Page 26 of Mile High Coach

“Lucky for me, I don’t care if you believe it,” I say, tilting my head right back at him. He catches my eyes, and we stay like that for a beat, staring at one another, the challenge building between us.

In the silence, I feel the memory of my bare legs on this desk between us, the way his fingers dug into my skin. My heart picks up, and I try to tell myself it’s just from how much he pisses me off.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Waters.”

“You always call me Waters when you’re pissed off,” I mutter too quickly, not fully thinking it through. A flush rolls over me when I remember the last time he called me Lovie—when he had his face between my legs.

Instantly, his voice drops an octave, “Oh, yeah? What makes you think I’m pissed off right now?”

When I meet his eyes again, his pupils are blown out, and I know him well enough to see what’s in his head. My core tightens, and I slide my hand to the edge of the desk, gripping it tightly, desperately trying to keep my mind free of the stupid, impulsive images rushing in.

Harrison’s hands on my hips, him behind me, my cheek against the polish wood of this desk.

“Probably the way you stormed into my office,” I say, hoping my tone doesn’t give away exactly what I’m thinking about. “Just so you could tell me everything wrong with how I’m doing my job.”

“That’s not the only reason I came to your office, Lovie.”

I hate myself for the way the sound of my name on his lips makes my body react, my heart jumping and skin flushing hotter around my collarbone. There’s not another man I’ve ever been with who could cause physiological changes like this.

Only Harrison Clark.

“Well,” I blurt, clearing my throat and dropping back down into my seat, clenching my hands to keep from tugging my skirt down, in case that draws more attention to it, “I have to get back to work.”

When Harrison says nothing, I raise an eyebrow and glance up at him again, “Unless you want me to schedule you for mental acuity training, too?”

“Ha,” he says, then takes a step closer to my desk, his voice lowering. “Have you?—”

But fortunately for me, he’s interrupted by someone in the hallway, calling his name. The second time I’ve been saved by an interruption.

I watch as he hesitates, then catches my eyes, giving me a look that readsthis isn’t overbefore he turns and answers the person, leaving my door cracked behind him.

The moment he’s gone, my body starts to relax, the tightness between my legs still pulsing, distracting. Being alone with him at any time is a bad idea, let alone in this office. Only five minutes of arguing, and I wanted to walk around the desk and erase the space between us. I can’t be trusted in close quarters with that man. It’s an evidence-driven claim.

Four hours later, I’ve successfully managed to avoid seeing him again, and I’m walking to my car when I get a call from Chrys.

“Lovie.” This time, when she answers, I can tell something is off.

I stop in the middle of the parking lot, my purse bouncing against my leg once, my hand already starting to shake around the phone.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Dad—” she pauses for a second, for just long enough that all I can think isof course it’s Dadand then feel bad about it. “He had a pretty bad fall this morning—they’re saying they think he broke his hip. I guess his bones are brittle from the medication. They’re going to have to do surgery.”

The moment I hear the word surgery, I only hearmore money. My hand tightens around the phone and I force myself to take a deep breath, get my feet moving again before someone sees me standing here and comes to ask me if I’m okay.

I’m a terrible daughter, already thinking about money before I think about my dad’s well-being. I’m not okay.

There’s nothing worse than someone asking you if you’re okay when you’re this close to flying over the edge. The last thing I want to do right now is save face in front of a stranger—or, God forbid, someone else working here for the Blue Crabs.

Tucking myself into my car, I stay on the phone with Chrys, talking to her about the details. She calms a bit, tells me that the surgery is happening tomorrow, and lowers her voice when she tells me how much they’re saying the out-of-pocket cost is going to be.

You’d think with all his expenses, we would have hit the insurance cap already. But apparently, it’s a steep, steep climb.

By the time I get home, my head feels light, and even though I’m not supposed to on the hormones, I stop at the cabinet and pull out a bottle of wine, pouring myself a shallow glass and staring at the maroon liquid before taking a solid pull.

It’s not like I’m pregnant now.

But if I ever want to be, I’m going to have to be more creative with the way I go about it. Closing my eyes, I lean against the counter, suck in a deep breath.

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