Page 27 of Where We Go From Here

“Watch it,” I warn him.

“How old is she, anyway?” he asks.

“Twenty-eight.”

He whistles. Then regrets it.

“That ain’t too bad, man. Besides,” he adds, “if you don’t date her someone else will.”

He’s right and we both know it. I disconnect the call and take a long hard look at Harper’s bungalow, promising myself that the second I finish up this evening I’m heading straight over there, consequences be damned.

*

I wait for the crew to drive off the site before I finally head up to Harper’s bungalow, raise my fist, and knock on the wood.

I rap it three times.

Nothing but silence.

I take a step back so that I can glance at her windows again. Curtains are still drawn but I swear I can see a little bit of lamp glow in there.

I give the door another light pounding.

This time, there’s movement.

I hear the bedroom door open and light steps stop on the other side of the wood. For the briefest of moments I think that she has knocked back, and I have to compose myself to fight off a smile.

Then I catch a tiny, “Who is it?”

Why’s she being so quiet today?I feel an ache grip at my chest.

“It’s me, Harper. It’s Mitch.” When the silence stretches on I say, “Noticed you stayed in today and I wanted to make sure that everything was alright.”

I’m about to apologise for overstepping a boundary and turn back around to leave when the lock clicks and the door opens a millimetre. At first my heart catches in my throat, but then my brow starts creasing when the picture pulls together more completely.

I’m met with big round eyes, staring up at me through long pretty lashes, whilst she twiddles incessantly with her slender fingers. Her hair is stacked into a messy bun, little golden curls brushing against her forehead, and she’s wearing an oversized white shirt and fuzzy pop socks. My first thought isimagine coming home to this every night. She’s beautiful. But then I start to see the finer details and the frown fully settles on my brow.

She looks really pale, and her eyes are underscored with dark purple bruises, like she hasn’t slept in the last twenty-four hours. There’s a glittering sheen of sweat on her brow and her exposed forearms are shivering. She opens the door a fraction wider and makes a woeful sound as she leans against the framework.

I want to get in there with her and pull her into my arms, but instead I grip my fingers around the doorframe and ask as gently as I can manage, “Harper, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“I–” She stops abruptly, eyes going wide as her body jolts.

Holy shit, is she going to be sick?

I am literally desperate to get my feet over this threshold but I keep it together and ask her again, “What’s wrong, Harper? Tell me.”

She winces hard and clutches at her belly, her shoulder pressed tensely against the wood. “I think…” She swallows and another convulsion rolls through her. “I think that I might have food poisoning.”

My eyes fly straight over to the kitchen at the back, clocking an unwashed plate next to the sink as my mind flicks back to what she bought at the supermarket yesterday.Seafood. I mean, how could I fucking forget. She said that she was trying to eat more meat, implying that she’s not used to cooking it, which means that there’s every possibility that she didn’t knowhowto cook it.

Goddamn. I run a hand down my face and try to think of what to do.

The site’s empty which means that I could stay here to look after her tonight and no-one would know that I’ve essentially just shacked up with the boss’s daughter. But we’re going to need on-hand Dioralytes and sick buckets, none of which I’d bet she has stocked up in that small wooden cupboard.

She must sense what I’m doing because she shakes her head quickly before turning her back to me and making a little retching sound. When she faces me again cartoon birds are spinning around her curly bun.

“I’ll be fine,” she shivers. “I self-medicated.”

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