Page 78 of One Wrong Move

There’s a brief silence, and then Lucy lets out a small oooh. Her eyes light up. “Really?”

I chuckle at her reaction. “Yes. Is that a good thing? Because it’s felt fucking awful for four years.”

“It’s exciting. She clearly fancies you. She gushed about you earlier.”

“Well, that was because she wants to win a little game we’re playing. It’s called ‘who’s the best wingman.’”

“I see. And you don’t want to win?”

“I definitely don’t,” I mutter, shooting a look across the yard to where Willard has draped his arm along the back of the couch. It disappears behind Harper’s shoulder.

They’re still talking.

“I see,” Lucy says, and then she nods. “Okay. I’m enjoying our conversation. Why don’t we keep playing the game? No strings.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’d do that?”

“It’s more exciting than listening to some moneyman drone on, which is what I’d be doing while talking to other blokes here,” she says and lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “So. Yes.”

I actually laugh at that. “Okay, you may be right.”

Lucy smiles, and puts a hand on my knee. “So. Tell me all about Harper and how you’re finally going to win her over.”

It’s nearly one in the morning when we wrap up our chat. By then, we’ve spoken about almost everything under the sun, minus a few hard-to-solve political problems and the national debt, and I’ve kept an eye on Harper and Willard doing the same.

What could they possibly talk about for that long?

Most of the party guests have cleared out. I don’t want to leave the backyard but I do it anyway, turning away from where Harper is giving all of her smiles to Knudsen’s nephew. One step forward in that relationship, I think miserably. One step back in my own.

I don’t have a fucking relationship with Harper, I remind myself. The bartender has left, but there’s an array of drinks still artfully displayed on the counter, so I pour myself another gin and tonic. She doesn’t owe me one. I’ve never ever once thought that.

But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.

I drain half of the drink before ambling off to the hallway, heading to the study. Somewhere I can shut the door behind me and not watch any more of Harper’s smiles wasted on another man.

I’ve seen enough of those already with Dean.

But someone stops me, a hand on my sleeve. I look down to see Harper. There’s a distinct flush across her cheeks. She’s been drinking, too. “How’s it going?” she asks.

“With what?”

“With Lucy, of course.” Her gaze flits to the kitchen where a few stragglers are pouring themselves drinks.

“Oh. Her.”

“Yes, her,” Harper says. Her eyes are piercing on mine. “I don’t think you should ask her to stay over.”

“And why is that?”

She shakes her head, and her hand is still tight on my wrist. “She… she… it would be too fast.”

“I thought you wanted me to find someone. You’ve talked about it often.” I lean in closer, that hideous thing in my chest unfurling its wings. “How’s it going with Willard, the boy band imitator wunderkind art dealer?”

Her eyes narrow. “Fine. He’s… fine.”

“Well, Lucy is fine, too.”

“I still think it’s a bad idea.”

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