Page 97 of Tides That Bind

Or fucking slowly.

“This way.” I guide her to the kitchen so we can go out the backdoor. It’s only then I realize she’s blocked me in. But instead of going after her for it, I go with it and grab her spare key that hangs in the mudroom and open the door.

But Harper doesn’t walk through.

She looks at me and then back down.

Even though I’m desperate to get her to the hospital, I stop and pick up the bouquet of tulips I had forgot I left there like I’ve done every Tuesday since Nate deployed. I run into the kitchen and take a vase from the cabinet, putting them in with some water before rejoining Harper.

Her body is less tense now and she leans into me.

“I guess he’s here even if he’s really not.”

Between practiceand the drop in I made to Harper’s studio, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the first sight I get of her when I turn into the driveway is her upside-down legs floating across the backyard.

I park my Jeep. The strung lights across the backyard allow me to trace the lines of her smooth skin which I find…dirty.

“Did you get in a fight with the grass?”

Harper falls forward, how she might normally come out of a handstand.

But this time she falls flat on her back.

I hop out of my car. “Shit.” I rush to her side, finding her eyes shut, her hair pillowed around her head. “Are you okay?”

Nothing.

“Harper?”

I bend down, freaking out for half a second when laughter bubbles out of her closed mouth. “Gotcha.”

“You’re an asshole.” For a second, I contemplate not helping her up. “That’s not funny.”

Harper lifts both of her hands and I sigh, gripping them with my own and pulling her onto her feet. “It was a little funny.”

“I thoughtyou hit your head.”

“I landed on my back,” she tells me, failing to pick a piece of grass from her hair.

I bend down to do the job for her and immediately pull back. Her usual, sweet scent is different, cut by something else. Not just grass, but something stronger.

“Are you drunk?”

Harper giggles. “A little. It doesn’t take much.” She points at the back porch and I see a bottle of whiskey and a glass on the table.

“I guess not.” The bottle is still pretty full.

“Why did you come home so late?”

I cock an eyebrow at her. “Do I have curfew?”

“No.” Harper shrugs and her voice softens. “I just wanted a drinking buddy.”

Reaching out, I finally rid her hair of that piece of grass. But then I notice another closer to her face. When I grab it, my knuckles brush against Harper’s cheek and the touch draws her eyes closed. Ever so slightly, she turns her face closer to my hand.

“It’s not like you to get drunk on a weeknight,” I say, fighting the urge to open my palm and cup her cheek, but the smell of whisky sobers me up. I let my hand fall to the side. “What’s going on?”

Harper hangs her head forward.

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