How the hell do people wear pyjamas? I grip at the neckline of my shirt and tug it away from my neck. Then I think fuck it and rip the damned thing off.
Harper is upstairs sleeping on my bed and I’m on the rug in the living room because I’m too big for the sofa. I toss the shirt on the floor next to me and then run both hands back through my hair, trying to mentally suppress the muscle that’s thickening in my pants. My body’s a compass and it’s pointing north. I lean back on my palms and look up at the ceiling, aware that Harper is currently directly above me. I swallow hard, imagining how things would be if the situation right now was different – if she wasn’t ill and in need of recovery time, if I hadn’t followed up my I wanna date you confession with a dumb-ass I shouldn’t have said those things backtrack. And – fuck – did she really start grinding that beautiful little ass up against me last night? Thank God I had some restraint, because if the opportunity presented itself to me right now, I’m not sure that I could behave so gentlemanly.
I readjust my shaft as I get to my feet and I make my way over to the kitchen. It’s Saturday but I’m up at half-five regardless, so I flick the coffee maker to life and grab a mug from the cupboard. Then I head over to the dining room table, open up the paper that I found through the letterbox yesterday evening, kick out my legs, and settle back. By the time that it’s seven I’ve read the news cover to cover and I’m just about to get a breakfast going when I hear the bedroom door click open upstairs. A scuttle, followed by the sound of the bathroom door. Then, thirty seconds later, that door’s being gently eased open, like she’s trying not to wake me.
I put the bagel down, not wanting the smell to trigger another episode of sickness, and I move to the bottom of the stairs, watching Harper appear on cautious feet. She peeks hesitantly around the banister.
“Good morning,” I call up to her, jerking my chin at her to signal that she should come down. Then, after seeing how unsteady she looks, I ask, “You need a hand?”
I’m already mounting the stairs when she shakes her head, but I walk backwards with her anyway, keeping just in front of her in case she stumbles.
“Thanks,” she says breathlessly, but she keeps her eyes averted. Her cheeks are flushing pink and she’s twiddling non-stop with her fingers.
I frown, trying to work out what’s wrong. Then I look down at myself and I realise what the problem is. We’re standing about two inches away from each other, I’m shirtless, she’s bottomless, and now all of a sudden she’s flustered as hell. Can’t deny it, that makes my chest swell with pleasure. It’s 7a.m., a beautiful woman’s in my kitchen, and the sight of my naked body is getting her going.
“Sorry,” I manage gruffly. “I’ll grab a shirt–”
She shakes her head adamantly. “Don’t be silly, it’s your home, I’m just… immature around, uh… men like… um, men like…”
My eyebrows raise. Men like me?
She turns to the sink and starts running herself a glass of water, and I watch her from behind thinking through everything that I know about her so far. I know where she’s from and how polished that type of environment probably is, so maybe this is her first time being around a man like me.
She keeps sipping at her drink but she turns her head over her shoulder so that she can look at me, her hair a little matted against her neck from last night’s cold sweats. We’re back to almost the exact same position that we were in last night, only she seems perkier this morning with a sparkle in her eyes. Her eyes flicker down my torso making me involuntarily flex and still, and I swear she arches back a little, hiding her face behind her shoulder so that I can’t see her naughty little smile.
I’m damn well tempted to get my hands around her waist, rub her back until it’s nice and warm, and then murmur into her neck that maybe we should finish what we started. But I know that that thought is coming directly from my sac, without an ounce of common sense in sight.
You know what else could be coming from my sac?
I squeeze my hands into fists, trying to alleviate the energy that’s getting hotter and faster as it courses through my body. Jesus, bringing her here was a bad idea. Did she really say that I would “make her feel better” if I gave it to her last night? Whilst she’s literally ill?
I rub a hand over my mouth, not believing my own brain.
She finishes her drink and then faces me fully, eyes on her socks because the inappropriateness of our actions, especially after that surreal 3a.m. champagne fantasy last night, is starting to hit home. I might be the boss at the Pine Hills site but Harper Ray is practically my employer. That would be a legal nightmare as is, but add in the fact that I’ve got so much riding on keeping Ray Corp sweet and then this is suddenly even more serious. I wouldn’t be exactly shocked if it turned out that Harper’s mom didn’t like the idea of her employees cosying up with her hot twenty-eight year old daughter.
Yeah, fine, I’m dying to ask her out again, but I don’t want to cross that line without a direct all-clear.
Restraining the urge, I change the topic completely.
“How’re you feeling this morning?” I ask her, and my eyes stray over to the bagels. I don’t know about Harper but I sure as hell need to refuel. “Do you think you could handle some plain foods today? Or are we keeping to having just fluids for now?”
“Uh…”
I look down to see her panting up against the sink, eyes raking all over my exposed pecs, and then the swollen muscles of my abs. Damn baby. I can’t remember a single instance in my life where I’ve been so keen for a woman, and if she’s not hiding the attraction that’s happening here anymore then I’m not going to either.
I step a little closer and watch as her breathing catches in her throat, one hand pulling at a soft blonde curl and the other smoothing out the creases in her top. My eyes slip down her neck and land right on those tits, small and soft under the cotton of her shirt. Her nipples are pebbled into small hard peaks and I rake my teeth over my lip, wanting those gorgeous curves in my mouth this damn second.
But then I notice that her shirt is clinging to her belly, meaning that she’s sweat so hard that her top is literally soaked, and it’s the slap across the face that I damn well needed. I back up and nod my head at her top. She looks down at it and tries to peel it off her abdomen.
“We need to get you a clean shirt,” I say hoarsely. I’m trying to act like a gentleman but the fact of the matter is that I know exactly where this is going. Harper stripping in my bedroom, followed by one of my shirts getting hands-on with her tits. I should be so fucking lucky. “You wanna use one of mine?” I ask. “Or,” I swallow hard, “I could drive back to Pine Hills and get some of your stuff. Bring you some tops of your own.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t need to do that, but thank you. I’d borrow one of yours, if you… if you really don’t mind.”
I really, really don’t mind. We walk back upstairs into my bedroom, the sheets still fluffed up from where she left them a couple of minutes ago. Keen to not get distracted I head straight for the drawer where I store my shirts and I pull out whatever’s on the top. I unfold it and see that it’s one of the work tops that I didn’t pack for the motel so I hold it up for her, waiting out a yes or a no.
“Oh, sure, yeah, that’s great.” She’s breathing heavy and I can’t tell if it’s because of how exerted she is from being sick last night or if it’s because she wants my name scraping over her chest as badly as I do.
I place it gently on the bed and then give her a wide berth as I make my way out of the room. I turn slightly and catch her rubbing her thumb over the fabric.
“I’ll get another drink ready for you but, uh, come down whenever you’re ready. Or just call for me. Either works.”
She laughs a little, scrunching her nose. “I’ve never been so hydrated in my life,” she jokes.
My mouth ticks up slightly, giving her almost a half-smile, but then I think about how dehydrated she had to have been last night to start offering herself up to me and the smile vanishes as quickly as it came. She must’ve been out of her mind.
Or was she? Because, now that I think about it, she seemed just as interested this morning.
It’s the lack of food, I tell myself as I turn and start heading down the stairs. She’s not functioning properly because she doesn’t have the right nutrients in her system.
When I reach the kitchen I slice up a bagel and slot it in the toaster, but my mind is completely distracted. All of my thoughts are upstairs, in my bedroom, where Harper’s stripping down with the door still ajar. I swallow and run a hand down the back of my neck.
We’re going to have to talk about this – whatever “this” is. The flirting, the taunting… I need to know what her intentions are, I need to know if she’s as into me as I’m into her, and I need to know it yesterday.
I pop up my bagel before it chars, topping it with some spread and wolfing it faster than I should. My eyes flick incessantly up the staircase, wondering if and when Harper’s going to show herself. I’m so hungry to see her in my work shirt that I scarf down another bagel.
I’m about to go up there and check on her when there’s a knock at the front door. I free the latch, pull it open, and then I’m met with the sight of the neighbourhood’s delivery guy giving me a quick wave from halfway down my drive, a small brown box sitting on the welcome mat. I spot the sender’s name on the side of the cardboard and my cheek ticks up a little.
I give him a jerk of my chin, and then collect the package and bring it inside.
I get a welcome of my own.
Harper looks up at me from underneath her lashes, my navy shirt hanging loosely on her body to mid-thigh. She told me in the supermarket that she liked the way my uniform looked on me, but I fucking love the way it looks on her. The contrast between the dark blue cotton and her soft golden skin is addictively hot – and I’m the only guy in town who’s gonna get to see her wearing it.
I realise that I’ve been standing stock still for the last fifteen seconds, my pupils dialling out as I soak in the sight of her, so I steel my jaw and snap myself out of it, blinking hard away from her and walking over to the counter beside the stove.
I want to tell her how insanely gorgeous she looks, how the way she’s wearing my shirt is literally blowing my mind, but I kick myself back in check with a couple of teeth-gritting reminders. Namely, that my job here is to work for her family, not to try it on with their hot young daughter.
“The shirt fits,” is all that I manage to rumble out, eyes on the drawer that I’ve just pulled open as I look for a Stanley knife. When I find it I quickly slash it across the top of the box, piercing the brown tape, and then I toss it back to where it came from and shut the drawer.
I’m about to open the package when I notice how quiet Harper’s being. I glance over at her and her eyes are glued on the box in front of me, her brows creased as she reads the cursive Return To address on the side of the cardboard. My eyes flick back to River’s name and address and I can’t help but feel that paternal warmth spread out in my chest.
My son’s fiancée was a little headache when I first met her but even then I knew that she was going to be part of our family. She had a spark inside of her that I knew Tate would never stop chasing, and everything seemed right in the world when he finally got a ring on her finger.
That being said, God knows what she’s sent me. She’s more of a gift-ee than a gift-er, so I’m a little tentative as I tug open the boards and start pulling out the crumpled wads of tissue paper.
When I get to what she’s hidden in the centre I shake my head and breathe out a laugh.
It’s a small eight-inch pumpkin, painted completely baby pink. You know me so well, I think dryly. I pick it out of the box, weighing how small it is in my hand, and then I set it down beside the kettle so that I can snap a photo of it on my phone and send it to her with a thank you text. Plus I can show it to Tate when he pulls up to work on Monday because I know that River’s little stunts make him snicker.
I squash the cardboard and paper, tossing them into the corner so I can take them to the recycling bin out the back when I next go out there, and then I turn back to Harper.
Her cute pink blush has drained from her face and her eyes are boring dead straight into the pumpkin. I look back down at it, frowning, trying to work out what the issue is. Is she allergic to pumpkins or something? When we pulled up last night it kind of seemed like she was into all of the fall décor that my neighbours had going on.
Before I have a chance to ask her what’s up she says, “Who… who sent that to you?”
Understanding instantly dawns. She’s just seen me open up a parcel from a chick, pull out a present, and then text a photo of it to her – all immediately after probably one of the most vulnerable nights of her life, wherein she’s in a town that she doesn’t know, staying in a stranger’s bedroom, and she was so freaking delirious that she gave him a midnight feast, grinding those perfect little buns all over his fully-erect stiff.
Fucking hell, I’m an asshole.
“Harper, I swear. This is not what it looks like.”
She’s shaking her head and backing away. “I’m… oh my God, I’m an idiot. I didn’t know… I promise, I didn’t know that you had a girlfriend. If I’d known, last night I wouldn’t have – I wouldn’t have–”
Is she thinking about last night? Does she remember what happened?
Was that a conscious non-illness-related action?
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I say firmly. Then, “Do you remember what happened last night?”
She ignores my question, blinking fast and no longer backing away. “You… you don’t have a girlfriend?”
“No,” I say immediately, swiping my hand through the air for emphasis.
She looks sated for a moment but then her eyes bulge. “Tell me if you’re married, right now.”
I hold up my vacant left hand.
“Some people don’t wear a ring,” she says, narrowing her eyes.
“I’ve never been married, Harper. You seen any wedding pics around my house?”
She thinks about that briefly, then twists to glance into my dining room.
“I want to talk about last night,” I repeat, eyes dropping to my name on her chest, sitting right above the teasing point of her nipple. What I really want to do is ensure that she’s recovering and then show her how men like me give it to their woman.
She turns back to me, a red glow on her cheeks. “I don’t want to talk about it right now,” she admits, her voice soft and quiet. “I feel a lot better today – thanks to you, keeping me hydrated and everything – but I’m still kinda unsteady. And, to be honest, I’m not ready to talk about how freaking insane I’ve been over the past three weeks. Please know, I’m not usually so unhinged – you just happened to meet me during” – she makes an un-funny laugh – “extreme duress.”
Extreme duress? My jaw hardens.
“Who’s putting you under extreme duress?” Give me their name and I’ll sort them out, no problem.
She shakes her head, eyes faraway. “He’s not relevant anymore,” she says.
He? My brain almost explodes in my freaking skull.
So there’s evidently a guy in her life who’s causing emotional distress. I drop it for now so that she doesn’t get uncomfortable.
“My priority right now is making sure you’re feeling better – I don’t want to talk about bad stuff either. But I can’t deny that, once you’re recovered, I do want to talk about what happened last night.” I roll my shoulders and decide to go for brutal honesty. “I want to talk about how much I liked it. How much I’m liking right now, with you in my kitchen, wearing my shirt.” How much I’m liking you up against my counter, eye-fucking my bare chest. You millimetres away from me, squeezing your thighs together to relieve that ache.
Her eyelids grow heavy and her head tilts back a bit, like she doesn’t have the strength to keep upright anymore. “Okay,” she murmurs, fingers fumbling with the bottom of her shirt. “When I’m better we can…”
I nod at her, arms rigid at my sides in an attempt to keep my hands to myself. Keep this clean, Coleson. I try to realign my thoughts with the here and now.
“Water and then back to bed?” I ask her, somehow managing to not suggest getting in there with her and holding her until she’s asleep.
She nods up at me so I walk her upstairs. I stop outside of my bedroom doorway, but I know it in my bones that she wants me in there with her too.
*
At 6a.m. on Monday morning I’m shoving my feet into my work boots whilst Harper slips her long legs into a pair of wellies. I stop what I’m doing so that I can watch her, dazzled by how lithe, how feminine, she is. She needed something to put on her feet to prevent those fluffy socks getting irreparably dirty because it pissed down last night and the driveway is fully slick, so rain boots seemed like the most appropriate call.
That makes them the only appropriate thing to happen this weekend.
Getting Harper well again consisted of her snuggling down in my sheets on Saturday, followed by her snuggling into my sofa on Sunday, whilst I made her various plain soups to try and get her belly full again. After all the sickness passed it could’ve technically been one hell of a romantic weekend, but I kept my hands as far away from her as possible, busying myself in the workshop whilst she worked her way through my entire DVD collection.
It gave me thinking time too, which is why when she looks up at me now wearing my work shirt, my boots, and no damn bra I pass her a jacket to put on and rumble out, “I had a thought.”
She slides her arms into the sleeves, looking up at me as she adjusts the collar and then fastens the zip, leaving nothing but those smooth thighs on show. God, she’s sexy. Add on that sore-throated recovery rasp and it’s no wonder that she’s had my pipe throbbing all weekend.
“Yeah?” she asks, tucking her hands into the pockets. Then she frowns and removes her fingers, pulling out a receipt, ten tonnes of keys, and a fat wad of cash. She raises her eyebrows and gives me a look that reads uh…?
I hold out my hand and she passes me all of the crap that she just found.
“Yeah,” I tell her, tossing the receipt aside and putting the keys and cash in my cargos.
I’m hesitant to tell her about what’s been playing on my mind because I’m still not entirely sure about where we’re at or how she feels. But I want to hear her opinions so I suck it up and come out with it.
“I was thinking about the bungalows on the site, and how I’ve been staying in a motel, and how you came up here this weekend because there was no-one on hand to look after you. Not that you need looking after,” I add on, quickly. “Just that it’s better to have someone with you when you’re unwell. Not ‘you’ specifically! It’s the same for everyone.”
Jesus Christ. I scratch at my forehead, hoping that this is making some kind of sense to her.
“What I’m trying to say is that if I’m not staying here during the reno then maybe I could occupy the vacant bungalow next door to yours. If something was to happen on the site” – or to you – “then I’d be right there, no travel time.” I pull a jacket off the rack for myself and sling it over my forearm, looking down at her now to gauge her reaction.
She’s being unusually impassive. I narrow my eyes.
“So,” I finish up slowly, “how does that sound to you?”
She tucks her hands back inside the coat pockets and her eyes flash briefly over to the kitchen – or, more specifically, to River’s pumpkin. I tug at my lip, knowing that there’s a lot of stuff I haven’t told Harper about myself yet.
She breathes out a shaky breath and then looks up at me, her eyes big and bright.
She’s been ill all weekend and she still looks beautiful.
“You wanna move into the bungalow next door to mine?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her, shoving my hands deep in my cargos.
“So we’d be neighbours until you finish the reno,” she continues.
I swallow and nod. “Yes.”
She watches me cautiously. I think I’m about to sweat. Then a small smile appears on her pretty mouth and she says tauntingly, “Well, I guess that would make it a lot easier for us to have that conversation that you’ve been dying to have with me.”
I grunt and nod. Yeah, it will make it easier to find a moment to tell her how much I want to get her on a date.
And it could facilitate a hell of a lot of other stuff too.
“That a yes?” I ask her, trying to ignore that naughty glint in her eyes. Not yet, baby. Let me wine and dine you first.
She turns her smile up to full-watt. “Yes,” she says, and then she brushes her body right past me, pressing firm and deliberate to rile me up.
She opens up the door and I turn around to step out with her, but then we both stop in our tracks.
Great.
It’s less than a week until Halloween so it’s no wonder that it’s chucking it down.
I take my trucker hat off the rack and place it gently on her head. She looks up at me with those big beautiful eyes and I look back down at her, giving her an almost-smile.
Then we hightail it to the truck and head back to Pine Hills.
