe, all to see the nuances of her expressions and the depth of her gaze.

But she’s never been mine to look at.

I retract my arm and take a step back. “Sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. Thanks for reacting so quickly.”

“Been in the city for a while,” I say. There’s strain in her eyes, and it makes me frown. “Let’s sit down. Get something to drink.”

She slowly shakes her head. “I really shouldn’t.”

“Yes, you really should.” I put a light hand on her shoulder and turn so we face the little café at the corner of the street. My hand is only resting on the wool fabric of her coat, but I feel keenly aware of the touch regardless.

This attraction has always been inconvenient. Stupid. Annoying.

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