Page 12 of Guilty Pleasures

CHAPTER 11

SILAS

Iswirl the amber liquid in my glass, watching it catch the low light of the restaurant. The ice clinks softly, a quiet counterpoint to the muted conversations around me. Harper is late. Again.

I check my watch for what feels like the hundredth time. Fifteen minutes and counting. With a sigh, I take another sip of brandy, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat. It's becoming a familiar routine—nursing a drink while I wait for Harper to show up.

My mind drifts to our last encounter, bodies tangled in my sheets, her breathless laughter in my ear. It was good—it's always good. But it's not enough. I want more than just stolen moments and hurried encounters. I want lazy Sunday mornings and inside jokes. I understand she has a reason to mistrust me, since I tried to run her out of business. Still, I refuse to be a guilty pleasure or dirty secret.

But every time I try to dig deeper, to form something real, Harper finds a way to slip through my fingers. Another excuse, another delay. I'm starting to wonder if she'll ever let me in, or if this is all we'll ever be—two ships passing in the night, never quite managing to dock.

The brandy is nearly gone now, and still no sign of her. I'm tired of this dance. Maybe it's time to find out if Harper wants what I want, or if I'm just chasing a dream that will never come true.

I check my watch for the tenth time, tapping my foot impatiently under the table. Twenty minutes late. I'm starting to think Harper isn't going to show. Just as I'm about to give up and ask for the check, the restaurant door swings open and she rushes in, her hair damp and windblown.

"Silas, I'm so sorry," she says breathlessly, sliding into the seat across from me. "I got caught in the rain and traffic was awful. I feel terrible for keeping you waiting."

I try to keep my expression neutral, but I can't help softening a bit at her flustered apology. "It's alright," I tell her, though part of me is still annoyed. "I'm just glad you made it."

Harper runs a hand through her wet hair, cheeks flushed. "Thank you for understanding. I really did try to make it on time."

As she settles in, shrugging off her damp jacket, I find my irritation fading. There's something endearing about her slightly disheveled state. I signal the waiter for menus, ready to salvage what's left of the evening.

I swirl the deep-red wine in my glass, watching the legs form and slowly drip down the sides. Harper's menu rustles as she flips through the pages, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"So," I clear my throat, desperate to break the awkward quiet, "how's business been lately?"

Harper looks up, seeming grateful for the mundane topic. "Business is good. We landed a big client last week, and Zoe is working out the details tonight."

I nod, taking a sip of wine. “Zoe? You didn’t want to attend that meeting? Am I keeping you from important work?” I’m unsure why I pry, since I don’t want her to confirm that she needs to leave. But a part of me wants to hear her say she’s here because she wants to be.

"Mm-hmm," Harper hums in agreement, her eyes lazily meandering back to the menu, seemingly struggling to select a dish. "But Zoe can handle it. I needed a night to relax." Her nonchalant reply doesn't surprise me. It’s easier to deny her feelings if she remains neutral. “How’s business at La Belle Epoque? I heard you’re hosting a Saudi prince this week.”

"It pays the bills." I shrug with a forced chuckle. "Though sometimes I wonder if I should have pursued my dream of becoming a professional juggler instead."

This earns a genuine laugh. The melodic sound wraps around me like a warm, comforting embrace. For a fleeting moment, I catch a glimpse of the easy rapport I long for us to share.

"I'd pay good money to see that." Harper grins, her eyes lighting up with a playful spark of amusement. “If you practice hard enough, maybe you can run away with the circus.”

“Only if you come with me.” My words emerge before I have chance to rein in my emotions. Instead of panicking, I decide it doesn’t matter. I think Harper knows I’m falling for her. There’s no pretending otherwise.

I watch her face carefully as she bites her lower lip, a telltale sign she's nervous.

"I have a confession," she says softly, not quite meeting my eyes. "I've been thinking about you. A lot."

My pulse quickens at her words, a tingling sensation spreading through my veins. "Oh yeah?" I reply, keeping my tone light and casual, not wanting to spook her with my eagerness. "About what—my dazzling smile, my striking gaze, or perhaps all those dress shirts you’ve casually liberated from my apartment?"

Harper's lips curl into a slight smile, a delicate blush blooming on her cheeks. "And I'm wearing those pink panties. The ones you bought me," she admits, her voice a soft whisper that sends a shiver down my spine.

A wave of heat rushes through me at the vivid image of her in that delicate, lacy lingerie. I clear my throat to regain my composure. "Are you spending the night this time?" I ask, my voice laced with a hint of hopefulness. "Or are you going to run out on me again?"

Her eyes flicker around the room, never quite settling on mine, as if searching for an escape route. She nervously fiddles with her napkin, twisting it between her fingers in a restless dance.

"Um, well…" Harper begins, her voice hesitating before fading away.

I can almost see the cogs in her mind whirring, desperately trying to piece together an excuse.

"I just… I have an early meeting with staff tomorrow," she finally stammers, her voice carrying the weight of uncertainty. "And all my work stuff is at my place." Her words spill out, a flimsy explanation that hangs in the air between us.

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