Page 35 of Where We Go From Here

Harper looks up at me from underneath her lashes, my navy shirt hanging loosely on her body to mid-thigh. She told me in the supermarket that she liked the way my uniform looked on me, but I fuckinglovethe way it looks on her. The contrast between the dark blue cotton and her soft golden skin is addictively hot – and I’m the only guy in town who’s gonna get to see her wearing it.

I realise that I’ve been standing stock still for the last fifteen seconds, my pupils dialling out as I soak in the sight of her, so I steel my jaw and snap myself out of it, blinking hard away from her and walking over to the counter beside the stove.

I want to tell her how insanely gorgeous she looks, how the way she’s wearing my shirt is literally blowing my mind, but I kick myself back in check with a couple of teeth-gritting reminders. Namely, that my job here is to work for her family, not to try it on with their hot young daughter.

“The shirt fits,” is all that I manage to rumble out, eyes on the drawer that I’ve just pulled open as I look for a Stanley knife. When I find it I quickly slash it across the top of the box, piercing the brown tape, and then I toss it back to where it came from and shut the drawer.

I’m about to open the package when I notice how quiet Harper’s being. I glance over at her and her eyes are glued on the box in front of me, her brows creased as she reads the cursiveReturn Toaddress on the side of the cardboard. My eyes flick back to River’s name and address and I can’t help but feel that paternal warmth spread out in my chest.

My son’s fiancée was a little headache when I first met her but even then I knew that she was going to be part of our family. She had a spark inside of her that I knew Tate would never stop chasing, and everything seemed right in the world when he finally got a ring on her finger.

That being said, God knows what she’s sent me. She’s more of a gift-ee than a gift-er, so I’m a little tentative as I tug open the boards and start pulling out the crumpled wads of tissue paper.

When I get to what she’s hidden in the centre I shake my head and breathe out a laugh.

It’s a small eight-inch pumpkin, painted completely baby pink.You know me so well, I think dryly.I pick it out of the box, weighing how small it is in my hand, and then I set it down beside the kettle so that I can snap a photo of it on my phone and send it to her with athank youtext. Plus I can show it to Tate when he pulls up to work on Monday because I know that River’s little stunts make him snicker.

I squash the cardboard and paper, tossing them into the corner so I can take them to the recycling bin out the back when I next go out there, and then I turn back to Harper.

Her cute pink blush has drained from her face and her eyes are boring dead straight into the pumpkin. I look back down at it, frowning, trying to work out what the issue is.Is she allergic to pumpkins or something?When we pulled up last night it kind of seemed like she was into all of the fall décor that my neighbours had going on.

Before I have a chance to ask her what’s up she says, “Who… who sent that to you?”

Understanding instantly dawns. She’s just seen me open up a parcel from a chick, pull out a present, and then text a photo of it to her – all immediately after probably one of the most vulnerable nights of her life, wherein she’s in a town that she doesn’t know, staying in a stranger’s bedroom, and she was so freaking delirious that she gave him a midnight feast, grinding those perfect little buns all over his fully-erect stiff.

Fucking hell, I’m an asshole.

“Harper, I swear. This is not what it looks like.”

She’s shaking her head and backing away. “I’m… oh my God, I’m an idiot. I didn’t know… I promise, I didn’t know that you had a girlfriend. If I’d known, last night I wouldn’t have – I wouldn’t have–”

Is she thinking about last night? Does she remember what happened?

Was that a conscious non-illness-related action?

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I say firmly. Then, “Do you remember what happened last night?”

She ignores my question, blinking fast and no longer backing away. “You… you don’t have a girlfriend?”

“No,” I say immediately, swiping my hand through the air for emphasis.

She looks sated for a moment but then her eyes bulge. “Tell me if you’re married, right now.”

I hold up my vacant left hand.

“Some people don’t wear a ring,” she says, narrowing her eyes.

“I’ve never been married, Harper. You seen any wedding pics around my house?”

She thinks about that briefly, then twists to glance into my dining room.

“I want to talk about last night,” I repeat, eyes dropping to my name on her chest, sitting right above the teasing point of her nipple. What I really want to do is ensure that she’s recovering and then show her howmen like megive it to their woman.

She turns back to me, a red glow on her cheeks. “I don’t want to talk about it right now,” she admits, her voice soft and quiet. “I feel a lot better today – thanks to you, keeping me hydrated and everything – but I’m still kinda unsteady. And, to be honest, I’m not ready to talk about how freaking insane I’ve been over the past three weeks. Please know, I’m not usually so unhinged – you just happened to meet me during” – she makes an un-funny laugh – “extreme duress.”

Extreme duress?My jaw hardens.

“Who’s putting you under extreme duress?”Give me their name and I’ll sort them out, no problem.

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