Page 21 of The Final Draft

“You’re not who you portray to the world. There’s more to you. And I want to know why you keep the real Julian Decker hidden.” She lowers her head at her admission.

I gently put my finger under her chin, tilting her face until our eyes meet. “You want something else not on the internet?” She nods her head. I’ll share a safe and probably pretty obvious fact. “I have trust issues. There are people out there who manipulate the narrative, are selfish, and just fucking mean. Internet trolls are the worst. I spend half my time bailing out clients, not because they did anything wrong, but because the media likes to spin a story. I intentionally keep my public image shallow and clean. They haven’t earned the right to know me. You want more? You earn it.”

“How do I earn it?” She bites her lip, the corner of her mouth in a slight upturn, as her eyes search mine. I think of several ways she can earn it, but that’s not Harper’s style.

“You already have, so ask me anything. I’ll do my best to answer.”

Her eyes glimmer with excitement. “So I heard something about a Swedish princess,” she says conspiratorially. Add persistent and cute as hell to the list of her adorable qualities. I untwist us, step out of Noodles’ leash knot, and take her hand.

“You going to tell me about Burns?” I counter.

She laughs and swings our clasped hands on the short walk to her place. Before I’m ready, we’re back at her building. This game we’re playing is awkward. I want to take her upstairs and kiss her until she forgets everything else. But she hasn’t invited me, and I doubt she will. At least not tonight. Harper isn’t falling at my feet, and it’s sexy as hell.

She gives me a hug that doesn’t last long enough and stretches on her tiptoes to give me a peck on the cheek. As I watch her walk away, I have an undeniable desire to see heragain. Soon. I’m enraptured and intrigued. Until we meet again, gorgeous.

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

HARPER

I’m sitting at the breakfast bar with a cup of tea and writer’s block when Zac comes stumbling in. “You’re home early.” I glance at my watch. “Or is it late?” The sun rose about twenty minutes ago.

Noodle glances at him from his spot at my feet, and I swear he shakes his head at him in disappointment. I can feel the judgment from up here.

“I thought you’d text me last night. Come out with us.” His bloodshot eyes tell the story of his night, and I’m grateful I didn’t. Besides, I’d met my monthly alcohol consumption at lunch.

“Nah, long day. I fell asleep before the game was over. Congrats on the shutout, by the way. Good game.” I conked out on the couch and woke up a few hours ago. A little hung over, but more from the company than the champagne, if I’m being honest. None of which my roommate needs to know about.

“What did you and Decker do all day?” He looks around the apartment, stretching his lean body to peek down the hallway.

“Looking for something?” Or someone is more like it. I suspect he’s checking to see if I’m alone.

He stumbles down the hall to the bedrooms and is back a few seconds later. He dramatically drops to the couch and moans. “I shouldn’t have done that last round of shots.”

I make a tray of hangover supplies and set them on the coffee table. “Gatorade, ginseng, a bagel, and a shot. Should probably be of penicillin, judging by the hickey on your neck, but tequila will have to do.”

“Are you judging me?” He sounds a little incredulous, and I’m not sure why.

“Nah, Noodle has enough judgement for both of us.” He uses his ramp to get up on the sectional, sniffs Zac, and walks over to me at the other end.

We both laugh at his snub as he curls up next to me.

“I can’t believe you stole my dog,” he mumbles. I throw a pillow at him. “Ow!”

“Seriously?! You blocked twenty-eight pucks flying at you going ninety-miles-an-hour and you're complaining about a pillow? You’re deranged,” I scoff.

“Thirty,” he mumbles under his breath.

“Whatever.” I roll my eyes and focus my attention on Noodle. Without another word, he pops in the ginseng, washes it down with the shot, and drains the Gatorade. He picks at the bagel, looking at me.

“So Decker?”

Is there something he knows that I don’t know? Even more worrisome is if he’s talking to Lawson about me. His question bugs me because I don't think I know how to answer. What are we?

“What about him? Are we sharing stories now? You first. What was her name?”

“Don’t remember. Daphne, Velma, Shaggy, something like that.”

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