I have a couple hours before I need to be at the airport to meet Sinclair, so it’s time to prep the place for a guest. A guest. He’ll be our first. A little flutter of excitement stirs within me. My best friend, Emma, hasn’t even visited since I came to live here.
After overhearing me on the phone with Emma, talking about some guy she slept with, James drilled me for the specifics. When I disclosed it was a one-night stand, he freaked out, saying she has questionable morals and we shouldn’t be friends. I stood my ground, though, and he finally relented. I wouldn’t turn my back on my life-long friend. I’ve had enough loss for one lifetime.
Moving through the house, I’m on alert for anything out of place, wanting everything to look impeccable when Sinclair walks through the door. The pillows on the leather sectional in the living room are arranged perfectly. All the knick-knacks on the tables and bookshelves appear properly placed. Order and cleanliness defines how James wants us to live. His longtime housekeeper, Mildred, comes once a week, but keeping the house in order helps me pass the time while I’m here alone.
The upstairs guest room and bath is the only area that needs my attention. I add freshly cleaned towels into the linen closet of Sinclair’s bathroom and a new bar of soap in the dish.
Before leaving the room, I fuss with a pillow laying on the starched white bedcover. I haven’t touched this bed since I moved into James’ room. The cool, clean covering beckons me and I sit down on the very spot where everything changed between us.
I fall back against the mattress and stare up at the ceiling, remembering the last night I viewed it from this angle.
One of James’ favorite patients, a nine-year-old girl, was scheduled to have a heart transplant. He was worried about her making it through the operation since she was already so weak. I texted him during the day to see how the surgery went, but he never replied.
I gave up hearing from him close to midnight, figuring he was staying at the hospital to monitor the young girl. Just as my head hit the pillow, the garage door shut downstairs and heavy footsteps sounded out across the wooden floors.
I called out James’ name and loosened my tight hold on the covers when he replied. A few moments later, I saw all six feet of him standing outside my open door, the soft hall lights illuminating him.
Gone was the polished doctor with Ivy League diplomas decorating his office wall. He resembled a man who’d returned home from a long, exhausting journey. His sandy blond hair was pointing out in every direction, as if he’d been pulling his fingers through it all day. His normally charming face resembled a man lost at sea. His stance reflected defeat.
When our eyes met, he slumped under the weight of his day, his computer bag falling to the floor with a thud. His countenance and the sadness in his eyes answered my questions concerning the young girl before he spoke the words. The look resembled the one he gave me the night my mother died.
“She didn’t make it.” He collapsed against the doorframe in defeat.
For the first time since we met, he needed me. I threw off the covers, rose from my bed, and ran to him. I forgot I was wearing only a thin T-shirt and a pair of white lace panties. But as I fell into his arms and felt his hands caressing my bare skin, I remembered how little I was wearing—bare legs and no bra.
“James,” I quietly protested. He answered by pulling me tighter into his arms and burying his face in my hair. His lips found the sensitive area of skin behind my ear and he began whispering sweet words—words you speak to a lover, not a friend.
A decision warred inside me: pull away from this man I cared for and continue living at arm’s length with him or give in to his desires. I thought my heart was too broken from my mother’s death to feel the same attraction he felt for me. I convinced myself time would change my feelings, but my mother’s death was months ago and the feelings of desire still evaded me. I couldn’t seem to muster them up.
Since he brought me to his house the night of my mother’s death, he had taken care of my every need. He planned every detail of my mother’s funeral and hired workers to clean my mother’s apartment and pack up my personal items. He held my hand at the police interview. When I couldn’t seem to stop crying, he comforted me in his arms. I owed him my sanity.
My feelings for him ran deep, even if they weren’t the right ones, so when his strong arms picked me up, I wrapped my legs around his waist, choosing to submit to him.
He carried my clinging body to the bed and gently laid me down. Standing tall in front of me, his scorching gaze slid over my skin.
His breaths came hard and fast. Everything about him was wild and unleashed; a tiger ready to pounce on his prey—me. I gripped the cover in my fists, waiting for his next move.
“I need you, Harlow,” he pled, his voice raspy.