Page 68 of The Heartstrings of Harry
Standing off to the side by the equipment trailer, arms crossed over his chest, cap pulled low, watching the last of the crew roll out with that quiet steadiness of his. Unshakable. Dependable. Strong.
And mine.
Even if nobody could know.
I watched him shift his weight, scratch the back of his neck absently, and something about the simple movement—the way his biceps flexed just a little as he did it—made my breath catch in my throat.
Harry caught my eye, and his lips twitched into the smallest, softest smile.
God, how I wanted to kiss him.
I wanted to walk straight over, wrap my arms around that solid body, and bury my face against his chest where I could finally breathe easy. But there were still too many eyes, too many people packing down cables and stacking road cases.
So, I stayed put.
But Harry didn’t.
He pushed off from the trailer and wandered my way, slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world. I could tell it was an act. He didn’t want anyone figuring things out either, at least not yet.
When he stopped in front of me, his voice dropped, soft enough that nobody else could hear.
“You holding up?”
I nodded, but it felt like a lie. “Yeah. Mostly.”
Harry gave me a look—the kind of look that saw right through me.
“I know that face,” he said gently. “That’s your ‘I’m absolutely not okay but if anyone asks, I’ll say I’m fine’ face.”
I swallowed hard. “Is it that obvious?”
“It is to me.”
I felt my chest ache at the sound of it. God, I loved him so much it scared me.
For a second, neither of us said anything. The only sound was the rumble of a distant generator shutting down and the buzz of a cicada somewhere in the trees.
Then Harry leaned in just a fraction, his voice even lower.
“Think you can sneak off without your boss noticing?” His eyes glinted with something softer. Something just for me. “Grab a drink with me?”
My heart nearly leapt out of my damn chest.
I nodded, trying not to smile too hard, but I knew I was failing. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “I can do that.”
* * *
Aunt Bea’s wasn’t just a bar.
It wasthebar, and no cool cocktail lounge or trendy nightclub in LA could hold a candle to it.
Stepping through the big sliding doors was like walking into another world. String lights crisscrossed the beams overhead, casting everything in a soft golden glow. The long wooden bar had been polished so smooth it shone, lined with high-backed stools and framed by shelves stacked with bottles in every color of the rainbow.
The jukebox in the corner was humming out The Supremes—“Baby Love”— and the smell of bourbon and lemon oil hung in the air like a welcome home hug.
Behind the bar stood Aunt Bea, larger than life and twice as beautiful as I remembered. She was six -foot -something in heels, a towering swirl of raven-black curls piled high on her head and topped with a tiara, makeup sharp enough to cut glass. Her deep plum lipstick caught the light when she smiled—which she did the second she spotted me walking in behind Harry.
“Well, well, well!” she boomed, voice dripping honey and sass as she put one hand on her hip and pointed a finger at me like I’d just walked in late to church. “Look what the cat dragged back into town.”
