Page 144 of Dying to Meet You

“In a sec. She’s just helping me.”

What I’m really doing is finger combing my hair and trying to find my misplaced dignity.

Harrison moves calmly toward the futon couch and rolls the mattress burrito-style before lifting it.

“What are you doing?”

“Moving this. Just like I said.”

I step out of the way so he can carry it awkwardly to the wood floor between the stairs and the back of the couch.

When he returns, I’m still standing in the den’s doorway, red-faced, wondering what’s wrong with me.

Harrison picks up his pillow off the floor and gives me a grin. “To be continued.”

“Not a chance,” I whisper. “And why am I the only one who looks contrite?”

“Because I don’t have anything to be contrite about,” he says in a low voice. “I’ve loved you as hard as I can since the first time you let me talk you into a beer after work. I love you still. It’s not a crime to care.”

My jaw slams shut as I scan his features. His gaze is steady, and his well-kissed mouth is drawn in a serious line. He means what he’s just said.

“I realize that not everything that happened in the past was really your fault. But you can’t just walk back in and expect me to pick up where we left off. It’s not fair to me. And it’sreallynot fair to Natalie. She’s wanted a normal family for her whole life. Do not toy with her emotions.”

“I would never,” he whispers. “And I love her, too, which is also not something you can control. Now go up to bed before you’ll have to step over me to do it. Or I might just grab you when you pass by. Like a troll under a bridge.”

I stalk by him without a word, because I believe that he might actually try it.

And the stupid thing is that I’d probably let him.

52

Friday

Natalie

Her second day on the job, Natalie works the lunch shift as a hostess in training. She wears her Docksiders T-shirt knotted at the waist to turn it into a crop top and the Saint Raymond medallion as a good luck charm.

Hostessing, it turns out, is easier than expediting. There’s a laminated map of the table numbers, and seating people is simpler than remembering their orders.

And even a monkey could keep a waiting list straight.

She makes another million silverware rolls while waiting for her father to finish up in the kitchen. Tonight he’s playing with his band onstage instead of working in the kitchen. And there’s no dinner shift for Natalie. So when they walk out into the sunshine at three, she’s done for the day.

“Where’s your bike?” he asks, looking at the empty rack. The only thing here on two wheels is his motorcycle.

“I don’t have it. Tessa dropped me off after brunch.”

He swears under his breath. “Okay, I guess we’re walkin’.”

“You could just ride me home on that.” She points at the Honda Rebel tucked against the building.

He looks uneasy. “Your mom didn’t want you on my bike.”

“But it’s, like, a mile or two, right? Besides—tonight you’ll have your bass and your amp, right?”

He closes his eyes briefly. “Okay. But it will be just this once unless you can get your mom to agree to letting you ride with me.”

“All right. Let’s go.”