Page 12 of Wishing Hearts

I cock my head. “Like the Winnie the Pooh tiger? She particularly bouncy?”

His eyes twinkle again. “No, she’s not. She is orange, though. At least, partially. She’s a Brittany Spaniel.”

“Oh, no shit? Yeah, I bet she’s a smarty-pants, then.”

Harrison nods, relaxing more of his weight into the cushions behind him. He takes another sip of his stout before laying his head against the back of the couch.

He looks more at ease now, and I’m glad for it. I can’t help but feel fond as I gaze at him.

So of course I open my big fucking mouth. “Are you in a relationship, Harrison?”

“What?” he asks, head turning my way.

“That phone call,” I say. “It seemed…personal.”

He sighs lightly—something he’s been doing a lot of today—but his eyes don’t hold any upset as they stay trained on my face. “It was personal. But no, I’m not in a relationship, Sam. I wouldn’t have asked you here if I was.”

I nod, relieved to hear that.

“But I don’t think I—”

“No, I know,” I say, cutting him off. “I’m not expectin’ anythin’, Harrison. Your turn. Tell me somethin’.”

He hums at that, eyes flicking over my face for a moment. “Technically, I did. I told you about my dog.”

I roll my eyes, shoving his leg. I resolutely do not think too hard about the firmness of his thigh beneath my fingertips.

“Gonna be like that, huh,” I say. “Fine. I’ve got a tattoo.”

Harrison’s head cocks slightly against the couch-back. “Really? Where at?”

“Oh, nuh-uh. You gotta earn that information.”

He presses his lips together, eyes running lazily down my chest and stomach. “Hm,” is all he says.

Trying not to fidget—and failing—I take another sip of my beer before aiming the neck his way. “Your turn.”

“Fine,” he says, a little smile dancing at the corner of his lips. “I used to be a stripper.”

“I’m sorry. What now?” I cough out, sitting upright.

Harrison laughs, rubbing his hand down his face before giving me a genuine smile. “For two months while I was in college. Just for some extra cash. It didn’t last.”

“Not any good at it?” I ask.

Harrison grabs a pillow and smacks me in the chest with it.

“Hey,” I complain, beer held out of the way.

“Why wouldn’t I be any good at it?” he asks, voice sullen.

“I don’t know, Harrison,” I say with a laugh. “Honestly, I’m just tryin’ not to picture it too hard.”

“I bet that is hard,” he says, the bastard.

“On second thought,” I amend. “Maybe you should show me how good you were. I don’t believe it.”

“I’m not falling for that,” he says, draining the rest of his beer and then leaning forward to place the empty bottle on the coffee table.

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