Page 46 of One Wrong Move

I lean against my target. The scent of wet straw hangs lightly in the air, and the rain is cold, but I ignore all of it. “Ask the question, and I’ll decide if it’s something I can answer.”

Harper steps closer, gripping a trio of arrows in her left hand. The points leveled straight at me.

Her eyes narrow. “All right. Nate Connovan… why are you being so nice to me?”

It’s not the question I expected.

But it’s definitely not one I can answer.

I run a hand over my jaw, raising an eyebrow. Give her a pointed look and try to calm my racing heart. “That’s what you want to know?”

“Yes. I have a suspicion, but I don’t want it to be true.” She shakes her head slowly. “So I want you to tell me the truth.”

Her eyes are piercing. Demanding. And I should look away, swallow the damning truth, and make a joke. I don’t want it to be true. Surely she can’t suspect. Can’t know, couldn’t have guessed.

Dean never did.

But she’s so much more observant than Dean has ever been.

“You don’t want it to be true,” I say instead. The words come out more softly than they should, hanging in the humid air between us.

Harper gives a single nod. “If it’s because Dean told you to, because you think you can help the two of us get back together, I don’t want this friendship.”

Relief makes me momentarily lightheaded. It sweeps through me so fast that I smile and watch the corresponding frown on her face.

“It’s not,” I say. “I don’t think I can help you guys get back together.”

Trust me, I want to add, even as the guilt tastes like acid in my guts. It’s the last thing I want.

She nods, but the furrow between her eyebrows doesn’t completely disappear. “Okay. As long as that’s the case.”

“You have nothing to worry about.” I lift an arrow and spin it around. “Except winning against me.”

She smiles again. “Bring it on.”

It isn’t until I’m back in the car half an hour later, soaked from the rain and listening to Harper’s happy thoughts about the experience, that I realize I hadn’t, strictly speaking, told her the truth.

Dean did ask me to keep an eye on her.

But the reason I agreed had nothing to do with him.

Harper

It’s Thursday, almost a full week of living at Nate’s, and I’ve finally found a routine that works. A large part of it is predicated on the comfort that his house provides. The bed that feels like heaven, the plush carpeting in my room, the small desk I’ve set up as my own little home office. I bought a new journal in a small stationery shop in central London. It’s leatherbound and has wide-lined pages, and I started to write in it that very same evening.

Journaling is something I’ve done since I was twelve.

The act itself was comforting, and keeping up the routine felt like self-care. Maintaining the habit was like coming back to myself and hearing myself think out loud. Putting thoughts down was often the first step to me really understanding them… or changing them.

I love my two windows that look out onto the square and the garden that we share with all of Nate’s neighbors. The walk to work is beautiful, winding past houses that I’m starting to use as mileposts. The house with the blue door—that means I’m only six minutes out… The work itself, with Aadhya warming up to me, the influx of new art coming into the gallery, and the event planning, is exciting and challenging.

It’s all starting to feel good. Right. The hyperactivity of my first time in London, when my nerves were frayed and I’d been living in a state of constant vigilance, is slowly draining away.

Slowly.

My mother’s remarks on the phone while I’m doing my grocery shopping seem to confirm that.

“You sound calmer,” she says in her brisk Boston accent. “The job is good, then?”

---