Page 164 of The Infiniteness of Yesterday
I rub my thumb against her bottom lip and lean down and kiss her. “I’ll never stop,” I vow.
CHAPTER 66
HARLOW
Poppy grabs my wrist when she comes in for her shift, which happens to begin in the middle of my own, and drags me to the back with no explanation to Pablo or Sarah who’s due to get off with Poppy coming on shift.
“Girl,” she drawls. “That’s you in those photos, isn’t it?”
I drop my head.
“I knew it!” She swats my arm. “You’ve been ignoring me.”
Her fifty-plus text messages were more than a little overwhelming. “My life just imploded,” I explain. “I’m not quite ready to talk about it.”
“You and Jameson?” she prompts.
“Broke up, obviously.”
She frowns. “I’m so sorry, hon.”
“We weren’t going to last, not after what I did, I just hate he found out like that.” That’s the part that has me the most torn up. I wish I could’ve just told him without him ever having to see those photos.
“So, you and Spencer?” she prompts.
“Are very much not together,” I clarify, knowing where she’s headed with this. “I think after the clusterfuck I’ve turned my life into its better if I’m on my own for a while.”
“Understandable,” she agrees. “Do you need a hug?”
I want to say no, act like none of this is getting to me, but instead, I say, “A hug would be great.”
She pulls me into her tight embrace, and I close my eyes, soaking in the comfort. A part of me feels like I don’t deserve the comfort after what I’ve done. I never wanted to hurt Jameson and I hate that I did. He doesn’t deserve that.
Letting me go, she says, “We better get back out there before Sarah kills me, but we’ll talk more later, okay?”
“Talking is the last thing I want to do,” I mutter.
“Too bad.” She adjusts the straps on her apron. “Because I love talking.”
Lucky for me we stay busy, so we don’t have a chance to chat while we’re working. I’m due to get off at four, but when I glance out the window my jaw drops at the surge of people headed for the shop.
“Incoming. We’ve got a rush,” I warn the others. Just as quickly, I mutter, “What the fuck?” When my brain processes what I’m seeing.
Paparazzi and celebrity news journalists set up outside my place of employment, while one particularly bold one heads straight inside and right up to the counter.
“We’re looking for Harlow Hansen for an interview. Apparently, she works here.”
Pablo glances my way. “Sorry, she quit.”
The journalist curses and heads out to tell the others.
“Go,” Pablo hisses. Nodding his head toward our backroom, he adds, “Get out of here.”
I don’t have to be told twice. I make quick work of tugging my apron off and hanging it up. Scooping up my stuff, I push open the back door and nearly curse when I see even more people in our back lot. I keep my head down, grateful I kept my hat on, and my hair tucked in a bun.
“Are you Harlow Hansen?” someone asks. I don’t know who since I keep my eyes on the ground.
“No, I’m Poppy,” I blurt. “I’m trying to leave.”
