Page 3 of The Best Man: Unfinished Business

Chapter Two

Harper

Harper’s interview went by in a blur, only to place him all too quickly back in the plush leather seat of a chauffeured black Escalade heading home.

New York City rush-hour traffic seemed extra thick this morning.

The Dominican brother with a razor-sharp haircut was doing his best to navigate Manhattan’s aggressive commute—the large volume of vehicles and risky lane switches, all going south on FDR Drive.

Harper was ready to get back to work but tried to settle himself into the wait, resigned but definitely frustrated as they made their way back to his Brooklyn Heights residence.

So, he responded with “Oh. No. It’s cool.

” And she seemed happy about that. Too happy, snuggled in his one-thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets and Frette duvet.

Thankfully she said, “I just need another hour. I’ll set my alarm,” before she rolled over and hugged one of his thick pillows. “Good luck, baby.”

Were they at the pet name stage at this point? They’d been flirting, dating, fucking for the better part of two months. They weren’t exclusive, though. At least he wasn’t…

Harper hadn’t even fully stepped into the car leaving the television studio when Bailey’s name popped up in his text messages.

“You did so great, babe!” Already “baby” from this morning had shifted to “babe.” It wasn’t any better.

Harper resolved to stop and get her a latte and send her on her way for the day before she got too comfortable.

The interview reminded him of the stakes for this project, the responsibility for the sequel to Unfinished Business, his redemption.

Against his longtime agent Stan’s best advice, Harper had given up a lucrative potential payday in exchange for the exclusive shot to script write.

It wasn’t easy doing battle with the studio suits and their best efforts to persuade Harper to leave this project to the “professionals.” No way.

He might’ve been a novice when it came to screenwriting, but he’d pay for the opportunity to get it right.

“Keep the money” was Harper’s stance. Stan worked overtime to protect Harper and his bank balance, always got the best deal he could.

He wasn’t in agreement with taking less money up front, but knew how much the Unfinished Business title meant to Harper, and most important, why.

Harper had gotten a rare shot he owed to himself and others not to blow.

Stan’s ears must have been ringing at Harper’s thoughts, because his name was now buzzing his phone.

“Hey, Stan,” Harper answered. “Did you—”

Stan’s enthusiastic greeting took over the call. “Harper Stewart. Setting the world on fire,” he began.

“So you did see the interview,” Harper said wryly. Of course Stan had seen it. Harper Stewart was a major client—and had been since Stan snapped him up right out of Iowa’s graduate writing program. A promising young writer who he’d helped blossom into “the voice of a generation.”

Stan chuckled. “Yes, I did. You are quite the polished writer, my friend—made the book picks sound interesting. It was a great hit. Congratulations.”

“Thanks, Stan.”

“I’m sure once the West Coast wakes up, they’ll be watching it as well. And I want to be ready when I get the eventual calls about all the Unfinished Business sequel talk.”

“How’d they even know I was writing it?”

“Mehhh, you know, it’s a hot property. Someone’s assistant probably leaked it. Who knows?” Stan opined. “More importantly, how’s it going? I’d love to be as confidently cagey with the studio as you were with the CBS crew.”

Harper bit on his bottom lip, choosing a response.

“Yeah…about that,” he said finally. “Can you buy me some more time?”

“You mean, ‘more time’ like more than the week between now and the studio meeting in LA?”

Harper felt the heat rise in his face. “Yes.”

Stan released a dramatic sigh. “Look, Harper, we can’t keep pushing this meeting.

It took us a month just to get the schedules coordinated…

again …. Don’t overthink this. All you need is a pitch.

A convincing pitch. You go in and sell the room on the pitch and I can get you the creative space you need to work on rewriting the college sequel you wanted to do, or even a whole new idea.

You know they can do whatever they want without you—”

“Yeah, Stan, they already did!”

“And that’s why we need to make sure this opportunity works. These are your characters, Harper. No one knows them better than you. No matter how successful the movie version was, you can tell their next chapter better than anyone.”

Harper sighed.

“That’s what we fought for. This is what you wanted.”

Stan was always good for a pep talk—one part encouragement and two parts pressure.

Harper had hurt his friends by losing control over their depictions.

He should have known the movie studio would take liberties; they always did.

But his friends had placed their faith in him, given him their confidence when he’d asked for it, blessed the book when he’d needed it.

Hell, his best friend and retired NFL All-Star, Lance Sullivan, had even given him unprecedented access to his life and legacy to write his biography.

The least he could do now was take this opportunity seriously.

But Harper wasn’t as focused as he needed to be with this project.

Even he could admit it—he was distracted.

Especially so if “distracted” meant the three rounds of vigorous sex that had kept him up far past midnight the previous night, and even later nights before.

But it wasn’t Bailey’s fault. And it wasn’t the fault of the string of women that he’d been dating either.

The problem was Harper feeling untethered with this new stage in his life.

He had to figure some shit out, and quick.

“Yeah, I got it,” Harper said, his tone lower and signaling defeat. “This screenplay thing is tricky.”

“Listen.” Stan’s coach mode was in full effect. “I’m just as new to this Hollywood way of doing business, but it’s not nearly as complex as what you do. What they care about is ‘the big idea.’ You solve that, you’ll have them.”

“I got you, Stan,” Harper declared. “I’ll be ready.”

The chauffeured car pulled to a slow curbside stop in front of Harper’s condominium building on Front Street.

To his relief, the entry could not have looked more pristine.

The fees of his HOA were already high enough without add-ons for damage.

He briefly imagined the arrival of the firefighters, with their boots and gear, marching through the immaculate marble and carved chestnut–paneled lobby. It must have caused quite a scene.

The elevator ride took him up sixteen floors to the single floor two-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath showplace that he’d purchased following his divorce.

Fourteen hundred square feet was a lot of luxury living for just one person (and occasionally his eleven-year-old daughter, Mia).

The views of the river had been a huge selling point for him, but more than that, every time he saw his brown hand lying upon the polished brass knob to open the wood-panel door, he remembered the years of toiling and undercompensation, the unrecognized years of scraping a dollar here and there, stitching together gigs to make ends meet.

Well, now times were good. Real good. And opening the door to his crib reminded him that the sacrifices had been worth it, seeing the perfect blend of industrial charm and modern opulence inside.

From its vaulted ceilings with white crown moldings, oversized windows that flooded the space with morning sunlight, to its neutral furnishings and sleek hardwood floors, his home was an incarnation of the kind of aspirational worlds Harper created in his novels.

And back in his familiar entryway, he didn’t even smell smoke. It was home, just as he’d leftit.

“Bailey?” Harper called out. Aside from a slight echo from his own voice, the calm sparked curious suspicion that she may have already exited the premises.

But as he made his way toward his open-plan kitchen with the cardboard tray of cooling lavender lattes, he could hear the TV on in the bedroom and the faint sound of a buzzing motor coming from inside.

“Hiiiiii!” Bailey’s voice caroused through the hall in response. Damn. Harper thought. She’s still here. And then instantly, he felt bad about his disappointment. “I’ll be right out!” she sang happily.

“All right.” Harper made an effort to sound cheerful as he put the lattes down in the still intact kitchen and clocked the time: 9:17 a.m. Time to get this day started; the clock was ticking and a week could pass quickly.

Sometimes his best ideas were slow to arrive.

He picked up the closest cup and took a sip, appreciating the view of the East River glistening through his living room window.

Relax, Harper, take a breath. Be a good host. “I got you a latte,” he called out.

“Awww. So sweet…” Bailey was laying it on thick.

And then, just one second later, “Juthonesecond, babe, immjuthbrushinmahteeh,” she replied in a jumble of garbled words.

Toothbrush talk, for sure…but wait. Brushing her teeth?

Harper wondered. With my toothbrush? Awww, hell naw.

He hadn’t signed up for this. Not the debacle at the station, not the extra time away from work, and for sure not the intermingling of his toothbrush with her mouth…

Or maybe she brought her own? Harper’s thoughts on which scenario was worse were interrupted by the bedroom door opening.

“Good morning, superstar!” Bailey exclaimed.