Page 11 of Dear Hattie

Not that I litter. The only thing I throw onto the ground is my crush, apparently.

Did I hurt her? Harriet didn’tseemhurt—except for her pride.

Shit. If I hurt her, I’ll walk into traffic.

“The girls said you two wereclose,” Raj says, polishing the ball on his polo shirt as he returns. It leaves a smear of dust on the lime green fabric. “Before you threw her down.”

“Yeah.” Obviously. I flex my grip on the paddle, fighting to keep my wafer-thin patience. “I didn’t just charge across the room, pick her up and toss her on the carpet. Thank them for noticing that, will you?”

Raj snorts. “The great Wesley Tanaka!” he declares to the room, throwing his arms wide, though no one is listening. Hopefully. “Bachelor of the fourth floor! Felled at last by a lovely lady—and they said it couldn’t be done.”

They did? “Who said that?”

Raj serves the ball with a wink. Seriously, why do I keep this idiot around?

We play a few more rallies, but my head isn’t in it. I keep staring at the table and letting the ball bounce right past me, too busy thinking about Harriet Fry and how she felt in my arms.

The needy way she moaned in my ear. The heat of her, grinding down against my lap. Her white-knuckled grip on my shirt, and the way she tilted her head, inviting me to kiss her soft neck…

And the sheer betrayal in her eyes when she stared up at me from the floor. Shit.

We had something there, right? Before I ruined it? It’s not just in my head: Harriet Fry kissed me, and whatever she said afterward, it was no game. She meant it.

“She’s avoiding me,” I tell Raj when he jogs back from fetching our ball from a potted plant. Man, we both suck at ping pong. “Every time I get near, she finds a reason to rush away.”

Raj hums, tapping his paddle thoughtfully against his chin. “Have you tried…notdumping her on the ground?”

A headache pulses behind my left eye, and I blow out a sigh. “Very helpful.” It’s hopeless, isn’t it? A hopeless case. I had the woman I’ve been dreaming of for years—had her right there in my lap, pressed up against me and squirming so prettily. Then I ruined it.

Harriet Fry is right. I am a gigantic ass hat.

“Maybe you should even things up,” Raj says, tossing the ball high in the air and catching it. He’s way too smug for it to look cool. “Give her a chance to humiliateyou, then she won’t need to avoid you so badly.”

That’s…

I always assume that Raj has spewed complete nonsense. And to be clear, that reaction is well-earned, because my assistant is ninety-nine percent bullshit. So why am I asking him for advice again?

Oh, yeah: because once in a blue moon, he comes out with pure gold.

“Genius.” I return Raj’s serve with a grin, my veins suddenly crackling with energy. “You’re a genius, man.” Humiliate myself for Harriet Fry? No problem. I’m there.

“Does that mean I get a raise?” he says, lunging for the ball.

I bark out my first laugh in days. “Email the void and see.”

* * *

I wait until Harriet works late again—which is more often than not these days. She looks tired, too. Drawn and exhausted, even in her neat little outfits, with dark shadows under her eyes.

She’s really missing Simone.

And I hate that she’s going through something right now while I’m not there for her. Hate that she won’t come to me with this stuff, and let me reassure her. Won’t let me make her feel… loved.

Christ. I have been so oblivious about Harriet Fry.

The Pretzel Media complex is shadowy this late in the evening, lit only by desk lamps and the occasional fluorescent beam. Moonlight spills through the lobby skylight, tinting everything silver, and I catch up with Harriet as she drifts across the tiles like a sad little ghost with a side braid.

“Small Fry,” I say. She jumps, then shoots me a glare, walking faster. It’s not hard to keep up with those little legs. Her heeled ankle boots clip clop against the polished floor, the sound echoing in the gloom.

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