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Harper

“Nelsons don’t quit.”

My mother’s voice echoed in my head as my finger hovered over the send button, centimeters away from firing off the resignation letter I’d had typed up for months.

That’s because you’ve never experienced failure, I wanted to say back to her.

Tonight, Nick O’Connor’s face took up the entire television screen hanging above the bar like some sick cosmic joke as he conversed with the hosts of our network’s most prestigious show about the games he had been covering for spring training.

He’d spent only a few days in Arizona, but they sent me to Florida for the whole spring training season without so much as a “thank you.”

I tossed my phone down on the bar with a sigh and signaled to the bartender for another rum and soda.

Not only would my parents endlessly nag me if I quit without a backup plan, but pressing that send button would waste all my hard work.

I would confirm that I wasn’t cut out for this reporting job, proving my parents and all my worst critics right.

Truthfully, I’d known when I first wanted to go into this industry that it was a boys’ club, and I would have to work ten times as hard as my male counterparts. You not only had to play your cards right, but you had to have connections to get the leg up you needed—which I did not have.

Nick was going on about the interview he had with the top pitching prospect for the Denver Diamonds. His megawatt smile was nearly blinding and not a single hair was out of place on his perfectly styled head. He was exactly what the network was looking for—charismatic, charming, and knowledgeable.

My eye twitched.

Over the past four years, I’d worked myself to the bone to prove my worth as a field reporter, and last year, Nick O’Connor, the son of a long-time executive, waltzed in and received the best stories to cover. Getting passed over was becoming all too familiar.

People like Nick ruined my five-year plan.

Shredded the goals I had. Unforeseen circumstances out of my control.

What made it even more unbearable was that I was good .

I deserved a promotion just as much—maybe even more—than any of my coworkers that got it instead of me.

But they always overlooked me. Something along the lines of always the bridesmaid and never the bride.

The last thing I wanted was to stare at Nick’s face on the late-night slot I had been dreaming about since my first day on the job, so I opened my mouth to ask the bartender to change the television.

“Can we change the channel? Anything but baseball, please.” It took me a moment to realize I wasn’t the one who had spoken as a figure was sliding into the open seat next to me, a hat drawn low over his eyes.

He glanced over at me for only a second as the bartender changed the channel from Nick O’Connor’s face to a comedy show.

But that was all I needed to realize I was sitting next to Jamil Edman, the home run season record holder and starting centerfielder for the reigning World Series champions, the Chicago Cougars.

Jamil had been thrust into stardom last season after the success he and his team had, which earned him a new contract that came with an eye-popping salary and brands lining up for a chance to work with him.

He was featured in commercials, his face was on billboards, clothing brands were rushing to make him his own line.

Everywhere you turned you were met with Jamil’s crooked smile.

He was no longer just an athlete. He was quickly becoming part of our pop culture.

But the Jamil Edman sitting next to me was missing those well-known qualities.

The corners of his mouth were turned down and his shoulders drooped with defeat.

There was no trace of the happy-go-lucky centerfielder that had made a name for himself in the league for his upbeat personality and silly pranks he loved to pull on his teammates during games.

This man looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and all he wanted was to go unnoticed for one single night.

When the bartender slid a beer over to him, he wrapped his hands around the glass like it was a lifeline.

A good reporter would have tried to get to the bottom of Jamil’s melancholy, but tonight I didn’t want to be a reporter.

I just wanted to be a girl at a bar who desperately needed an escape from her world, and it looked like Jamil wanted the very same thing.

“Thank you,” I told him, motioning toward the television. “I was just about to ask him to change the channel.”

Jamil studied me from under the brim of his Chicago Bobcats hat, sizing me up to see if I was going to be a threat to the peaceful night he was hoping for.

“Not a fan of baseball?” The rich timbre of his voice rumbled in his chest. I noticed the smallest twinkle in his hazel eyes as he waited for my answer.

The smile lines around his eyes made a quick appearance as his lips barely turned upward.

It was a shame that smile wasn’t on display all the time.

“More like I need a break from it.”

“Drinking your sorrows away?”

I nodded. He lifted his glass.

“To chasing happiness at the bottom of this glass,” he offered, extending his toward mine. He smiled at me, all good looks and easy charm—like he’d sat down next to a woman alone at a bar a hundred times before, looking to strike up a conversation, and maybe something more. He probably had.

“Are you from Florida?” Jamil asked. From the way he had hunched over the bar when he first sat down it seemed like all he wanted was to drink his beer in silence, but maybe what he really wanted was to have an interaction that reminded him what normal felt like.

I shook my head. “Washington DC.”

“Politics?”

A harsh laugh escaped me. “My mother would prefer it if I was.”

Maria Nelson had tried to groom me from a young age to follow in her footsteps.

She was a well-loved congresswoman who had paved a way for herself on Capitol Hill.

Many even speculated she could make a run for president.

She was a straight shooter who missed nothing.

Her dedication to her job was admirable.

But I had grown up watching the way she had always prioritized her job over her family—how the country had always come before her daughter.

I snuck a glance at Jamil. A bit of stubble had started to grow on his face, but sharp cheekbones and the angular line of his jaw were still visible.

His lashes were long enough to brush against his cheeks when he blinked.

Even the wrinkles he’d begun to collect accented his best features.

My stomach clenched as a laugh burst from his mouth.

I would have classified it as one of the best sounds I’d ever heard if it weren’t for the snort that shortly followed.

His eyes widened before he looked over at me to see if I had noticed, a hint of red coloring his cheeks.

How was it fair that someone could be so beautiful?

My shoulders shook, a laugh daring to break free. His brows pulled down into angry lines as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you laughing at me?”

One of my hands shot up to cover the evidence as I failed to hold it in. “Not at all.”

Then that crooked smile I saw next to an advertisement about a new energy drink nearly every day was right there in three-dimensions. I busied myself with the straw in my cup, if only to keep from staring at him any more than I already had.

When Jamil turned to his phone, checking notifications, I could feel our conversation ending.

The two of us becoming strangers once more.

I had the sudden urge to be reckless. I’d been working myself to the bone, never turning down any work that came my way.

Only to be left feeling unappreciated and unfulfilled.

Would it hurt if I let myself indulge for just one night?

But before I could strike the conversation back up, I was staring down at an outstretched hand. “I’m Jamil.”

I know , almost slipped out. But I bit it back. There was a chance if either of us was reminded of who we were out in the real world, this perfect moment would be broken.

And did I really know Jamil Edman? I knew the version of him he showed to the world.

But I didn’t know this conflicted person sitting next to me, laughing over stand-up comedy, trying to forget everything that happened beyond the door of this bar.

He was a paradox, a puzzle I wanted to unravel to take my mind off my own problems.

I slipped my hand into his and watched the way his fingers engulfed mine. Time came to a screeching halt, the world narrowed to a pair of hazel eyes. “Harper.”

“That’s a beautiful name.” My hand was still in his. Someone holding my hand should never feel this good.

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat before dropping my hand back to my lap. Not missing the way his stayed on the bar top, still in the shape of mine. His fingers flexed before he flipped it over.

“My dad is a really big Paul Newman fan. Harper was one of his favorite films. I guess not many people get to say they’re named after a fictional private eye.”

There was that crooked smile with his lips pulling up slightly higher on the right side. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Harper, whose father is a really big fan of Paul Newman.”

Now it was my turn to blush. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

“I would ask what a beautiful girl is doing alone at a bar, but I feel like you’re the type that would roll her eyes at such a question.

” His teeth were a bright white as he flashed me a smile.

The words had slipped out of his mouth like second nature.

As if he never really had to try very hard to pick a girl up.

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Does that normally work for you?”

He winced. “Something of the sort normally does.”