Four hours, a nasty commercial fire, and a dump truck of adrenaline later, Adam grabbed the to-go picnic he’d fashioned for his and Harper’s abandoned dinner off his passenger seat and strode up the back steps toward her apartment. He didn’t need to check which door was hers. If the potted lemon tree and hanging flower garden, complete with rainbow-painted tin-can pinwheels and garden gnomes, weren’t a dead giveaway, then the view he had through her front window cemented the fact.
Billowing fabrics, a patchwork of bold colors, mismatched furniture that somehow worked together. She’d transformed a sterile apartment into a magical place that was warm and welcoming.
Something that was difficult to do when renting a tiny downtown apartment. By design, apartments were temporary and generic, yet Harper had managed to put herself into every inch of the space, and she’d taken the time to turn it into a home.
“Shit.” Adam nearly tossed the dinner in the garbage, turned back around, and headed toward his car.
Not a single thing in the place was staged or for show. Just like there was nothing about the tenant that was staged or for show. Harper Owens with her sunny smile and melt-your-soul eyes was one hundred percent the real deal. She wasn’t a temporary kind of girl, and Adam would never be a forever kind of guy. And yet, there he was, dinner stuck under his arm, a bag of homemade cookies dangling from his hand, ringing the doorbell—wanting her to be asleep and needing her to answer the door.
The door opened, and Adam felt as if everything he’d done up until this moment had been playing it safe. An odd feeling for a guy who jumped out of planes and ran into fires headfirst for a living. But there it was.
And there she was, appearing behind the screen door like a fucking dream, and Adam felt as if he were taking the biggest jump of his life. Gone was the slinky dress and red heels from earlier. He wondered if they were in a pile with the blue lace she’d been sporting, because Harper didn’t look like the kind to use hangers unless she was expecting company. And he was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing a bra.
Her face was fresh and clean, her hair loose from the complicated updo she’d worn earlier and still wet from the shower she’d taken. And those curls, holy hell, they were wet too, hanging all the way down to the curve of her back—wild and out of control. Just like he liked them. She was dressed in a pair of pajama bottoms with lace trim and a little drawstring. Tied in a bow, which sat right beneath her bellybutton, and was the only thing keeping them on her hips. They were pink, silky, and—thank you, Jesus—too short to hide those legs of hers.
Her top made it a matching set. A scrap of silk held together by two thin straps that draped over her almost-naked shoulders. Also pink. Also edged with lace that followed the deep vee of her neckline until it met in the middle with another cute bow that was designed to make men think about untying it. Which, point to Harper, was all he could think about. Untying that bow. With his teeth.
Then she smiled, warm and open and just for him, and everything inside him stilled—simplified. It was as though with one smile, she could make all the crazy and all the struggle disappear, and turn him from thrill-seeking daredevil to someone who didn’t have to face down death just to feel.
“You were safe,” she said, opening the screen door and stepping onto the porch.
He noticed she didn’t ask why he was there or ream him about it being so late. She was just happy he was safe. He also noticed she was wearing glasses. Teal, boxy frames. Not sexy by design. But on her?
Sexy art teacher came to mind.
“And you’re ready for bed,” he said, holding up the bag. “I just wanted to bring you that dinner I promised.”
“I stopped by Emerson’s food truck on the way home.”
Of course she had. It was midnight on a weeknight, she had work early in the morning, and there he was on her doorstep.
“But I always have room for dessert,” she said.
There was something about the way she said it, the way she was holding his gaze and turning pink in the cheeks that had him saying, “I brought cookies, if that’s what you’re after.”
“Cookies?” Her smile faltered and she worried her lower lip—clearly unsure of what he was really offering. “What else is on the menu?”
Adam leaned in and, making himself clear as fucking day, whispered, “Anything you want.”
“Anything?” Harper blinked, as if she hadn’t really expected that to be an option. Neither had he until he said it.