Page 55 of One Wrong Move

“I know. I bought it.”

She chuckles and reaches for the espresso. “Can I drink this?”

“I made it for you.”

I stand there in my bright kitchen, sunlight streaming in through the French doors that lead to the garden. Sipping on a cappuccino while silence stretches the minutes but the clock doesn’t stop ticking. I’m going to be late and…

I can’t leave.

She looks at me over the rim of her cup. “Sorry about what happened upstairs. Truly.”

“Don’t apologize,” I say. “Really. Don’t.”

She smiles a little. “Okay. I won’t.”

“Good.”

Her gaze drops to my shirt, and then she looks back at her coffee cup. “Slow day today?”

“No. Not really. I overslept, and I have back-to-back meetings most of the day. And tonight…” I blow out a sigh. “A charity event. I’m obligated to go.”

“Oh. What for?”

“I honestly have no idea. I’m sure my assistant will brief me beforehand so I can avoid making an ass out of myself.”

She giggles. It’s a soft, happy sound. “I hope she does.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

“I’m going out with two friends, actually. Aadhya, who works at my gallery. Remember her? And one of her flatmates. It should be fun.”

“Stay safe, all right?”

“Of course. I’m always safe.”

“I saw where you lived before. That wasn’t— Harper?” She’s put down her cup and is coming closer, much closer, her eyes locked on my shirt. I set aside my cappuccino.

“You’ve buttoned this all wrong.” Her hands find the fabric of my shirt and start undoing the tiny fasteners. Her fingers brush my chest once, twice, as she correctly does up the shirt.

“There,” she says softly.

My hand finds the edge of the counter. Caging her in on one side. I’ll be really late for this meeting, and Alec will be annoyed.

So be it. He often is.

“Thanks,” I say.

She dips her chin in a slight nod. We stand there for a few long seconds, neither of us saying a word. The only sound is the slow drip from the coffee machine.

My phone rings, breaking the moment. Harper blinks and looks down, and I take a step back to look at the device. Trish’s name flashes on the screen. I hit decline.

“The office?” she asks.

“Yeah. I have to go.”

“Have a good day at work,” she says, gripping her cup of espresso. She looks rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, her hair still damp, her face free of makeup.

“You too, Harper,” I say.

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