SHE’S GORGEOUS.
That’s my first thought when I turn from the chair at the desk and stare at her asleep in the bed. Her hair, her body, her lips. They call to me. Taunt me. Tempt me.
I’m so screwed.
That’s my second thought. And one that is a constant every time I look at her.
I need to work.
I always need to work.
But I don’t move. I don’t turn back around to the facts and figures filling up the spreadsheet on my computer telling me that this hard launch coming up next week right before we hit the New York press circuit is going to smash the records for like companies.
Instead I watch her because hell if everything about her isn’t distracting, and it’s not just right now. It’s not just because I know she’s naked beneath those covers and that her pussy feels like heaven. It just seems like everything these days comes to circle back around to Harlow.
It’s been almost six weeks now and she still scares the shit out of me. The way she challenges me, makes me feel, makes me want to step away from the computer for no reason other than to sit on the couch with her and talk about trivial things or better yet, say nothing at all.
Fuck.
I run a hand through my hair and know it’s best that this is all ending soon. Shit, I’ve seen that look in her eyes. The one that says she’s wondering what if. I’ve seen the few times she forces herself to step away and collect herself. I know that this is much more than just a job for her at this point . . . and fuck if that doesn’t suck since that’s all it is to me.
Keep telling yourself that and maybe you might start to believe it.
Two weeks left. The launch. New York for a few days. Then we head home.
This will end soon, and we’ll both go back to our different corners of the same city. We’ll be cordial to each other when there is future promotional stuff needed for SoulM8 but other than that, our we’re-just-here-for-the-sex will be over.
We’ll move on.
And I’ll be fine with that.
Lie on top of fib on top of not-want-to-face-the-truth.
Just like the one where I keep telling myself that wanting to spend time with someone as much as I want to with Harlow—in and out of the bedroom—is a completely normal thing.
Work, Zane.
The thought repeats in my head but I stand and crawl onto the bed beside her and just study her.
All of this—the constant thinking about her, the never-ending want for her, the knowing when I reach out beside me, she’ll be there—it’s the direct result of being stuck together on this bus, on this trip, and doing all of the stupid excursions Robert made us do.
The excursions I fought against but that somehow hold some of my best memories of this whole trip. Harlow in the wild, I like to call it. I smile at the thought, but all I can picture is her standing atop that ropes course with her smile wide and confidence wrapped around her like a goddamn shield of armor.
I reach out to touch her. I can’t resist. About the same time that I do, her hazel eyes flutter open and stare straight into mine. Her face unknowingly turns into my hand on her cheek.
It’s shit like that that gets me.
“Morning,” she murmurs, her voice sounding like straight sex as it grabs me by the balls and doesn’t let go.
Yep, definitely screwed.
“HARLOW?”
“Hi, Momma.”
“Ahhh.” That’s it. She gives just the sound and nothing else.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It happened, didn’t it mija?”
“What are you talking about?” I laugh, but tears sting the back of my eyes because it feels so good to hear her voice. And it feels even better to have someone who understands me even though I haven’t really even said a word.
“You went and fell for him.”
“Mother.” Stern. Scolding. Desperate for her not to believe my tone and ask more.
“Mothers know these things.” I open my mouth to speak and then close it, opting not to say a word and hoping she does. “So?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a yes, then.”
“No. It was an I don’t know.” I laugh, already frustrated and exasperated and this conversation has only been a few minutes long.
“You repeating it means it was a double yes.”
I twist my lip and walk a few feet closer to the shady tree I’m standing under. I take in the green around me, the little old couple in the distance holding each other up as they hobble along, and the big, black shiny coach on the other side of the park where Zane is inside working.
If there’s anyone I can talk to my feelings about, it’s my mom, so why am I hesitating?
Because if I say them out loud, then that means they are real.
My voice is barely audible when I finally speak. “I’m just trying to be cautious.”
“Why, mija?”
“Because . . .” I chuckle. “For obvious reasons.”