Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Before I can second-guess myself any further, I open Harper’s contact and start typing.
Me: You home?
I hit send, the message disappearing into oblivion. No take-backs, no deleting it.
A sense of unease settles in my chest as I wait for a response, not sure if I’m hoping for an immediate reply or dreading it. The thing about Harper: She doesn’t hold back her feelings. If she’s pissed at me, I am going to know it.
Minutes tick by.
Finally, my phone buzzes, and I nearly drop it in my haste to see her reply.
Harper: Yes.
Ouch. A one-word response.
“You know what? What the hell, why not—take me to her place,” I tell Marcus, my fuck-it attitude propelling me toward this unwise decision.
He raises an eyebrow. “So…turn around? We already passed her neighborhood.”
I nod. “Sure.”
He comes to a full stop on the side of the road, glances in his rearview then side mirrors. When the coast is clear, he whips the Jeep around with dramatic flair, pressing the gas and sending us hurtling in the direction of Harper’s house, as we all white-knuckle the “oh shit” bars above our doors.
It’s a short drive that takes forever.
With each passing second, my nerves knot tighter—and I’m pretty sure Marcus senses this, because he’s throwing smirks my direction as he navigates the neighborhood.
Finally, we pull up in front of Harper’s driveway. I sit frozen, hand on the door handle.
“You got this, bruh.” Deshaun slaps my shoulder from the back seat with way too much confidence for someone who’s not about to walk up to her door himself.
“Thanks.” I don’t feel like I got this.
I push the Jeep door open before I can doubt myself again. The air outside is crisp, but it doesn’t do much to cool the heat crawling up my neck. The guys are still watching, which makes it worse.
I don’t need an audience for this.
Marcus rolls down his window. “You sure you don’t want us to wait? In case she slams the door in your face?”
I shoot him a glare over my shoulder. “Go home.”
Raking a hand through my hair, I do my best to shake off the nerves in my gut, forcing my feet forward. Up the porch steps. One deep breath, then one knock.
The house is quiet. Behind the door, there’s a shuffle, the sound of heavy footsteps moving closer.
Then.
The door swings open, and Harper’s dad stands framed by the dim hallway light, his broad shoulders filling the space like a barricade.
His gaze lands on me, sharp and assessing, and my stomach drops, despite the fact that he seems friendly and not like he’s about to bite my head off.
Shit.
I clear my throat, shifting awkwardly under his scrutiny. “Uh. Hi, Mr. Conrad.”
“Can I help you?”
Crap, that’s right—I’ve met her mom at school things before but not her dad. I introduce myself awkwardly. “I’m Easton Westermann. A friend of Harper’s.” I clear my throat, nervous enough to crap my pants. “Is she home?”
After a brief pause, he nods. “Upstairs in her bedroom. You can go up if you want.”
“Really?”
Dang. I’m not allowed to have girls in my room, even though I’ve never had the opportunity to have girls in my room.
“Sure. Just keep the door open.”
For a second, I just stand there, thrown off by how chill he is about this.
“Uh—thanks,” I say, hesitating before stepping inside.
Mr. Conrad nods, already turning toward the kitchen like he has better things to do than interrogate the guy showing up unannounced for his daughter. It’s weird. I don’t know what I expected—maybe a warning, maybe a don’t try anything stare—but this? An open invitation to gallivant up to Harper’s bedroom?
I step into the house, shutting the door behind me as I move toward the stairs.
I shouldn’t be nervous.
It’s not like I haven’t been alone with Harper before. But something about climbing the stairs to her bedroom feels way more intimate than hanging with her in the garage.
I find her door, knowing which one it is by the pink heart taped to it.
Cute.
Girlie.
Raising my hand to knock, I pause, listening.
Soft laughter filters through the door. Muffled giggles.
Macy? Maybe. Hard to tell.
I exhale, rolling my shoulders back. Here goes nothing.
I knock—three firm taps against the wood—then take a step back, pulse kicking up.
“Harper?”
Chapter 12
Harper
“…It was absolutely embarrassing.” I pause dramatically.
“I think you’re reading way too much into it.”
I shoot my best friend a glare through the screen of my phone, doing my best to remain casual. “I am not reading too much into it.”
“Mmm.” Macy hums, twirling a lock of her hair around her finger. “You might be. Boys are dumb, Harper. They do dumb shit. I’m sure Easton wasn’t even thinking—he was focused on practice.”
“So not true,” I snap. “He was thinking. He saw me. And then he skated away like I wasn’t there.”
My throat tightens. I didn’t tell her any of this at the ice rink—but I’m making up for it now, saying all the things out loud that I felt an hour ago.