Page 101 of One Wrong Move

I sit down on the nearby stone hedge and munch on some bread. Watch the men discuss.

Twenty minutes later, the car is back in full working order. We say goodbye to Ashcroft and get back on the road.

The silence in the car isn’t oppressive. It isn’t tense. But it isn’t exactly quite as natural as it had been yesterday, either. The unsaid words hang between us. I watch Nate’s hand on the stick shift as he accelerates and think of where it had been last night. How those long fingers stroked and entered and curved inside me, and how it had been so much better than it had any right to be.

I play around with the radio. We share a bottle of juice. I munch on another piece of bread, and, outside the window, the beautiful pastoral landscapes gradually change back into cityscapes. Villages turn into suburbs. Fields become overpasses.

“Harper,” he says when we’re driving into Kensington, just before we arrive home. From the tone of his voice, I know what he has to say will be different from the passing conversation we’ve had so far.

My stomach tightens. “Nate.”

He chuckles. “Didn’t mean for this to become so formal.”

“Good. It doesn’t have to be, I think.”

“It doesn’t,” he agrees. “I think last night was… well. You might think it’s a mistake, again, like you did after the party.”

I shake my head. “That feels kind of pointless at this point. Don’t you think?”

Nate glances at me. His expression is guarded, the look in his eyes is hard to read. “Yes. I suppose.”

I take a deep breath. “We’re friends who like to… to… do things. Who clearly find each other… attractive.” I glance in his direction again. He’s busy reversing into the underground parking garage, right next to his other two precious vehicles, but he seems to catch my nervous glance all the same. “I don’t mean to speak for you, of course.”

He finishes parking, turns the engine off, and looks me dead in the eyes. “Harp, of course I find you attractive.”

My throat tightens. “Right. So… given that… I think it’s okay that we’re friends who sometimes like to do some not-so-friendly things.”

“Or very friendly,” he says, “depending on how you look at it.”

Tension seeps out of me at his words. “Yes. Exactly.”

“Don’t worry, Harp. I’m never going to go weird on you.” He reaches across the center console and brushes a few strands of my hair back, notching them behind my ear. “We can be whatever you want us to be.”

“Oh,” I breathe.

His gaze is locked on my hair, and his fingers tunnel through. There’s something in his eyes. Something I can’t really place, can’t really figure out?—

He looks back at me and smiles crookedly. “No pressure.”

“No pressure,” I repeat. “And no strings?”

“None.”

“And the box stays shut.”

He nods. “The box stays shut,” he agrees. Dean never has to know, and I feel relief unfurl inside of me like a sunrise. “Now come on. Let’s get home and out of these fucking awful clothes. I don’t want to wear pajama pants ever again.”

“Just because they’re not tailor-made doesn’t mean they’re awful,” I tease.

He locks the car behind us with one hand and wraps his other arm around my shoulders. “I only wear sweats from Savile Row,” he says. “Haven’t you learned that by now?”

Tranquil delight floods me at seeing the townhouse. Home. The strength of the sentiment takes me by surprise. Somewhere over the past weeks, I’d come to think of it like that.

The month Nate gambled and won is almost up. I should be looking for a new place. Should start the process again. But I’ll miss this place when I leave.

Nate unlocks the front door and shuts off the alarm. Then, stares at the envelope lying in the hallway.

Tossed in through the mail slot in the door.

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