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“You’d better keep my secret,” I tell her, lifting a brow.
“It’s one of my faves too.”
Harper moves closer to me and rests her head against my shoulder. I don’t move, nearly frozen in place as I zero in on Blanche, acting like a scandalous Southern belle again.
Laughter falls out of Harper’s mouth, and then the show cuts to the next commercial break. “If I were a Golden Girl, I think I’d be Blanche.”
I chew on my lip, and she sits upright, glaring at me.
“Oh my God, you agree!”
I tilt my head. “Come on. It’s obvious.”
“Yeah, well, you’d be Sophia! Crotchety, always mouthing off before leaving the room.”
I shrug. “No lies detected.”
“And who would Billie be?”
We meet each other’s eyes and say, “Dorothy,” at the same time, and laughter escapes us.
It feels good. It feels right.
Our shoulders brush, and my breath catches. Suddenly, the air feels charged with something different, warmer. Neither of us moves away.
The episode comes back on, pulling our attention back, and the ladies are arguing in the living room about property taxes. Dorothy’s wearing a puffy-sleeved shirt, and it does kind of remind me of Billie.
I lean back on the couch, kicking off my boots to get more comfortable. I can still feel the heat of Harper’s body close to me. She returns back to my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around her, keeping my hand relaxed. We sit in silence, my heart racing, watching my favorite fucking show in the world.
She breathes me in, and I try to ignore it. We laugh at the same jokes the girlies make and scoff at the same time too. Harper keeps her hands to herself, which I’m happy for. At least we still have some boundaries. But I know with every passing second, our guards are falling.
One of us has to stay strong, and every time, it is me.
Harper has tried her damnedest to crack me and has never succeeded. I don’t know what her result will be this time.
Her presence beside me feels natural, easy, and yet I feel the undercurrent sweeping below us.
“What other shows do you like?” she finally says, breaking the silence.
I glance at her. “Frasier.”
“No way! I loveFrasier. They kinda remind me of Easton and Weston.”
“So, I guess that makes me their dad?”
Laughter howls from her. “You are absolutely Martin. The reality-check character who understands the real world, outside of wine tastings and opera houses. Hilarious.”
She’s smiling so wide, and I love to see it.
“This feels right,” I confess, watching her carefully.
Her eyes meet mine, the playful glint replaced by something softer, deeper. “It does.”
She swallows hard, and I look away from her. Her vulnerability is so rare and precious, and I feel so goddamn lucky that she shares this part of herself with me.
I force myself to swallow past the sudden dryness. “It’s really good to see.”
“What is?” she asks.