One Wrong Move (The Connovan Chronicles Book 3), page 10
“It’s raining,” I finally inform her.
Harper turns to look at me. Her smile is wide, and it hurts to look at. “Are you afraid of a bit of water?”
“No. But I think everyone else is.” I glance around meaningfully at the now completely deserted shooting range.
“They must think we’re crazy,” Harper says.
I retrieve all of my arrows and glance at her, where she’s doing the same. My hands still tingle from when I touched her just a few minutes earlier. “Upset?” I ask her.
She looks at me and gives a tiny shrug. “No. I’m not too proud to admit that you have a beautiful home. The bed is divine, the water pressure… It won’t be hard to live there for a full month.”
The words make my lips twitch. “Good.”
“But I am puzzled.” She pulls out the final arrow from where it was embedded deep in the hay bale. “I wish I’d won the right to ask that question.”
I lean against my target. The scent of wet straw hangs lightly in the air, and the rain is cold, but I ignore all of it. “Ask the question, and I’ll decide if it’s something I can answer.”
Harper steps closer, gripping a trio of arrows in her left hand. The points leveled straight at me.
Her eyes narrow. “All right. Nate Connovan… why are you being so nice to me?”
It’s not the question I expected.
But it’s definitely not one I can answer.
I run a hand over my jaw, raising an eyebrow. Give her a pointed look and try to calm my racing heart. “That’s what you want to know?”
“Yes. I have a suspicion, but I don’t want it to be true.” She shakes her head slowly. “So I want you to tell me the truth.”
Her eyes are piercing. Demanding. And I should look away, swallow the damning truth, and make a joke. I don’t want it to be true. Surely she can’t suspect. Can’t know, couldn’t have guessed.
Dean never did.
But she’s so much more observant than Dean has ever been.
“You don’t want it to be true,” I say instead. The words come out more softly than they should, hanging in the humid air between us.
Harper gives a single nod. “If it’s because Dean told you to, because you think you can help the two of us get back together, I don’t want this friendship.”
Relief makes me momentarily lightheaded. It sweeps through me so fast that I smile and watch the corresponding frown on her face.
“It’s not,” I say. “I don’t think I can help you guys get back together.”
Trust me, I want to add, even as the guilt tastes like acid in my guts. It’s the last thing I want.
She nods, but the furrow between her eyebrows doesn’t completely disappear. “Okay. As long as that’s the case.”
“You have nothing to worry about.” I lift an arrow and spin it around. “Except winning against me.”
She smiles again. “Bring it on.”
It isn’t until I’m back in the car half an hour later, soaked from the rain and listening to Harper’s happy thoughts about the experience, that I realize I hadn’t, strictly speaking, told her the truth.
Dean did ask me to keep an eye on her.
But the reason I agreed had nothing to do with him.
Harper
It’s Thursday, almost a full week of living at Nate’s, and I’ve finally found a routine that works. A large part of it is predicated on the comfort that his house provides. The bed that feels like heaven, the plush carpeting in my room, the small desk I’ve set up as my own little home office. I bought a new journal in a small stationery shop in central London. It’s leatherbound and has wide-lined pages, and I started to write in it that very same evening.
Journaling is something I’ve done since I was twelve.
The act itself was comforting, and keeping up the routine felt like self-care. Maintaining the habit was like coming back to myself and hearing myself think out loud. Putting thoughts down was often the first step to me really understanding them… or changing them.
I love my two windows that look out onto the square and the garden that we share with all of Nate’s neighbors. The walk to work is beautiful, winding past houses that I’m starting to use as mileposts. The house with the blue door—that means I’m only six minutes out… The work itself, with Aadhya warming up to me, the influx of new art coming into the gallery, and the event planning, is exciting and challenging.
It’s all starting to feel good. Right. The hyperactivity of my first time in London, when my nerves were frayed and I’d been living in a state of constant vigilance, is slowly draining away.
Slowly.
My mother’s remarks on the phone while I’m doing my grocery shopping seem to confirm that.
“You sound calmer,” she says in her brisk Boston accent. “The job is good, then?”
“It is. It’s much more exciting than the position I had in New York.”
“Mm-hmm.” Her voice is laden with unspoken thoughts, but I know them all, and I don’t want to hear them. My mother is amazing. She’s supportive. She also shows her love through actions rather than words, and right now, there’s no action she can take. So she’s left with no way to express her caring nature.
It’s taken me years to understand that tendency in her.
“I’m fine. I promise. The only thing I’m sorry about is how fast the change happened.” I reach the dairy section in the store and search for the new kind of yogurt I’d discovered last week. It goes straight into my basket. “I know it took you and Greg by surprise.”
“Surprise,” she repeats. “Yes, well, it certainly did. We had no idea you were anything but set on Dean.”
“I didn’t know myself for a long time, not consciously.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says again. It’s more thoughtful this time. “And is your apartment still good? The landlord fixed the window issue?”
“They did, yes. The place is turning out really nice,” I say. It’s a total lie. The second I walked into the place where I lived before, I knew I couldn’t show it to my parents. They’d never understand.
“Good, good. You know Greg and I would love to come visit you.”
I smile. It warms my heart, even if it’s predictable. Showing support by actions. “Maybe in a month or two, when I’m fully settled.”
“Let us know when, and we’ll book,” she says. There’s a brief silence on the line. I reach for a box of basmati rice and await the words that will come.
“Dean called this weekend.”
Her words shock me, even though I braced myself for something in that span of dead air.
I close my eyes. “He did?”
“Yes. I think he just wanted to check in, to be honest. But he did mention one thing… Honey, you won’t let him handle the cancellation fees?”
“No. I’m going to pay my half.”
“He was the one who insisted on a big wedding,” Mom says. “It’s only fair if he—”
“I’m paying my half,” I say. My voice sounds firm, and I know I’m being stubborn, too, but I can’t imagine owing Dean anything. Not anymore. I won’t have him using that as an excuse to call, to pester, to nag, to guilt. I want to remove myself entirely from his influence.
And now that I told him no… he’s gone to my mom instead. He knows, just as well as I do, that the cancellation charges for the wedding are the last screws he has in me.
“Okay,” Mom says with a sigh. “I won’t pretend to understand, but I don’t want you to overexert yourself, either. All right?”
“I know, Mom. I’m not.”
She sighs again. It’s a softer sound. “Doesn’t his friend live in London, too? That rich heir Dean spoke about; the one who came to your Christmas party, once? What was his name…? Greg searched his family on the internet when we got back home, after the party.”
I grab a package of chicken breasts. Look down at the price tag and give Mom what she’s looking for. “Nate Connovan.”
“That’s it. Isn’t he in London?”
“I think he is, yes.”
Mom chuckles. “Maybe you’ll bump into him. Think he’d recognize you on the street?”
“Considering I dated one of his closest college friends for four years, I suspect the answer is yes.”
“Yes, well, you know the sort. Dean was like that, too. But that guy, he had an even bigger bank account to back up that kind of arrogance. No, I think you need to leave that type of men behind.”
“I think I need to be single for a while.”
“Of course, honey. That might be a great idea right now. But when you’re not… you know, I have plenty of teaching assistants who are—”
“Mom.”
She chuckles. “All right, I’ll stop. I just want you back home.”
“I know,” I say. It’s definitely a part of my guilt trip, my parents’ clear reluctance with my entire London adventure. Knowing I was letting down more than just one person with my sudden decision.
“I have to go, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Lunch break is over, and I have class in five.”
I grab a package of linguine. Look down at the overflowing basket and realize I’ll struggle to carry it all home. “That’s okay. What are you lecturing on today?” I ask. Mom is an English literature professor, and I always love hearing what’s on her schedule.
“We’re doing Victorian literature for a few weeks. You know—Dickens, Hardy, Tennyson. Today, I’m lecturing on… let’s see here. Social norms and gender roles, and how the authors reflected the rapidly changing society of the nineteenth century.”
“That sounds riveting,” I say, and I mean it.
Mom’s voice is pleased. “Thanks, honey. Have a good evening.”
“Have a good day,” I tell her.
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I pay for my large grocery haul and add it to the two other bags I’m already carrying. Working in the center of it all as I do is dangerous. There are too many fun shops to pop into on my lunch break or on my way home.
The walk to Nate’s townhouse isn’t long, but the heavy bags make it feel endless. I have to stop twice to rest, and when I finally make it home, I’ve gone from slightly annoyed to pissed off.
He has no right calling my parents.
No right to tell them about our private business, my choice with regard to the money, or to make the case to my parents in hopes of getting them to sway my decision.
My stomach is tied in a tight knot. One that has slowly been loosening over the past week, but now is back to its viselike hold on me and my tattered nerves. Uncertainty hangs over me like a question mark.
I unlock the door to Nate’s townhouse. “Hello?” I call. But the place is empty, the lights are off, and it looks just as it did when I left this morning.
He’s been out of the house more than he’s been in since the archery and the rain. When I felt like we started to become friends. The last three mornings he’s been gone before I came down to the kitchen, and he hasn’t returned home until after I’ve already gone to my bedroom, shut my door, and either watched reruns of my favorite show on my laptop or wrote in my journal. I’ve heard him walk by. Up the next flight of stairs to the top floor, the one I’ve never been to.
It almost feels like I’m living here alone.
I put the grocery bags on the large kitchen island. One of them tips over, and two oranges roll out onto the stone countertop.
It’s time to get real.
If I’m living here for another month, I need to start cooking real food for myself. Stock up the pantry with stuff, do a bit of meal prep, and maybe make some lunch wraps to bring to work.
A month.
That’s what he’d wagered. And I can’t pretend like the lump that seems to be stuck in my throat doesn’t have anything to do with the why behind his bet. I’d asked Nate, and he was adamant. This isn’t something he’s doing for Dean, and this isn’t at Dean’s behest, and…
I think I believe him.
I want to believe him.
Which leads to other questions. Mainly…
Then why?
I open the fridge and start unpacking one of the four grocery bags I’ve brought home. Onions, carrots, a large zucchini… The fridge was almost entirely empty. It’s also enormous, and my purchases hardly fill the vastness.
That’s when I hear the front door open.
Nate’s voice is muffled, but I hear the tension bleeding out in his tone. I stick my head over the threshold, looking out at the entryway. He’s on the phone.
He sees me. Nods once, his face tight.
I pop back into the kitchen. Despite his hushed speech, it’s hard not to catch snippets.
I thought you told him that was a nonstarter… What? We’ve never celebrated Easter together… Yes. It’s an option… I’ll consider it.
And then, much closer to the kitchen, the final words. Talk soon.
I quickly turn back to the open fridge and the bag of potatoes I’m holding. Behind me, footsteps echo down the hall, and then a surprised scoff.
“Did you empty Tesco?”
I close the fridge door. “Almost. I decided that if I’m going to… stay here longer, I should commit. And I’m tired of living off takeout.”
It’s expensive, too.
Nate nods and looks over the bags spread across his kitchen island. He’s in a suit, like always, but sans tie. His hair looks messier than usual, and there’s a tightness in his jaw, around his mouth, that I haven’t often seen.
“I promise I won’t burn down your kitchen. Again.”
“Go ahead. Torch it all.”
I reach for a bag of rice and frown at the bitterness in his voice. “Are you okay?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Of course.”
“You’ve been busy,” I say with a shrug. Opening one of the cabinets, I find the lower shelf completely empty. Great. “Out of the house a lot.”
“Yeah. Things have been intense at work.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No,” he says simply. But it doesn’t sound like a refusal. More like honesty. “You bought… what’s this?”
I look over to where Nate Connovan is standing, in the beautiful luxury kitchen, holding up a turnip. Looking nothing like his normal charming self.
I can’t help but laugh.
“What,” he says. “Is it obvious?”
“Let’s just say, I think it’s pretty clear you don’t cook a lot.”
“If that only struck you now, you haven’t seen how empty my fridge is.” He turns the root over. “A confused carrot?”
“A turnip,” I clarify. “Throw it here.”
He lifts an eyebrow but does what I’ve asked, tossing the turnip over the counter. I catch it and smile at him. “I’m going to roast veggies and chicken for dinner tonight. Want some?”
Now both his eyebrows rise. There’s a short pause where I’m sure he’ll say no, but then he nods. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Of course.”
He leans both hands against the island. “Are you planning on feeding an army I don’t know about?”
“No, but I am planning on meal prepping.” I hold the turnip up in his direction, like the world's non-pointiest weapon. “Speaking of meal prepping. Do you use some kind of delivery service for those breakfast spreads?”
His eyes narrow. “Yes. Would you like more of something?”
“No, I would like less.” I open the freezer and show him the mountain of pastries I’ve squeezed in over the past few days. “We’ll never eat them all!”
That finally gets a smile out of him. “I guess I didn’t think of that.”
“And it’s always untouched when I come down. Do you even eat any of it?”
He runs a hand along the back of his neck. “Some days.”
“Wasteful,” I say with a soft tsk.
He nods and reaches for another bag, pulling out the package of flour. “So you’re, what? A professional chef on the side?”
“Not at all. I’m just a regular person who tries to feed herself and picked up a few skills along the way.”
“I’ve been alive for… thirty-eight years, and I haven’t picked up any cooking skills,” he says. I listen to him rummage around in one of the bags. “Crackers. Cheese. Apples. This is…”
“Domestic?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
I open the freezer and find a spot for the giant bag of frozen broccoli I bought. “I don’t mean to pry, but you sounded a bit annoyed on the phone when you came home. Everything all right?”
There’s complete silence behind me.
I open a drawer in the freezer and put in the chicken breasts. “Don’t mean to overstep, you know. You’re allowed to say no comment. Just wanted to ask how you’re doing.”
“Harper,” he says.
I look over my shoulder with a smile. “If it’s—oh my God.”
He’s holding the slim, purple box in hand. It’s luxurious cardboard, with gold typeface printed along the top. It had set me back almost one hundred and twenty pounds, and I’ve yet to know if it’s worth it. The attendant in the little sex shop in Chelsea had assured me that it is.
“I don’t think this goes in the fridge or the freezer,” he says calmly, eyes still on the packaging. Reading.
A furious blush spreads across my cheek.
“Maybe the pantry?” he asks.
“Nate, that wasn’t… shoot. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“I’m not,” he says. There’s something very controlled about his face, and his eyes slowly lift from the vibrator to meet mine. “I didn’t know they sold this at Tesco.”
“No, I went to a shop during lunch.” I look back down at the intricate package, still in his hand, his large fingers curving over the box. Embarrassment makes my voice higher than usual. “Are you inspecting that?”
The corners of Nate’s mouth finally tip up into a small, true smile. He holds up the box and starts to read. “Double the fun, double the orgasms. The extended tip is designed for internal stimulation of the G-spot.”
“Nate!”
His voice deepens. “The flexible second arm is ideal for clitoral stimulation and adapts to every body type.”
