Yes, she wanted to be that person. The person who people knew, just knew without much thought or contemplation, just felt could be counted on. Someone who they could come to with the things that needed taking care of, that they couldn’t handle themselves, but needed to be done. A man who needed to know things would be taken care of as his health was fading had thought of James. A little boy panicked about a home for a lizard had thought of James. All the men who worked with him and knew him, who trusted him to have their backs in life and death situations, had thought of him when a dog needed someone. And a woman, who had spent only a few hours with him, and hadn’t been getting to know him all that well, probably, had still sensed he was the kind of guy she could trust her child with.
Harper wanted to be that person, too. Someone who others could depend on when things seemed desperate.
And because of James, she was seeing she could be.
He’d helped her realize that.
She felt a tear on her cheek and quickly dashed it away. She couldn’t believe all this had happened in the course of a few months. And honestly, without the last few days with the baby, she wasn’t sure this all would have come to light so quickly or clearly.
Just then the music shifted, the trombone and trumpet came in, and the tempo picked up. James’s fingers flew over the keys faster, with skill and confidence, and his face lit up as the band hit their stride, and the light and the temperature and the very air in the building seemed to be turned up a notch.
It was very familiar, actually. From the first time she’d opened her door to James Reynaud, everything around her had seemed liked it had been turned up a notch.
9
He played for almost an hour.
James kept looking over to where Harper was sitting to gauge when it was time to call it a night. But she was into it. She was watching them constantly, her fingers tapping on the table along with the beat, smiling, seemingly absorbing it all. Her smile would grow when she saw him looking at her, and at one point she’d fanned her face and winked.
He loved it.
He’d wanted her to love all of this. He’d wanted her to enjoy the club and the music. It was a huge part of him, and it would have felt strange if she didn’t like it. But he hadn’t been sure. She didn’t go out. She liked to be at home. Alone, as far as he could tell.
He knew he’d been challenging her and her usual routines and habits over the past few months. But she’d risen to every challenge and surprised him at every turn.
And every time she did, he fell a little deeper for her.
Earlier, hearing her say she loved him and would marry him had been the biggest thrill of his life. He’d had no idea how that would feel. He’d had no idea how it would all play out at all. But having her say it to him in the middle of the club where he poured his heart out into the music so often, where he’d grown up watching his father do the same, had meant everything to him. He didn’t know if Harper realized that or if it had truly just been a spontaneous moment that had felt right—which he also loved, considering spontaneous was not a word he’d use to describe Harper Broussard—but it had been perfect.
Finally, he called it a wrap. As much as he loved playing, he wanted to be with her. Marcus was working tonight, so James needed to go and ask him about how to get ahold of Caroline from the W state, and then he needed to get Harper home.
He made his way to the table where she was nursing her second glass of wine.
“You read—”
Before he even got the words out, she was on her feet and had grabbed his hand. She pulled him through the crowd and around the tables. Toward the back office.
“You know where you’re goin’, Professor?” he asked.
“Neveah filled me in,” she told him over her shoulder. “She said there’s a bow tie to hang on the doorknob.”
James chuckled. “I didn’t know about the bow tie.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.” She pulled him down the short, dark back hallway to the closed door at the end near the back exit. She turned to face him as she twisted the knob and stepped back into the room. “Neveah said she’d run interference for us.”
He’d never brought a woman back here. He knew a few of the guys had hookups in the club, but he hadn’t asked for details. He followed her into the room that was lit only by a small lamp on the corner of a messy desk. There was a dusty file cabinet in one corner, a coat rack with a blazer jacket that could have easily been there since the forties, and a brown leather sofa that had also, clearly, been there longer than James had been alive.
“You sure this is your kind of place, Professor?” James asked, settling his hands on her hips. “’Cuz I’m happy to take you home to not just one big, comfy bed, but two. Hell, we’ve got two couches and two kitchen tables to choose from, too.”
She ran her hands up to link them behind his neck. “This office has been used for decades as a rendezvous spot,” Harper told him. “I love the idea of being a part of this club’s history.”
“Well, that’s as much arguing as I’m going to do on the subject,” he said. He fucking loved that she was the one who had pulled him down the hallway. He reached over and turned the lock on the door. “How are your panties?”
Harper’s voice was husky when she answered. “Wet.”
Lust swept through him. “So you like jazz piano?”
“I like you,” she said. “I like watching you in your element like that. I like being surrounded by people who get you and think you’re amazing. I like realizing that you had no reason to be interested in me but that something brought you across that landing to knock on my door.”
He wasn’t sure exactly what the right thing to say was, so he just went with his gut. “Take them off, Professor.”
She immediately reached under her skirt and pulled her panties down and off. She moved as if to toss them away, but he snagged them. She watched, eyes round, as he lifted them to his nose and breathed in. They were, indeed, wet, and they smelled like heaven. Like her.
“Unzip me.”
He was vaguely aware of the sound of his phone ringing in his pocket, but there was nothing that was going to make him stop this.
Her cheeks were pink and she was breathing hard. This woman made him weak in the knees. Her fingers went to his fly, and she unbuttoned and unzipped him, spreading his jeans open.
“I’ve never given a jazz musician a blow job.”
Definitely weak in the knees. James clenched his fists. He was going to fucking stay on his feet. Even if it killed him.
“Harp—”
She went to her knees, pulled his boxers down, and slid her tongue up and down his length.
James braced his legs and worked on breathing. He squeezed his eyes shut but then quickly popped them open to focus on the sight of Harper Broussard taking him into her mouth.
He groaned. “Professor.”
She looked up at him from under her lashes. And took him deeper.
He swallowed hard. He was going to die.
She sucked and licked for several minutes, and James tangled his fingers in her hair, absorbing every second. But finally it was too much.
“On your feet, Harper,” he growled, his gut, balls, everything, tight.