Page 70 of One Wrong Move

I’m happy.

That’s the word, and that’s how I felt with him that night. I experienced happiness in a profound, deep way. Brought on by adrenaline, possibilities, and Nate.

I find myself wanting to ask him more things, all kinds of things, but he’s not here to answer any of them. He doesn’t really talk about himself a lot. Not beyond the surface level.

It makes me wonder what lies beneath it. Who hides beneath the mask he puts on.

A few hours go by before my phone buzzes again. It’s another picture; this time, of a beautiful summertime city near the water. He had sent me several photos of Stockholm so far, each one prettier than the last.

Nate: People are swimming right in the city. It’s wild. It’s only May!

Harper: Jump in.

Nate: I’m in a suit. Also. No.

Harper: You’re the one who was telling me to embrace adventure.

Nate: What do I get if I do it?

I dig my teeth into my lower lip and look over at Aadhya. She’s focused on the computer screen, working hard on the summer event the gallery is hosting in two months. Under Eitan’s supervision, we’ve been given a lot of leeway with the planning. Hostesses, catering, the open bar. This work is unlike anything I was allowed to do in my old job.

I should get back to doing it. But first…

Harper: It’s either there or in the Thames when you least expect it. I’m a good shover.

Nate: Threats? From Harper Elliot? You really are becoming a new person.

I smile down at my phone. At least I’m trying to. I’ve put my “30 Under 30” list up above the desk in the beautiful guest room that’s now mine. Now the goal to stay out all night is ticked off with a bright blue highlighter. So is try archery.

Harper: I have a friend who’s a cutthroat in business. Has no problem lying to get what he wants. So I’m learning, yeah.

Nate: I think what I said was “false impressions.”

Harper: Why did you assume I was talking about you?

The phone goes silent, and I imagine Nate getting into a booked car. Grumbling about not being allowed to drive himself, and zipping through streets I’d love to walk one day. It remains silent when I go to an evening Pilates class I found in the neighborhood. I even try befriending, albeit somewhat awkwardly, the woman exercising next to me. She doesn’t seem offended by my chatter, which is a great start with Brits, I’ve learned.

When the class concludes, I sit down on the mat and take a picture of my legs and the distant mirror. Nate had teased me just a few days ago that I’d probably buy a gym membership and then never use it.

Harper: Made it to class for the second time, for your information. Definitely a solid investment.

His response is immediate.

Nate: Those are your workout tights?

Harper: No, this is my prom dress, actually.

Nate: Very funny.

Nate: I should come with you to Pilates sometime.

That makes me chuckle.

Harper: I would love to see you struggling at something, for once.

Nate: I struggle with things all the time. I’m just very good at hiding it. Case in point.

He sends a photo of an upscale restaurant and a large menu where nothing is written in English.

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