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“So, I guess I’m just supposed to stand here and look pretty while the circulation gets cut off in your hands?”
“Exactly. And you’re doing a fucking great job.”
“Thanks,” she tells me. “I don’t remember the last time I shopped for food. I usually have it delivered to my penthouse.”
“Because you’re spoiled,” I say.
She gasps like she’s offended, then tucks her lips into her mouth because she knows she can’t deny it.
“And you deserve to be,” I add. “If you were mine?—”
“I can be yours. When you’re ready,” she says, and we both know right now that whatever this is going on between us, there are no labels.
I unlock the trunk, and we load the groceries inside.
I grab her hand, pulling her close to me. “You just got out of a shitty relationship, Harp,” I explain, giving her a sweet smile. “I can’t be your rebound.”
“Brody Calloway,” she tells me playfully, “I’ve had a crush on you since I was thirteen. You don’t fit the rebound mold. And not to mention, I’ve not been dicked down by you so how could you even considering it that?” She shrugs.
I shake my head, but I can’t help the laughter that spills out of me. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”
“I can think of a few things,” she offers. “Actually, I can make a list.”
“Not. Helping.”
Harper glances at the cozy Sugar Pine Springs Diner, nestled between a boutique and an antique shop. “Oh, can we eat?”
“Whatever you want,” I tell her.
“Whatever I want?” she asks, playfully tucking her hands into her pockets and biting her lip.
I grab her hand, leading her down the sidewalk. “You’re making it very hard to be a gentleman.”
She waggles her brows, and her eyes slide from my lips down to my dick.
“Harp,” I whisper, trying to hold back a smile as we enter, but I fail.
A bell jingles overhead, and a younger woman instantly greets us. “Whoa. You’re like the perfect couple.”
“I agree,” Harper says, lifting her brow at me.
I playfully shake my head at her, but I like her pushing this. It shows me that she’s not just going with the flow. I’m her prize, and, fuck, I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t mine.
“How ’bout a booth for y’all?” the woman asks with a twang as she grabs two laminated menus that are front and back.
“Perfect,” Harper answers, and we’re led across the space.
The diner is packed with locals. No one is paying attention to us. While in Sugar Pine Springs, we’re invisible, just two regular people without pasts or family expectations or paparazzi.
Harper glances back at me, her smile bright. Without thinking about it, I remove the space between us, placing my hand on the small of her back.
She slides into a booth by the window, sunlight pooling across the tabletop, and instead of taking the seat across from her, I scoot in beside her.
She settles against me, and I wrap my arm around her. Whatever this is, it’s growing at a rate that neither of us can control.
The server walks up, and we quickly order coffee and water, then tell her to give us the breakfast special that has a little of everything—from sausage to hash browns to a stack of pancakes.
When we’re alone, Harper pulls her new phone from her dress pocket. I watch her, enjoying how loose strands of hair frame her pretty face and how she absently chews her lower lip as she scrolls. My gaze lingers, noticing small things, like how her long eyelashes sweep softly against her cheeks, how the corners of her mouth tug into a small, secretive smile.