Total pages in book: 211
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
I have no idea where she’s going with this, but I’m all in for finding out. “Why did you like it, Harper?”
“That was clearly a ‘fuck you’ to your father and brother.” She pinches her lips. “No. Just your father. I don’t think you give one second of thought to Isaac.”
She’s perceptive. I like that. “I have no need to impress either of them,” I say, “but you are another story.”
“You impress me most naked,” she assures me, but somehow, she manages to remain so very wholesome. The girl next door every guy fantasizes about, most certainly me.
I laugh. “Is that right?”
“Yes. Definitely right.” She snags one of the two bags from my hand. “I’m going to feed you now, but I have a condition.”
“Another orgasm?”
“Orgasms are always good,” she says, “but I want you to tell me what all of your ink means.”
“My ink,” I repeat, when I’d expected her to want to know about my money, my success. Or even how I’m going to deal with Kingston. “That’s what you want to know about me?”
“Yes,” she says motioning me toward the kitchen. I follow her that direction and when we’re behind her kitchen island I say, “That’s what you want to know?”
She laughs. “Yes. Why is that so hard to believe? That ink clearly tells a story. I want to hear that story.”
It’s an astute assumption and right on target. My ink is my life history in ways she seems to intuitively understand which is surprising but also interesting. Harper is interesting, complicated, smart, thoughtful—kind in ways I will never be or become. She needs to understand that, but then I think she’s trying to do just that, to understand me. She begins removing the containers from the bags.
“How old were you when you got your first tattoo?” she asks. “And before you answer, you’re okay with me sticking these in the microwave, right? It feels a little cold.”
“Of course,” I answer, perching on a leather barstool while she pops the food in to warm. “And to answer your question, I was eighteen when I got my first tattoo and it was a stopwatch that’s still on my right forearm in the middle of more ink.” I turn my arm and show her. “Pissed off my father which only made me like it more.”
“And what does the stopwatch mean to you?”
“All things come in their own time. And that statement has meant many things to me in my life.” My eyes meet Harper’s. “Like us, sweetheart. It wasn’t our time six years ago. It is now.”
“All things come in their own time,” she repeats softly, her gaze sliding over both of my arms. “You only had one sleeve when I met you six years ago.”
“A lot has happened in six years.”
“For you,” she says. “I know it has.”
“Not for you?”
“I feel like I’ve done nothing but fight the same battle.” She gives a choked laugh. “You know that saying. The definition of stupid or insanity or whatever it is, is to keep doing the same thing and expecting a different result. You’re right. Six years was too long.” Pain stabs through her eyes but the microwave beeps and gives her an excuse to cut her stare. She looks away and pulls the first tray out, checking it and then replacing it with the second.
“This one is ready,” she says, closing the space between us to set it in front of me.
I drag her to me, between my legs, not about to let her comments go unanswered. “You didn’t make a mistake. There have been times when I thought I left too soon and too easily.”
“You didn’t. You would never have been accepted.”
“I know that now,” I say. “I knew that at the party. I didn’t know it during some of those years in the SEALs.”
“Yes, well as you said, six years makes me a damn slow learner.”
“I never said that and it’s clear that you stayed for your mother.” The microwave goes off again and I motion to an unopened bottle of wine on the counter. “How about some of that wine?” I ask. “It’ll take the edge off.”
“That was a gift from my mother, who has expensive tastes these days, that she never had before. I couldn’t drink it. It felt like accepting who she’s become.”
“She loves you, sweetheart. Don’t overthink her gifts. Drink the wine and do it because you’re with me. Forget about everything else. Yes?”
She gives a little nod. “Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“Perfect. Where are the glasses?”
“Cabinet by the sink to the left.”
I cup her head and kiss her before I open the wine and fill two glasses. We sip the red blend with approval and Harper shivers.
“It’s chilly in here,” she says. “I can turn on the fireplace in the living room and we can eat in there.”