Page 41 of Harper

I clomp down the front steps and jump in the car before Joe can even cut the engine. Slamming my door shut, I grab the seat belt and buckle it. Taking a quick peek through the windshield, I sigh with relief because no one appears to be watching.

Only then, I look over at Joe.

Oh, my heart.

He’s grinning at me like I look put together and beautiful, not messy and rushed. And in his eyes, there’s such a deep well of tenderness, of admiration, of pure love, it’s a wonder I don’t dissolve into a puddle of tears on the spot. It hurts to look at him. I swear it does.

“Ready to go?” I mumble, opening my purse to look for lip balm.

“You look great,” he says softly.

“I’m in old shorts, a cheesy T-shirt, and hiking boots,” I deadpan, looking up at him as I swipe on some ChapStick.

“That may be true, Harp,” he says, letting his gaze drop for a millisecond. When he looks back up, his eyes are almost black. “But that cheesy T-shirt makes your tits look fucking amazing.”

Forget the tears.

It’s a wonder I don’t burst into flames.

As he shifts into reverse and backs away from my cabin, I’m reminded of something I’ve always loved about Joe Raven. When he says something like that…something hot, or suggestive, or even borderline inappropriate? He doesn’t apologize. Never has. He owns his words—he means them. It’s such a turn-on.

“Where are we headed?” I ask as we turn onto the old Dyea Road.

“Little town nearby called Skagway. You may have heard of it.”

“And which of the many fine dining establishments in Skagway will we be frequenting, wiseass?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

“Really? You’re not going to tell me?

“Really.” He nods. “I’m not going to tell you.”

“There are, like, ten places in town to eat dinner. I bet I could figure it out.”

“I bet you couldn’t.” He grins at me, eyebrows raised, challenge issued.

“The Parsnip.”

“No.”

“SBC.”

“Nope.”

“Olivia’s. The Sittin’ Sasquatch. Bombay.”

“No, no, and no.” He glances at me. “Do you even like Indian food? Didn’t used to.”

“Curry still gives me heartburn.”

“So why would I take you there?”

“Maybe you’re missing the silent treatment?” I joke.

“Absolutely not,” he says, adding softly, “I hated it, Harp.”

It twists my heart to hear him say this, but I don’t comfort him. I can’t. I’m far enough out on a limb just sitting next to him.

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