Page 12 of Dear Hattie

She’s in a pinafore dress today, the burgundy fabric swishing around her thighs. A crisp white t-shirt glows underneath against her tan skin, and Harriet clutches her Dear Hattie notebook to her chest. Have they hired any other writers to help her yet? Or is she carrying the whole workload on her own?

It’s not just the column, see. There are subscription levels; paid access to Harriet’s advice. Platinum tier subscribers can send Dear Hattie unlimited questions and they’re guaranteed answers, no matter how dumb. She’s inundated.

This is what Pretzel Media does. They hire the best writers, podcasters and creatives in the land, then juice them all like lemons until there’s nothing left. A building full of frazzled, empty husks.

No wonder Simone got out. And a surge of protectiveness goes through me at the thought, because Harriet should get out too. She deserves so much better than this. She deserves to go home in the evenings and to eat a carb beside pretzels. She deserves recognition and creativity and fun.

You could give her those things, a voice whispers in the back of my brain, but I file that thought away for later. More planning needed. And in the meantime—

“What do you want, Tanaka?”

She sounds so tired. Harriet stares right ahead as we cross the lobby, the moonlight glinting against the gold strands of her hair.

“A truce,” I say.

Her mouth forms a smile, but it’s bitter. “Not going to happen.”

“You haven’t heard my full proposal yet.” Christ, please let her hear me, because I’m sick with missing her.

There’s a long-suffering sigh, then Harriet glances at me from the corner of her eye. “Go on, then.”

Thank god.

“Here—this is our stop.” Taking Harriet’s elbow, I tug her gently to a halt in the center of the lobby. We’re directly below the skylight, in the pool of moonlight… and next to the ball pit. I let go of her and spread my arms. “Okay. Push me in.”

She scoffs. Shakes her head, then stares at me. “Wait, you’re serious? That’s your big idea?”

“Push me in,” I say again. “Even things up between us, then there’s no need to be embarrassed anymore. No need to avoid me. Go on, Small Fry—I know you want to.”

Her lips press together, and her gaze flicks past me to the ball pit. Strands of golden hair have come loose during the day, and now they form wispy curls around her temples. I’d give anything to tug on one; to tease the soft strands between my finger and thumb.

My pulse thrums beneath my jaw, and I can hardly breathe while I wait for her answer. What if this doesn’t work? What if I’ve blown it for good?

“I seem to recall landing on the hard ground,” Harriet says quietly. “Not in a nice, soft ball pit.”

I shrug, arms still spread. Please, god, this has to work. “Push me harder, then. Really shove me. Channel all that prissy, school ma’am energy and—”

Harriet charges without warning, her notebook flung to one side, and barges her shoulder into my gut. I grunt and topple backward, arms wheeling, and land in a shower of hollow plastic balls. A small, hot body lands on top of me, hands clutching my shoulders hard enough to leave tiny fingerprint bruises, and sheshakesme.

“Shut up, Wesley! Just shut the hell up!”

Slender hands shove me under, like she could actually drown me in plastic balls. When I lunge back up for air, I’m laughing so hard the pit shifts around, sucking us deeper into its belly.

“Stop enjoying this!” Harriet’s cheeks are pink, and her eyes are wild. “This is your punishment, you ass.” She grips my throat but doesn’t squeeze. “Wesley, you are such a tool.”

A tool she’s straddling, eyes bright, hair slipping out of its braid. And it’s worth playing the fool for Harriet Fry when it takes her from sad and exhausted tothis: a vibrant little firecracker, biting her lips with the effort not to smile. The ghost from a few minutes ago is long gone.

The balls shift beneath us, tipping us together, and Harriet grinds against my lap. We both freeze, breath hitching.

“Who knew?” I say after a long pause, my voice strained. Every muscle in my body strains against my bones. “Who knew a corporate ball pit could be so deeply erotic?”

Harriet grimaces. “Definitely not HR.”

Then she’s tugging on my hair, forcing my head back. Ducking down andkissingme, hard and angry and deep. Her body squirms on top of mine, her hands roaming over my chest, and all I can think is that she’s close again, sealed against me, sweet and warm. I can smell her shampoo. Can taste the coffee she drank not long ago.

Thank. God.

I tip us over in a tidal wave of plastic balls, then stretch out on top of her. Harriet breathes heavily, her chest rising and falling beneath her pinafore dress, and fuck, I can’t get enough of her. Will never get enough.

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