Page 13

Harper

Six days left to find buried treasure and stay one step ahead of an infuriatingly gorgeous salvager

Every single sound at the diner grated on my already jumpy nerves. The orders being called, the tiny bell over the door, the clang of pots and pans in the kitchen.

The Pantry was a lively and bustling spot—a tan building with a teal retro sign. Locals streamed in, bringing blasts of warm summer air and the scent of sunscreen. Through the windows, the sky was that same dazzling blue, so clear I could see the foothills in the distance.

My anxiety wasn’t the popular diner’s fault. Or the lovely, balmy weather’s.

It was the message I’d just received from my editor, Greg.

A terse “calling in ten” that sent my heart galloping in my chest. I’d worked on the article last night—sleepless and bleary-eyed—and had managed to write: “My only solid connection to the elusive Monty Montana is an infuriatingly gorgeous salvager who I desperately want to make out with. But, spoiler alert, she believes me to be no better than a slimy tabloid reporter and is now destroying all of my hopes and dreams.”

A server with hot-pink hair poured me another cup of coffee with a sympathetic smile. I returned the gesture, then rubbed my throbbing temples, tired and wired and nervous.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Eve. Her hand on the back of my neck. Firm and protective, the way she naturally angled me away from what had caused my fear.

The fact that I was fairly certain she’d dropped her nose into my hair and smelled it, a deep inhale I’d felt against her chest.

This had haunted me all night long—the evidence of Eve Bardot’s desire.

Therefore, quality sleep had eluded me yet again.

I’d suspected Eve was queer but now knew for sure. Knew that she was bi, just like me, which never ceased to make my little bisexual heart glow with that unique pleasure of feeling seen.

And she found herself poring through historical texts for the same reasons I was suddenly so obsessed with Priscilla Blackburn.

All of it added a confounding layer to an attraction I assumed was shallow, if captivating.

It wasn’t like I had plans of sticking around New Mexico, which meant Eve would only ever be a sexy fantasy at best. She had messy written all over her, and the very last thing I needed right now was some complicating hookup that would only distract from the extremely important reasons I was out here.

Greg called at that exact moment, sending my pulse into overdrive.

“Good morning from New Mexico,” I said brightly. “It’s so gorgeous here. You should see the way the—”

“I have an email from you here with your updates on the Monty Montana story,” he interjected. “Which so far looks like a whole lot of nothing. Unless there’s been some kind of mistake?”

My lungs seized up. “No mistake. Did you see my lengthy summary on Priscilla Blackburn and the missing diamonds?”

“You mean a dead woman from over a hundred years ago and an urban legend that’s proved impossible to verify? It’s got nothing to do with the reason why we sent you out there. Which was to convince Monty Montana to give her first interview in thirty years.”

I held my tongue. Admitting that I still didn’t know where she was didn’t feel like the smartest move.

“I know she’s famous for being hard to find,” he added. “But you said you were ready for a challenge, Harper, and you know what’s on the line. Don’t make me regret giving this to you.”

Greg hung up before I could reply, leaving me sitting in an empty booth and blinking back tears of frustration. As covertly as possible, I swiped at my eyes and dropped my phone into my bag, every inch of my body burning with embarrassment.

I had plenty of friends from school who never understood why I wouldn’t ride my father’s pristine reputation all the way to the top of an industry that worshiped him like a deity.

Or why I’d clawed my way through unpaid internships and shitty assistant jobs when Dad had been bragging for years that he could get me a top gig at the top media outlets with a single phone call.

But I knew better than to trust a man who chose his career over being there for his grieving children.

Pulling out my recorder and notebook, I slid a pencil from my bun and took one last sip of coffee. The bell over the door rung, and I glanced up, expecting to see my appointment.

Instead, Eve strolled in.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake ,” I whispered.

The pink-haired server approached her, and Eve slowly removed her aviators, flashing her charming smile. Whatever Eve said had the server blushing and looking nervous. And when Eve finally turned and spotted me, her body seemed loose, shoulders relaxed.

Then she slid right into my red vinyl booth, sitting directly next to me.

I gaped at her. “I’m sorry, did I invite you to sit here? I’ve got an interview any second now, and I’d love for you to be as far away from it as possible.”

She hooked a tattooed arm around the back of the seat. Doing so brought her knee against mine, sending a shock of sensation through me. Drawing my eyes to the dip of her collarbone, the column of her throat, the shape of her breasts in her tight black top.

“Hendrix? My face is up here.”

When I wrenched my eyes back to hers, one end of her mouth was tipped up and there was a slight arch to her brow. I turned away from her—my body burning from embarrassment yet again—and flipped open my notebook. “Like I was saying, I’m busy. Please leave.”

“I know you are,” she said. “Why do you think I’m here?”

My stomach plummeted. “Did Waylon call you, too?”

She picked up the menu for a casual perusal. “I wanted to follow up on our conversation from the other night. Something wasn’t sitting right. And when I did, he was surprised. Said he’d just called you and was on his way here. I didn’t want you getting any vital information before me.”

“Right,” I said flatly. “You’ve forced your way into this conversation because I’m just some stranger. As you said before, there’s no reason for you to fight fair.”

She snorted. “Don’t pretend like you’ve been playing fair this whole time, either, Hendrix.”

I couldn’t help the sharp disappointment I felt at how quickly we’d descended back into our sniping. Foolish of me to think we were getting somewhere after our more serious conversation in Devil’s Kiln.

Foolish of me to wish that just because we shared an identity, had something real in common, our dynamic might shift.

“I hope it’s okay…I brought you an oat-milk latte, Eve.”

The voice of our server startled us apart, and this time I noticed their name tag—which read Ember (they/them) —and the sweet, almost knowing look they sent the both of us.

Eve recovered easily, shoving her curls back and raising the mug to her lips. “Thanks, Em. It’s nice to see you. Everything good?”

“Everything’s great.” Their smile widened. “I, uh…hope to see you around sometime.”

“Same here.”

As soon as they left, I cocked an eyebrow in Eve’s direction. “They like you.”

She sipped her drink. “We used to date.”

I am not jealous I am not jealous I am not —

“So you’re not…still dating?” I asked. Aiming for nonchalance and probably sounding desperate.

Eve shook her head. “Em’s awesome, but I only do casual, and they wanted something more serious.”

I added “only do casual” to my list of why the woman sitting next to me was fantasy-only, not reality.

“Ah, I see,” I said. “You broke their heart.”

Eve sputtered out a laugh, looking surprised. “I just told you it was casual. No hearts involved. But I know how you’re automatically biased to assume I’m the problem in any situation, so it makes a certain kind of sense.”

Now it was my turn to smirk. “Really? You’ve got ‘heartbreaker’ written all over you.”

“I could say the same about you.”

My eyebrows flew up. “ Me ? Absolutely not.”

Her answering grin was all confidence. “In my experience, it’s always the nice ones. You never seem ’em coming.”

I wasn’t sure if Eve calling me nice was a compliment or an insult, but that smile was pure flirtation.

My pulse skipped a beat. My stomach hollowed.

I distracted myself by sipping my now-lukewarm coffee and then saying, “Every romantic relationship I’ve ever had ended amicably and respectfully. I highly doubt I broke anyone’s heart.”

“Has anyone ever broken yours?” she asked, more sincerely than I expected.

I frowned, mulling it over like a scientist examining lab results.

In the midst of building my career and working non-stop, I tended toward partnerships that were easy and stable, requiring minimal effort.

After the chaos of my childhood, I found a deep safety in already knowing the outcome so I could prepare ahead of time.

Passionate affairs or weekend flings incited an out-of-control feeling I avoided like the plague.

But that didn’t mean my long-term relationships had been that passionate, either.

Eve shook her head and said, “If you have to think about it, my guess is no . That shit hurts. You’d remember it.”

“That’s presumptuous.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Well…have you?”

I sat back a little, fussing with the menu. “I’m sure I have. It’s not like I ended these relationships and felt nothing . I’m not a sociopath. I was certainly sad and…and disappointed. But then I just moved on, no hard feelings.”

She studied me for a moment. “You’ve always been the one to end things?”

I nodded, suddenly nervous.

Eve raised her mug to her lips and peered at me as she sipped. “So you are the heartbreaker. I was right. You probably left a trail of bisexual chaos all throughout Brooklyn, didn’t you?”

I ducked my head, hiding the smile that threatened to fly across my face. “The exact opposite, I’m sure. I despise chaos.”

“You flew halfway across the country to find Monty, and now you’re tacking dig up buried treasure onto your to-do list. That’s pretty chaotic, Hendrix.”

“Yes, well…” I fiddled with my earring, feeling her eyes on me. “That’s… You have an extremely unrealistic idea of my romantic prowess. And really, this conversation was about you .”

“That’s right. Apparently ‘heartbreaker’ is written all over me.

But you’ve given no evidence to your point.

” Eve leaned back, running a hand through her curls and looking like she’d model for a magazine called Sultry Lady Mechanics.

It was the rakish tilt of her mouth, the white tank, her narrow hips in those jeans, the way she studied me like a beloved painting.

“You know, your…” I swallowed. “Dashing good looks or whatever. Don’t pretend you don’t know the effect you have on people.”

A blush appeared on her cheeks. My pulse tripled at the sight of it.

“No hearts involved when it comes to me,” she finally said. “I’m just regular hot. Not heartbreaker hot.”

“How charming,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Just telling the truth.”

“But if hearts aren’t ever involved, how do you know how badly it hurts?” I protested.

She grimaced in response, then hid it. “A lot of people can break your heart, not just romantically. At least that’s been the case for me.”

I pictured my mom on that last night, how she’d kissed the top of my head five times, said, “See you in the morning, lovebug,” then shut off my bedroom lights.

The finality of it, how I’d spent months after that trapped in magical thinking, wishing I’d only asked her to stay for one more minute. Then one minute more.

“I know how that feels,” I said softly. “It hurts just as badly. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Our eyes caught, and held, and this time something warmer passed between us.

I wanted to ask who and how , to crack open a door to the secrets beneath Eve’s confident exterior.

Though even as I wished that to be the case, I knew how dangerous it could be.

To push past the scorching heat of my attraction to all that was hidden beneath, every need and vulnerability.

Eve’s brow furrowed, like she was trying to puzzle me out.

But Waylon chose that exact moment to push open the door, raising a hand in greeting and then sliding into our booth, across the table.

And all that tender, tenuous warmth between us went icy cold.