I inhale the breadsticks by the time I arrive at James’ compound. I can’t think of a better word to describe the monstrosity spread out on his acreage. His house sticks out like a hooker on 5th Avenue. All the homes around him are modest and sparse. Nothing elaborate like a six-foot fence with a gate fit for the Buckingham Palace.
I pull into the garage, shut off the engine, and grab the pizza off the leather seat next to me. The breadsticks I ate churn in my gut as I start to walk back down the same hallway I escaped this morning. I have to face the woman who laid on the table for my uncle’s pleasure. One thing is for sure, I’m not eating dinner on it—or any meal, for that matter.
I pass through the hallway and stride by the tainted table. I can’t even look at the damn thing. The kitchen is dark, so I search for a light switch. It takes me a minute to find the one for the light over the island. I place the pizza down on the granite top and wonder where Harlow is hiding. Maybe she’s as nervous to face me as I am her.
I remember James telling me about a media room not too far off the kitchen area, so I go in search for Harlow. The faint sound of the TV reaches my ears and I follow it to a dark room only lit by the screen. There’s a big couch in front of me and Harlow sits mostly hidden on it. Her hair appears almost white, in the low light’s glow from the TV.
I take a deep breath and debate whether I should approach her or call out her name. Either one might startle her.
I decide to get her attention first. “Hey, Harlow,” I say, deliberately keeping my voice low. She pops off the couch, and in one quick motion, stands up, facing me. Girl’s quick on her feet.
“I didn’t hear you come in.” No shit, Sherlock. I ease around the couch and see an open wine bottle on the table sitting next to an almost empty wine glass. Drinking alone. Never a good sign.
“Seems like I’m good at coming in without being noticed.” Her eyebrows rise even higher than they did when I called her name two seconds ago. The blush on her face appears a scarlet red. I promised myself I wouldn’t talk about this morning unless she brought it up, but here I am, all foot-in-mouth. What a fuck up!
“Sorry about that.” I plead with my eyes for her forgiveness. “We don’t have to talk about … this morning.”
She walks forward, drawing closer to me, and trips on her own two feet. I grab her arm to help keep her upright and she looks up at me with sad, red-rimmed eyes.
She’s been crying. Hard.
Hell, my heart aches at the sight of her tear-filled eyes. Drinking and miserable. I can’t bear to witness her like this. It takes all my effort not to draw her into my arms and comfort her at this instant.
“Are you okay?” I help her back down onto the couch and sit next to her while reluctantly removing my hand from her arm. Her skin feels so soft under my fingers, it’s hard to let go. At this point, I’m only a concerned acquaintance in her life. Someone she just met. Though, I can’t think of another woman I’ve wanted to guard from hurts or protect from harm.
She sniffles and buries her head in her hands. Her long, blond hair hangs down and hides her face from view. I shouldn’t touch her again, but my hands have a mind of their own. I take the hair, place it behind her ear, and let my fingers glide over her skin a little too long.
She stills at my touch and peers at me through cloudy eyes.
“Jeez. I’ve had better days. Less humiliating days,” she says softly, and adds a hollow laugh. “How can you even look at me?”
“What are you talking about?” All I want to do is look at you.
“This morning. I’m disgusting.” She buries her head and her soft hair hides her from me again. This time, I get down on my knees in front of her with my hands resting next to her legs so we’re eye to eye.
“Harlow,” I say in a slow cadence, and watch her face tilt up toward me. The sadness I see from her internal struggle hits me like a punch in the gut. “You’re James’ fiancée. What you do with him is your business. It’s between two consenting adults.”
Her chin begins to tremble and she turns away from me. Her behavior makes me question how much she wanted to be tied up this morning.
“Look at me and tell me it was consensual.” I ball my hands in fists and push them into the couch as I wait for her to answer me, but she can’t seem to form a word in reply. The longer I wait, the more I see red.
“It’s complicated,” she whispers while peeking at me through the strands of her hair, but I can barely make out her words over the stupid TV.
I find the remote lying on the coffee table and hit the power button. The room grows silent and heavy. I’m going to press this point to find out the truth until she gives me a straight answer, no matter how awkward the topic.
“Consent isn’t complicated. It’s either yes or no. Which is it, Harlow?” She turns her eyes down again, which isn’t a good sign. A simple yes from her lips would end this conversation. Instead, it’s just beginning.