Page 88 of Most Likely to Fear Love

As soon as we got there, I headed to the bedroom to change, realizing I hadn’t paid any attention to what he had chosen for me when I looked for Harle earlier.

As soon as I stepped inside, I paused, my breath catching. Instead of the usual sexy nightgown, there was an old sweater. Dark blue, faded, with the word Yale emblazoned across the front. I picked it up and brought it to my face, closing my eyes and inhaling deeply. God, it smelled like him. I couldn’t resist a second deep breath.

Okay, so didHarle go to Yale, or was this just a lucky thrift store find? My fingers brushed over the fabric, and then I noticed something embroidered near the hem, barely visible: ‘H. Robson.’ This was his sweater, his old college sweater. Something warm and tender twisted in my chest, mixed with rampant curiosity. After a moment, I pulled it on, the sleeves hanging a little past my wrists, the fleece soft and well worn. Very cozy. I smiled to myself. With one last glance in the mirror, I headed back to the kitchen.

When I walked in, Harle was sitting at the dining table, breaking off pieces of dog biscuits and tossing them to Max and Buddy, who eagerly snapped them out of the air. He looked up as I approached, his eyes roving over me.

I held my arms out wide. “Felt like a change of pace, did you?”

His gaze lingered, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “It looks good on you.”

I moved to the fridge, scanning the contents for what I could make for dinner, still feeling the warmth of his gaze on me.

Keeping my tone casual, I asked, “So, Yale, huh?” I flicked him a quick glance as I pulled some vegetables out and put them on the counter.

Harle nodded, breaking off another piece of the dog biscuit for Max. “Yeah.”

I raised an eyebrow, curiosity getting the best of me. “What did you study?”

He paused for a moment, meeting my eyes. “Philosophy, Politics, and Economics.”

I tilted my head, suddenly fascinated. “That’s quite a big degree for a handyman.”

Harle’s expression shifted, becoming guarded, and I realized instantly that I’d overstepped. My stomach twisted, and I rushed to apologize. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

He shook his head, his features softening again. “Don’t worry about it.” Then he added, “How about we eat outside tonight? If you’re up for it, I could set up the fire pit.”

I gave him a small smile, feeling the knot of tension in my belly tighten a little. “Yeah, I’d like that. I was thinking of making a stir fry, if you go for that.”

“Sounds great. I’ll get to chopping the wood.”

“Okay.”

At the kitchen window, I watched Harle head outside, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he made his way to the woodpile. Something about seeing him like this, vulnerable and hurting, made my chest ache in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

Turning back to the counter, I started prepping the vegetables for our stir fry.

My mind was full as I tossed the chicken into the sizzling pan. Yale. Philosophy, Politics, and Economics. It was such an unexpected revelation. How had he gone from an Ivy League education to fixing fences and rescuing animals? And the way he’d looked earlier, sitting by the lake... that raw pain in his eyes. It spoke of depths I hadn’t even begun to fathom.

The chicken sputtered, bringing me back to the present. I added the vegetables and gave them a quick stir. The sound ofwood splitting drew my attention back to the window. There was still a set to his shoulders and a stiffness to his movements that let me know he wasn’t really okay. I wanted, desperately, to make him feel better but had no fucking clue how to go about it. I was way too fucked up myself to be of any use to anyone else.

Still, I had to try. Even if all I could offer was a decent meal and a shoulder to lean on.

Once everything was done, I spooned the stir fry into two bowls, carefully balancing them in my hands. Then I pushed the sliding door open with my foot and stepped outside.

The sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows across the lake, and I spotted Harle by the fire pit, arranging the last of the logs into place. He looked up as I approached, his gaze catching mine. He gave me a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was something, I guess. The fire in front of him crackled and sparked, a warm glow dancing between us.

“I come bearing food,” I called lightly, trying to break the quiet tension between us.

Harle dusted off his hands and came to meet me halfway, taking one of the bowls from me. “Perfect timing.” Gesturing toward the double recliner he’d put by the fire, he said, “This okay?”

“It’s great.” My voice squeaked a little and I cleared my throat. I was definitely trying too hard. Every protective instinct I didn’t even know I had was screaming at me to fix this, to make it better somehow.

We ate in silence, the sounds of the crackling fire and the chirping crickets filling the space between us. Harle’s quiet mood sat like a weight hanging in the air.

When I finished, Harle took my bowl, stacked it into his own, and set them both on the ground beside him. Then he leaned back, lifting one arm up and out, inviting me to snuggle close.

My heart squeezed, and with a lump forming in my throat, I shifted closer, letting him wrap his arm around me. I rested my head on his shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath my cheek. We sat like that for a while, the warmth of the fire and Harle’s body surrounding me, the sky above us darkening.

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