Page 16 of The Love You Fight For
I’m extremely underwhelmed.
“As you can see,” Chris starts, his tone patronizing in a way that sets my teeth on edge, “this isn’t big enough for a canopied bed. You probably sleep in, what? California king? Probably only comfortably fit a full in here. A queen if you squeeze. And the closet? Small. Not a walk-in. It could accommodate maybe a tenth of your wardrobe.”
I wait stone-faced until he’s done listing all the reasons the apartment is not a good fit for me. And while it’snota good fit for me, it’s for none of the superficial bullshit he’s been throwing at me since he arrived. My mood requires more natural light. My job performance and creativity require a quiet atmosphere that surelywon’t come between the hours of 8 p.m. to 2 a.m., which is peak work time for me.
And, okay, fine, he’s right. I need more space for my shoes.
I have every intention of bowing out gracefully, walking away with class, but then he goes and sets fire to my composure.
“See, princess? This place isn’t fit for a Harper. You’re probably better off moving back into the senator’s McMansion or one of the luxury condos at the beach. That’s more your style.”
Ihatebeing compared to my family.
“I’ll take it,” I say before I think twice, and the way his jaw literally drops fills me with enough joy to get me through half the coming week of campaign torture.
“We don’t take Amex Black Cards,” he says after a moment, and I smile.
“Of course not. I prefer to write a check, anyway.” I reach into my handbag and pull out my personal checkbook, then wave it with a flourish between us. “First and last, I assume? I assure you I’m good for it, but I can go get cash from the bank if that makes you more comfortable.”
He narrows his eyes and folds his arms over his chest.
I flutter my eyelashes, the picture of innocence.
“You’re going to hate it. It’s loud every night. The lot gets crowded. The internet is shitty. At least once a week, I have to call the cops.”
I lift a shoulder in dismissal and don’t take my eyes off him. It feels good, watching him concede. It feels good to win, even if I know he’s right. I likelyamgoing to hate living here, even if it will only be for the occasional weekend when I can get away from D.C. I’ll probably loathe it, but I will drown myself in a vat of that disgusting local IPA before I ever let him know it. I drank that pint he gave me last night and asked for another out of spite. My pettiness knows no bounds, and annoying Chris Casper has become something of a personal interest of mine recently.
“Okay, Harper. I’ve got the lease in my truck.”
I follow him back out of the apartment, down the stairs, andinto the gravel lot. I sign the lease, write the check, then stick my hand out to shake his. When he takes it, his warm, calloused hand almost swallowing mine, I have to fight back the urge to rub my palm against his. It surprises me enough that I don’t shake right away. I just stand there with his hand encasing mine until he smirks. I roll my eyes, pump his arm twice, then let go of him.
“Thanks for showing me the apartment. I’ll move in next weekend.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just nods and steps back, but his eyes don’t leave me until I’m in my car and pulling out of the parking lot. I know because I checked the rearview before I drove off.
As soon as I’m out of town, I turn on an audiobook and attempt to calm my nerves. I have an appointment in North Carolina this afternoon, and I’m going to need the entire drive to get my head on straight.
FIVE
“Uncle Chris!”
My niece and nephew launch themselves at me the moment I step through my sister’s front door. I hitch at the waist and wrap them in my arms, hauling Lucy over my shoulder and scooping Luke under my arm. Their giggles fill the foyer, but they turn to shrieks when I start to spin us in circles.
“Oh no, I’m getting dizzy,” I shout, making myself wobble dramatically. “I might fall!”
Lucy and Luke’s laughter becomes interspersed with playful cries for help as I weave my way through the hallway and into the living room, then I drop them both onto the couch before throwing myself down next to them.
“Man, I am so tired now.” I fake a yawn, then close my eyes and pretend to snore. Immediately, the twins start to climb on me.
“Wake up! Wake up, Uncle Chris!”
“Wake up! We want to play!”
I snore louder, which they find hilarious, and it’s hard for me not to laugh right along with them. I swear, nothing is cuter than a five-year-old’s laughter, and I get double the cuteness with my niece and nephew.
“You make more racket than the kids.”
My sister’s voice cuts through the giggles, and I pop open one eye to find her leaning on the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. She’s trying to look annoyed, but she’s failing. I grin.
