Harrison pushes his ball cap back and forth and lets out a sigh. “Ms. Powell, are you using me for my beach access?”
I punch him lightly and fall into him. He holds me as the car travels down the highway to his place. A slight sense of dread washes over me. I hope he knows I’m not using him. He’s not a rebound or anything like that. I truly enjoy being with him and value what we’re building. “I’m not using you.”
“I know,” he says quietly with his lips pressed to top of my head. “If you walk out the sliding glass door and off the deck, you’ll be in the sand. Not sure how many steps it is until you reach the water, but I could text Quinn and ask him.”
“That’s okay,” I say. I play with the ties from his hoodie and think about having him partially naked and wet in the ocean. “We can count our own steps.”
“Yeah, I’d like that, Katelyn.”
Harrison starts humming the melody from the song he wrote for me. It lulls me into a blissful state. We’re existing in this cocoon, neither of us willing to punch through and discuss where we’re heading. I’m not sure I can say I’m in this for the long haul, it’s far too soon for me to even think about where I’ll be next year, but I don’t want a fling and I don’t want to introduce him as someone special, only for him to bail days or weeks later. Not that I think he would, but there’s a lingering fear that I’m not what he wants out of life. I’m a widow with two children and he can have his pick of any woman he wants, why would he want me and my baggage?
“Hey,” he says. “We’re here.” He points, but all I see is a tall apartment complex looming in front of me. I know I’m tired, but I swear he said sand and ocean.
“Um…”
“It’s out back. Come on.” He takes my hand in his and we slide out of the car. Harrison gives the driver a tip and takes our bags from him. “Follow me,” he says as he winks. I have no problem walking behind him, I like to stare at his backside more than I care to admit. I like to stare at him in general. I never thought I’d find him attractive with all this tattoos, but I do. They excite me, and each time we’re together, I learn something about one of them. He’s a story waiting to be told.
Harrison leads us down cobblestone walkways and through palm trees and shade created by stockade fencing. Most have flower arrangements hanging off of them, creating a nice oasis of tranquility. I try to picture myself walking down this path with a bag of groceries and coming home to Harrison. I can see myself here, but I can’t leave Mason. I know he’s gone, but in my heart, he’s still my Beaumont and I’m not ready to give that up yet.
Before I can catch myself, I’m stumbling into Harrison’s back as he’s trying to open the door. He turns and shakes his head.
“Here, let me.” I take the key from his hand and unlock the door. I push down on the lever and open it. My gasp is loud and unexpected. Harrison chuckles behind me. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this isn’t it. Everything is white with black and red furniture and fixtures. I take tentative steps in and survey my surroundings. Everyday this man does something to wow me, but I think this really sets him apart. On his back wall – with white curtains billowing in the wind – are large doors that are open to the ocean. The sound of waves crashing onto the beach is so soothing that I could crawl up on his black sofa and sleep for days.
Harrison stands behind me with his hands on my waist. “Would you like a tour?” I nod, unable to find the right words. To think there’s more of this beauty wrapped up in an apartment is unthinkable.
He pulls my hand into his and kisses my palm, my wrist. The look he’s giving me tells me that he wants to do so much more, and I’m powerless to stop him. We step farther into his place and he shows me the kitchen and small bathroom. Down the hall is Quinn’s room, which is decorated in primary colors with a drum set sitting in the corner.
“Does he play?”
“Yeah, and the guitar,” Harrison says proudly as he shuts the door.
He shows me another bathroom that he claims is Quinn’s and never goes in there. The next is his sister’s, he doesn’t open her door, and I respect that he’s keeping her privacy when she’s not home. The last door is his. I know this before he even says anything.
He opens the door wide and steps aside, giving me all the access I need to see another side of him. His bedroom in Beaumont is really no different from what Josie had. He hasn’t painted the walls or rearranged the furniture she kept there. But this room, it’s all Harrison.