Page 139 of One Wrong Move

If we’re still in that damn friends help friends mode, but I don’t care. And she doesn’t seem to either, her hand occasionally coming to rest on top of mine.

One of these days, I’m going to have to tell her.

All of it.

But not yet. The last thing I want to do is scare her off, to ruin this, or to put any kind of pressure on this situation. It’s far too precious for that.

We stop at a fast-food restaurant, and she looks on in amusement when I eat a burger and fries. I have to tweak her nose and ask if she thinks I’m some kind of weirdo who’s never had fast food.

She shakes her head. “No. It’s just, this isn’t a Michelin-starred cuisine. It’s not fancy, or served by a waiter, or hand-cut and hand-seasoned, and it’s not?—”

I roll my eyes, taking a page from her book. “I can be a man of the people. For an hour or two.”

Harper laughs, and I tweak her nose again. It’s hard to not touch her. Now that I’ve begun, I’ll never be able to stop.

We pull into London around eight thirty in the evening. Harper has kicked off her shoes and is curled up on the passenger seat, half-asleep, with my sweater covering her legs.

I park the SUV outside the house rather than pulling into the garage. Easier to unload our bags.

“Harp,” I murmur, jostling her shoulder gently. “Baby, we’re home.”

She blinks her eyes open. “Huh?”

“We’re home.”

“Oh. Already?”

That makes me chuckle. “I’m glad it didn’t feel long. Yes. Already.”

She yawns and puts on her shoes. I get out of the vehicle and grab the bags from the back.

Harper exits—her braid is messy, her smile tired, but she looks happy. And something about this scene is so domestic that it makes my wrung-out heart tighten painfully.

“Home,” she murmurs and stretches. “Finally.”

I set the bags down on the sidewalk. I can’t help it. I have to reach for her. “Home,” I repeat and turn her smiling face up to mine.

My lips are barely brushing hers, and I shift to deepen?—

“What the fuck?”

The voice is furious, close, and American.

I lift my head, but tighten my arms around Harper. Scan around… until my eyes land on a man sitting on my stoop, half-hidden behind the shrub. I hadn’t seen him there. Had been so focused on our things and on Harper.

Dean stands, his face carved into angry incredulity. He looks from me to Harper, who has gone rigid in my arms, and then back to me.

A tense silence settles over us.

It lasts only a moment before Dean walks down the stairs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. There’s a suitcase behind him, tucked next to my door.

“Dean,” I say. My voice comes out remarkably calm. “You didn’t tell me you’d be coming.”

“Yes, I did.” His voice is acidic. “I called you on Friday, and when you didn’t answer, I texted you. But I guess you’ve been too busy to check your messages.”

Harper’s hand falls from mine. “What are you doing here?” she asks.

I hate how her voice sounds. Shocked. Hurt. And anxious.

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