Page 36 of The Final Draft

“You smell good.” She puts her head on my shoulder, and I kiss her forehead.

It’s like that action reminded her of my lips, and she leans in for a kiss, and I gladly oblige. It’s not urgent like our first kiss, but softer, sweeter. She pulls away and giggles again.

“You taste like whiskey.”

“And you didn’t like whiskey?” Admittedly, their Old Fashioned was perfect. If she didn’t like it there, she’ll never be a convert.

“Not really. But it was missing a splash of Julian.” I laugh, and she joins me in her own joke.

I brush her hair back from her face and give her a quick peck. She’s crashing, the energy and fire leaving her body. “Settle in, and we’ll be home shortly.”

I love living in Manhattan. The food, the music, the people. It’s the best city in the world. Except for times like now. I hate this fucking traffic. It’s only about six miles to my place, but it’ll take forty minutes or so, according to Kat’s GPS on the dash. I put some soft music on and run my fingers through her hair. She’s quietly humming the Ed Sheeran song, her hum vibrating over my shoulder. After a few minutes, the humming stops. I’m not sure if she doesn’t know the next song, or she’s asleep. Either way, a warmth fills my chest, and I’m content. I can’t explain it, but her presence, her touch, is a balm to my soul.

Kat gets as close to the elevator as possible, parks the car, and opens my door. “You sure this is the right move?”

Kat’s question makes me pause. “Probably not, but it’s the only one I’ve got.” I pray the elevator is empty until we get upstairs. “Do you mind helping me?”

“I’m not sure I want to be an accomplice,” she teases.

“Some alibi you are.” I chuckle.

I gently extricate myself from Harper and slide my hands under her to carry her upstairs. She stirs in my arms and burrows her cheek into my chest. Kat helps with the keycard in the elevator and follows me into the apartment. Now is the decision. If I put her in the guest bedroom, she’ll wake up disoriented and alone. If I put her in my bed, she’ll wake up disoriented but next to me. Which will cause her less distress?

I look at Kat for guidance. Wordlessly, she walks to my guest room and turns the covers down. “Trust me, you’ll thank me in the morning.”

I lay her down, and she doesn’t move. Kat helps with her boots and sets them at the foot of the bed. The rest of her clothes? Kat barely shakes her head. She’s probably right. Waking up in different clothes raises other questions I don’t want her to worry about. I’d never take advantage of a woman. Always the gentleman.

I put a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol on the nightstand, give her a little kiss on the head, and gently close the door. Kat’s leaning against the kitchen counter, drinking an energy drink from my refrigerator.

“Be careful, Julian,” she warns.

“I know.”

Kat eyes me, reading me like a book. “She’s got you going off script.”

“I know.”

She takes another sip of her drink and studies me. I let out a loud sigh and run my hand down my face.

“Go ahead. Say it.” Kat and I have been together for years. As my driver and my friend, she’s the keeper of all my secrets. Well, almost all of them. She’s seen me with numerous women over the years and never commented. Not once. But now?

“You’re falling for her.”

I glance over my shoulder toward Harper’s bedroom. “No, you’re wrong.” I try to act nonchalant, but when I turn and look at Kat, and she’s calling bullshit. Her arms crossed, head tilted, tells me she’s not buying it. Time to come clean.

Apparently, I’m not a slow burn kinda guy. Because I’m not falling. That’s ancient history. “How could I not? She’s so fucking hard to resist.” I bow my head in resignation. In real life, I’m an instalove man after all.

I wake up early the next morning, and she’s gone.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

HARPER

I’m a disaster wrapped in a bad idea, sprinkled with regret. I swear I’m never drinking again. Ever. Twice now I’ve over indulged and fallen asleep on Julian. OMG. I’m dying inside. I’m writing Jay-Z a strongly worded letter about the dangers of his product. Will cause user to fall asleep, resulting in total mortification for which there is no recovery short of the witness protection program. New city, new identity. That’s the only answer.

I woke up at three in the morning, fully dressed, in the guest bedroom of Julian’s apartment, alone. Probably for the best, but still so embarrassing. I don’t even remember coming up to his apartment, let alone crawling into bed. What did I say? What did I do? Ugh.

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