Page 20 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
She glances at me, and for the first time, there’s real curiosity in her expression instead of polite tolerance. Like she’s wondering if leaving with me might actually be preferable to staying and playing third wheel.
She whispers, “I want to eat dessert first.”
I lean back in my chair, nodding in agreement, surprised to realize I’m actually comfortable. More than comfortable, I’m enjoying myself. Harper’s funny and sharp and completely different from what I expected when Sirus first pitched this whole scheme.
Maybe I can admit that this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be and something could come of me and this beautiful woman with blue eyes named Harper.
8
The Exit Pact
Cole
Bythetimetheserver delivers our dessert the dynamic at our table has shifted completely. Sirus and Maddie are leaning so close their shoulders are touching, lost in their own private bubble of flirtation and shared jokes. Sirus’s in the middle of telling some story about his rookie year antics, complete with exaggerated hand gestures, and Maddie’s laughing like he’s the funniest person she’s ever encountered.
I glance across at Harper, who’s pushing the edge of her cheesecake around with her fork, creating abstract patterns in the strawberry sauce without actually eating any of it. Her attention drifts between the other diners, the street outside, anywhere but the two people next to us who seem to have forgotten the rest of the world exists.
I get the distinct impression she’s quietly counting down the minutes until she can make a socially acceptable exit.
The thing is, I was ready to leave an hour ago. But somewhere between Harper’s raccoon story and watching her actually smile when she talks, the urgency to escape has faded into something. Something that feels suspiciously like not wanting this to end yet.
I lean toward her slightly, keeping my voice low enough that Sirus and Maddie won’t overhear. “You ready to make a run for it?”
She glances up, startled, like she wasn’t expecting me to voice what she was thinking. Then that small smirk I’m starting to recognize tugs at the corner of her mouth. “You first.”
I nod toward the front door. “We could say we’re going for some air. Check out the patio or something.”
For the first time tonight, her eyes hold mine a little longer than necessary, like she’s measuring whether I’m serious or just making conversation. Whatever she sees there must pass her test, because she sets down her fork and reaches for her purse.
“Lead the way.”
We slide out of the booth together, and Maddie looks up just long enough to register our movement. “Don’t ditch us,” she says, but there’s no real concern in her voice. She’s already turning back to Sirus before the words are fully out.
Sirus, meanwhile, shoots me a wink like he’s just handed me a winning lottery ticket. I ignore him and follow Harper toward the front of the restaurant.
The cool night air hits us as soon as we step outside, a sharp contrast to the warm, crowded interior. The restaurant has a small patio area strung with soft white lights, empty except for a couple at a corner table sharing what looks like a very intimate conversation.
Harper immediately folds her arms against the chill, and I find myself shrugging off my jacket before I can think too hard about it.
“Here,” I say, holding it out to her.
She hesitates, looking at the jacket like it might bite her. “I’m not usually the type to let a stranger dress me.”
“Good thing I didn’t pick out your sweater,” I reply. “Pretty sure you would have bitten me.”
She laughs. It’s short but genuine.
She takes the jacket, slipping it on over her sweater. It’s too big on her, the sleeves hanging past her wrists, but something about seeing her wrapped in my clothes does weird things to my chest.
We lean against the patio railing, watching cars pass on the street below. The conversation flows easier out here, awayfrom Sirus’s enthusiastic wingman efforts and the pressure of performing for an audience. I let Harper lead, asking questions that make her pause and think before answering.
She tells me about her marketing classes and how she started freelancing on the side, how she likes the creative aspects but sometimes feels like she’s selling the same story over and over again to different clients. There’s intelligence in the way she talks about her work, a thoughtfulness that suggests she actually cares about doing it well instead of just going through the motions.
I find myself genuinely interested in her answers, asking follow-up questions not because I’m supposed to keep the conversation going, but because I want to understand how her mind works. I like watching her think, the way her gaze shifts to the side when she’s choosing her words, the little crease that appears between her eyebrows when she’s considering something serious.
At one point, she tucks her hair behind her ear and glances up at me. It’s quick, almost shy, but the look lands with more impact than it should. The patio lights catch the faint pink in her cheeks from the cold, and I notice how the sleeves of my jacket swallow her hands when she gestures.
She looks good in my jacket.
