My gaze darted back to Grey’s gauging expression, and I dropped my voice to her same level. “Drop it, Grey.”
She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Jagger came up behind her. “That girl looked pissed, Knox. I mean, not like the rest of them don’t, but it’s usually well after the fact.”
Grey raised an eyebrow, and I shook my head. “You guys keep saying that like there’s a lot of them or something.”
Both of them laughed, and Grey said, “Are you kidding? Knox, I’ve never known you not to have at least four girls a week.”
I swallowed thickly, and wondered how I had turned into this guy. But it didn’t take long to remember that it didn’t matter anymore anyway. It stopped mattering four and a half years ago, right about the time I turned into Deacon and Graham.
Grey abruptly stopped laughing. “Except . . .” She trailed off, and her eyes narrowed like she was trying to sort through the jumbled mess in my head. “Except when you were in college,” she mumbled softly.
I shook my head slowly. “Don’t,” I warned, but judging from the way Grey’s eyes widened, there hadn’t been enough force behind the word.
She briefly glanced over to where Deacon and Graham were standing in the living room watching a baseball game, then whispered, “Is that what’s wrong, Knox?”
“Grey,” I began again, but her next word brought me up short.
“Still?”
“Still?” I murmured, and huffed a laugh. “Wow. Who knew one word could make me feel so pathetic?”
Winter 2009—Seattle
I STOOD IN front of the door restlessly as I waited for it to open. I should’ve called. I should’ve asked her earlier in the week if she’d had plans today or tonight since she’d assumed I did—but I hadn’t. Now I was standing there like a dumbass with two bouquets of flowers, hoping I wouldn’t have to leave so Harlow could go on a date tonight.
The door finally opened, and Mrs. Evans’s face brightened. “Knox Alexander, why doesn’t it surprise me that you’re knocking on my door this afternoon?”
I failed at hiding my grin, and handed her the first bouquet. “First, these are for you.”
“Why, thank you!”
“Honestly, Mrs. Evans, I’m just worried that I’m not the only guy showing up today.” I glanced inside the house, and asked, “Does my girl have a date tonight?”
She raised one eyebrow, the action making her look younger, and so much like Harlow. “I’m not sure,” she said playfully. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
My face fell for a second before I was able to compose myself. All I wanted to be able to do was take Harlow out on a date—but I was afraid to risk even that. I cleared my throat and said, “Well, I’m hoping she’ll let me spend the day with her. If it’s okay with you,” I added quickly.
Mrs. Evans rolled her eyes and stepped back to let me in the house. “I doubt my daughter would ever choose anything over a day with you, and you are always welcome in our home.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Evans.”
“Harlow’s in her room. Remember: no closed doors,” she said strictly, then turned to walk toward the kitchen with her flowers. Just as I started up the stairs, she called out, “I’ll set an extra place for you at the table tonight, Knox.”
I stopped to look at her, and said sincerely, “Thank you.” She and her husband would never know how thankful I was that they didn’t try to keep me from the girl upstairs.
I hurried up the stairs and barely slowed long enough to knock on Harlow’s door. As soon as I heard her mumbled “Yeah?” I walked into her room, left the door as wide as it would go, and stopped trying to fight my smile when I took her in.
She was facing away from me, and lying on her stomach on the bed. Her feet were in the air, crossed at the ankles, and her eyes were glued to the book in front of her. Her hair was piled messily on her head, one side of her oversize shirt was falling off her shoulder, and the fitted black sleep pants she was wearing hugged every curve of her perfectly.
It wasn’t morning, but looking at her then, I knew I wanted to wake up to this Harlow for the rest of my life.
She still hadn’t looked up, so I took a few more steps into the room, then brought the bouquet of poppies in front of me. “For the girl who hates roses.”
Harlow gasped and whirled around on her bed as soon as she heard my voice, and had launched herself at me by the time I finished talking.
I tossed the flowers on her bed in time to catch her, and tightened my arms around her when she did the same to me.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Low,” I whispered against her shoulder, and gripped her tighter before setting her down on the floor. Something caught in my chest when her eyes met mine, and I wanted to live in that moment.
Have you ever looked at someone . . . just one look, and you knew that was it? There would never be anyone else who would compare? That was Harlow for me. Every time.
Her hands slid to my shoulders, then back to my face, like she was making sure I was real. “What are you doing here?”