I gave her two days to avoid me. Gave her the room to process her emotions because she went through a fuck ton of them in just a few minutes. I wasn’t sure if she was embarrassed or mad. Sad or horny or all of the above.
If she hated my guts, that was fine. At least she wasn’t fucking Larry the Loser in a stairwell.
But two days had passed, and I hadn’t seen her. Nothing. I had to know she was okay. After knocking on her door and getting no response, I went to see Emory. She’d given me a funny look when I’d asked her for Harper’s cell number but said nothing as she put it in my phone.
Back in my chair, I tried not to think of how right she’d felt in my lap. Maybe it was a stupid idea, but I wanted to talk with her. And more. I shouldn’t. She was too good for me, too damn perfect, even with whatever shit she was dealing with. I couldn’t give her anything. I had some money—I saved most of my portion of my winnings and was starting to get endorsements. Even if I did bring in the heavy purses and made bucket loads of cash, I’d still never fit into her country club lifestyle, the stuffy faculty meet-and-greets. I’d never be smart enough for her. I wasn’t enough for her.
But that didn’t stop my thumbs from moving awkwardly over the tiny keyboard on my phone. I’d never sent a text to a woman before. I’d never had to. More importantly, I’d never wanted to. I sighed, knowing it was a dumb move, but hit send anyway.
Me: I want you on my lap again.
I did. That was the fucking truth. I wasn’t going to say romantic shit to her about flowers and rainbows, especially in a text. That wasn’t me. But I also wasn’t going to tell her what I wanted to do to her. With her. Watching her come had stirred up all kinds of killer fantasies, and they all involved her in my bed.
After two hours of watching crappy TV and icing my knee, I gave up on getting a response and went to bed. Had I fucked things up by pushing her the other day? Had I scared her away with my damn text? I might have sounded like a fucking middle schooler, but those were the thoughts that kept me tossing and turning all night. Again.
When the alarm went off on my phone at the usual five-thirty, I wiped the sleepy grit from my eyes and saw she’d responded. Two hours earlier when I had the sound programmed off. What the hell was she doing up that late?
Harper: Didn’t I embarrass myself enough the first time?
I ran my hand over my face, felt the beard that was starting.
Me: That wasn’t what I remember about it. Go out with me.
I hit send and then realized what I’d done. I wasn’t fully awake. Why the hell was I texting before the sun came up? To a woman? I just asked Harper out. On a date. I didn’t do dates, I remembered, dropping my cell on my unmade bed and throwing on my workout clothes. I slipped sweats and a hoodie over top and grabbed my running shoes.
I waited for the elevator. Yeah, it was a lazy ass move instead of taking the stairs, but I was stalling my run and giving myself time to wait for her to respond back. My phone dinged as I stepped on, pressed the button for the ground floor. I glanced down at the screen.
Harper: Can’t.
I stopped halfway out the elevator, and the doors bumped my shoulders, prodding me to move. Gray was waiting in the lobby, tying his running shoes. He was dressed for the bitter cold in sweatpants, an insulated jacket and a skull cap on his head.
Me: Can’t or won’t?
Harper: Can’t. I’m in London.
I frowned. “Why the fuck is Harper in London?” I asked Gray, holding my phone out.
He looked up and raised an eyebrow as he stood. We didn’t usually talk before we finished the first mile of our run.
“Work, I think,” he replied.
That was why she hadn’t responded the night before. England was what, seven hours ahead? She’d been asleep. I ran my thumbs over my screen.
Me: You running from me?
She hadn’t mentioned a work trip, but then again, she hadn’t mentioned much of anything about herself. I knew what she did for a living and knew she had the endurance of an ultra-marathoner. I was somewhat aware of a shitty family and her misplaced source of comfort in sex with faceless men. That wasn’t much, and I had a feeling it all tied in together somehow. And the damn elevator. The woman was fucking complicated. I didn’t do complicated, didn’t even know how. But I did know I needed to figure her out. I needed to get her to feel safe with me, with not just her perso
nal safety, but to let her guard down and give herself over to someone completely. To me completely.
Yeah, I was a hypocrite. I was a fighter, and it was my job to keep my guard up. I didn’t let anyone in whether it was in the ring or not. I’d had a shitty childhood with really, really shitty parents. I had enough baggage of my own that I refused to share with anyone. Gray may have gotten big bits and pieces out of me over the years, but he didn’t know it all. Didn’t know how truly bad it had been. But Harper, she’d one-two punched me the first time I laid eyes on her, and I was still sucking wind. I just worried I always would.
Harper: I’m running from everything.
Shit.
Gray tucked his hat lower on his head and went outside, saw his breath form in a white cloud beneath the entry lights. I couldn’t text Harper back. I wasn’t a thirteen-year-old girl and didn’t have the dexterity in my thumbs. Besides, Gray was waiting, and what was going on was too big for a fucking text. I slipped my cell into the band on my biceps, tugged on my running shoes and joined him outside, breathing in the biting air. Harper was something I was going to figure out. Later.
9