Page 51 of Harper

Only then did he thrust back inside of me. Leaning forward to cradle my face in his hands, he was slower and more controlled than the previous two times. The edge of his hunger had been sated. He’d locked his eyes with mine until the moment they rolled back in his head with the force of his climax, and I’d felt him come, in thick, wet pulses, deep inside of me.

“I love you, Harper,” he’d vowed from the very depths of his soul.

God help me, I almost said it back.

We’d made love twice more in the night, soft and slow under the covers. Between short naps, we’d shared sweet memories. He’d reminded me of the girl I’d been, and I’d teased him about the boy I’d loved. And finally—finally—we’d fallen asleep.

When I woke up in his arms, little spoon to his big, I’d felt warmer and safer than I’d ever felt in my entire adult life. As Joe slept, I’d toyed with dangerous fantasies of never telling him about Raven and the Calvins, about the ways in which my body had betrayed me all those years ago.

Impossible.

Then, I’d taken one last look at his sleeping face, crept out of his bed, dressed quickly in my shorts and T-shirt, and left my pretty dress behind.

In the kitchen, I’d found a scrap of paper and written him a simple note. It read:

A deal’s a deal.

--H

The phone in my hotel room rings loudly, making me jump. Slightly dazed, I sit up and grab it.

“Hello?”

“Harp, what time are we leaving tomorrow? Eight? Or nine? I can’t remember.”

“Sawyer? What the hell do you have against sending texts? What if I was asleep?”

“If you were asleep, I wouldn’t be able to find out what time we’re leaving tomorrow. I called you on purpose, so you’d have to answer.”

“You’re a little shit.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

I take a deep breath and sigh. “Eight.”

“I’ll bring the van around at seven-thirty? You get ’em checked out and ready to roll?”

“Yes,” I say. “Don’t call me again. Good night.”

I hang up the phone with a grunt and take off my sweatshirt. It smells like sweat and the trail. Lord, I need a shower. But first, food.

I sit down in the hotel room chair, open my pizza box, then close it again.

I’m not hungry.

I miss Joe.

I don’t know why in the world I thought a night with him would get him out of my system. (Because you’re a liar, Harper Stewart, to everyone, including yourself.) All it did was make me miss him—make me want him—a thousand times more.

I’d gotten used to a life without him…I didn’t like it especially, but I’d forgotten what I was missing. Now, it was fresh in my mind—his body, his eyes, the way he touched me, the way he teased me, the way he loves me. I crave him. I can barely think straight with my longing. It’s that sharp. It hurts that much.

It was cowardly of me to leave a note, I think. But I know Joe. I know him. I know he thought that he’d win me back with a night of passionate lovemaking. (He’s right, too. He did win me back. I just can’t let him know it.)

We have to be over now.

We must go our separate ways.

I lie back down on my side and draw my knees to my chest, facing the wall, the same position I held for so many excruciating days and nights at Aunt Charlotte’s.

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