Thoroughly Whipped

“The rugby ball that was thrown by an eleven-year-old who weighed no more than eighty pounds. Yes, that mishap.”

“Eleven? Shit, sign that kid up right now for the draft.” I took a sip of my coffee, already feeling its healing powers zip through my veins, bringing them back to life. “Do you have the draft in rugby?”

“No.”

I sighed and rested my head against the pillow behind me. I knew nothing about sports.

“I am sorry, though,” Harry said. “That you were hit.”

I rolled my head to look at him. “You were at the rec center, playing rugby.”

His face tightened, adopting his usual shuttered-down expression. I didn’t know if it was the concussion, but I heard myself saying, “No. Don’t do that. Don’t go all cold and distant on me again. Don’t do the aristocratic stiff-upper-lip thing that only comes off as rude and annoying.”

Harry’s expression didn’t change until he huffed out a laugh and shook his head. “Do you ever not say what is on your mind, Miss Parisi?”

“Faith. Call me Faith, if you call me Miss Parisi once more I’m going to bang my own head off the wall, just so I can be knocked out and not have to hear it again.”

“Slightly dramatic.”

“But very me.”

“Fine,” Harry said. “Faith.”

“Hallelujah!” I settled back down, swallowing the coffee so fast it left a trail of caffeinated fire down my throat. “And to answer your question, yes, I always say what’s on my mind.” I shrugged. “I’d rather tell people to their face what I think than say things behind their backs. And I rarely care what people think of me, so I don’t care if they don’t like it.”

“Duly noted.”

I laughed at his dry response. I sobered quickly when I asked, “Why were you there today, Harry? I heard you were back in the UK this week.”

“I was in England this week. Just came back a little earlier than I said I would.” He played with the edge of his coffee cup. He sighed and met my waiting eyes. “I’m the main benefactor for the charity.”

“Vie?” I asked.

“Vie.”

Then it dawned on me. “You wanted the media coverage for the charity but didn’t want to be tied to it?”

“Exactly,” he said stiffly. “It’s not about me. But I’m also not above using my connections to get it the coverage it deserves.”

“Why that charity?” I asked. “Children’s bereavement?” Then I remembered something I’d read about him and felt like the biggest asshole in the world. “Oh, Harry, I’m sorry,” I said and felt like hitting the egg on my head in self-punishment. “Your mom.”

Harry nodded. “Yes.” I stayed quiet for once in my damn life. Even I knew when to shut up on occasion.

“I was only twelve when I lost her. It…” He trailed off then sighed. “It was very difficult. To be so young, and alone…” My chest clenched at the brokenness I heard under the forced strength in his voice.

“You still had your father though, right? He helped you through it?” Harry’s lips thinned a fraction, and a flicker of coldness washed over his blue eyes.

“Of course.”

I laid my hand over his and squeezed. “I’m sorry you lost her.”

“Thank you.” Then he smiled and shook his head. I was so confused.

“What?”

“I’m just imagining what she would have thought of you.”

I grimaced. “That bad, huh?”

“On the contrary,” he said, and his expression lightened. It softened and, with it, so did some of the ice around my heart when it came to him. “She would have adored you. She always championed strong, independent women.” He leaned forward, voice lowered. “I’ll let you in on a secret. She didn’t much care for the ladies of the aristocracy. In fact, she would often smile to their faces, then when they were not looking, swiftly show them the middle finger, encouraging me to follow suit.”

“Sounds like my kind of lady.”

“Yes, quite.” A lightness spread in my chest. A tattoo of his brief smile etched into my brain. It was quite the sight. And extremely rare. Like seeing Bigfoot wearing a thong and stiletto heels.

“So, you’re teaching rugby to the youth of Hell’s Kitchen?”

He nodded. “I felt like they should be shown a true sport, not ones played with an abundance of helmets and padding.”

“Careful, or you’ll be hunted out of the states by a tailgating mob,” I teased. “But why Hell’s Kitchen?”

Harry relaxed back in his chair, and I couldn’t help but notice the sliver of skin on his flat stomach where his rugby shirt had ridden up. “I remembered reading a piece on them last year and how they were setting up a club for those who had lost parents young. They were asking for donations. I knew I could do better than that.” He shrugged, and it was the most casual gesture I’d ever seen from him. This, I understood, he could talk about freely. “I wish I’d had something like that when I was dealing with my grief.”