All grins, Grace pats the counter. “So talk about a small world. How do you two know each other now?”
This is not a big deal. “David and I both work at PHR.”
David’s head bobs. “I’m in HR, so we don’t work together. But of course”—he shoots me a smile—“I know her.”
Walt raises a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching as he exchanges a look with his brother. I want to tell Wade it’s not what he’s thinking—that there’s nothing between us. Because the possessive way his arm circles around me says he’s thinking there is.
Grace’s lips purse. “Harlow, honey, I know you said banking. But what do you do there?”
My belly drops. David knows. I can’t just brush over it. If I say I’m still working in compliance, it will seem like I’m embarrassed and lying. There’s no other choice. “I’m sort of between positions right now.”
And those muttered apologies make it even worse. “No, it’s not—”
David shakes his head with a laugh. “Grace, she’s fine. ‘Between positions’ isn’t the same when your dad owns the bank.”
Wade chokes into his tea and David’s eyes bug, all the color leaving his face. “Dude, you didn’t know her dad owns the bank?”
My boyfriend should totally know.
Real or fake. I should have mentioned it earlier, and now—
“What? No, man, of course I knew.” Wade chuckles from behind me, easy as can be. “New to the whole swallowing thing.”
Walt snorts and Grace rolls her eyes, knowing exactly what her youngest is thinking. Wade steps away from me, wiping his chin with the back of his arm. He’s only setting his glass in the sink. That’s all. It’s reasonable. Normal.
Except Wade is so good at weaving fiction into the fabric of what’s real. What if he’s not just putting his glass away? What if he’s upset because I didn’t trust him with the truth?
A cold sort of dread snakes through my belly, different than the one that lives there most of the time. This one feels… worse.
I watch the muscles of his back as he washes his hands. He turns around, drying his hands. “It’s no big deal about the bank. But not what we lead with, you know.”
David gulps air, looking more relieved than I feel. Grace waves her hand in the air, moving on.
It’s very polite, and I’m trying to be polite too. Trying not to give in to this almost soul-deep pull to go to Wade. To make sure we’re okay. Which is ridiculous because this thing between us is only a week. It’s not real in a way that should matter.
But it does.
It matters. And when he crosses back to me, brushing a light kiss at the corner of my mouth, my breath rushes out in relief. And then he’s holding me close again, and I’m turning, wrapping my arms around his middle to hold him tighter still.
It’s only a week. But I don’t want to give up a second of it.
Wade
We hang out at the house for a while. Catch up with Dave, share my snafu with the place cards, and hear about Janie’s cousin who eloped this past weekend. Harlow stays close to my side, but it’s not enough. I want to be alone with her. After what I’m calling a reasonable amount of time passes, I pull her to her feet and tuck her into my side.
“Guys, we’ll see you later. I’ve got a call with my agent in not too long, so we’re going to cut out.” It’s true-ish. The call isn’t actually for another couple hours.
Mom nods, grabbing a baby carrot from the dip plate she set out. “Don’t forget your clothes from the dryer.”
Right. We grab my stuff and head out, but don’t even make it to the walk before Dave’s behind us.
“Harlow, you have a second?” he asks, following us down the front step.
I don’t like the way her body gets tense every time this guy opens his mouth.
“Of course. What’s on your mind?”
She sounds crisp, professional. I’ve heard it before, but I haven’t seen this side of Harlow since we arrived in town. And it’s a little weird, but not nearly so much as seeing that polite professionalism from the kid who stuffed French fries up his nose when he was ten.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you how sorry I am about the way things shook out with your brother. Everyone knows that job should have been yours.”
Her brother is the guy who got her job.
And her dad owns the bank.
I don’t want to believe it. I don’t want Harlow’s father to be the man she doesn’t think likes her. It’s possible it’s an uncle, another relation. But my gut doesn’t think so.
Beside me, Harlow smiles a workplace smile. But it’s not real.
“Thank you for saying so, but I’m certain Junior will do a terrific job. We’re happy to have him back on board.”
Damn.
Once I’ve got her in the truck with my parents’ place in the rearview, I ask, “Junior?”
She laughs softly, shaking her head. “I thought when he started working he’d go by Philip—but no. He’s a Junior, through and through.”
“Sounds like an asshole.”
“I mean, he kind of is.” She takes a breath, lets it out. “He’s self-centered, entitled, elitist. But he’s not a terrible person. He’s just kind of… careless. And because of who he is, he gets away with it.”
We come up to the intersection and instead of turning left, I go right, taking us away from town.
I expect Harlow to ask about it. No way she didn’t notice, but she’s quiet, holding my hand as we drive a few miles into the country. I pull down the dusty gravel road, wondering if the kids still come out here.
We pass a small, dark house with a broken window, an overgrown yard, and a handful of dilapidated outbuildings before I pull to a stop in front of the old sway-back barn.
“What’s this?” Harlow asks as I help her out of the truck and pull a Slayers blanket from the back.
“Another quiet spot.”
“Good for thinking?” she asks, holding my hand as I lead her around the side.
“Good for talking.” And because I can feel her on the brink of asking, I tell her. “I might have brought a girl or two out here… back in the day.”
She laughs, and the sound of it warms me from the inside.
When we get to the clearing past the building, she stops, her breath catching in a pretty way.
“I was hoping they still did this.” The back side of the barn is the only part of the property that’s seen a fresh coat of paint in probably twenty years. Maybe more. “Every year, the seniors paint the back with something significant to their class—the science lab with the empty desk is about Mrs. Green retiring—and those squares along the bottom are individual student quotes or tags.”
“They did this when you were in high school?”
“Yep.” I find a spot beneath an old oak, kicking a bit through the field grass to check for broken glass or anything I wouldn’t want Harlow sitting on, but the kids must have maintained the tradition of cleaning up whatever mess they bring in as well.
She helps me spread the blanket and we stretch out.