Page 83 of Even After This
He folds a strand of hair behind my ear. “I just want to be around her. Why is any of that bad?”
My hands at his waist, I clutch the fabric of his shirt. “Because no one wants to be the one who breaks up with the wounded widow.”
Harlan’s body jolts at my statement. His intense gaze causes me to squirm under the scrutiny.
“I’m a lot to handle, Harlan.”
“No. Molly is a lot to handle.” His eyes narrow. “This is real for me. If you walked away, I would be a wreck.”
I swallow. I blink.
He steps back but takes my hands in his. “I didn’t know your story the first time I saw you.”
I tip my head to the side. “Yes, you did. The maître d’ told you about the memo. The one about being sensitive to the widow.”
A sly grin kicks up one side of his mouth. “Yes, but that morning I was in the lobby when you checked in to the hotel.” He gazes over my shoulder as if lost in his memory. “I thought you were so beautiful. And when you showed up at the Penrose Room, I knew it was my lucky day.”
Wait. What? My belly whooshes.
Harlan moves forward and lifts our hands up between us. “So if you think for one second, Meredith Harper, that I’m going to allow you to kick me to the curb just because you’re scared, you’re wrong.”
“I’m not scared.” When I say that, I’m pretty sure we both know I’m lying.
“Sweetheart, you’ve been listing reasons why we won’t work since we met.” He rubs his thumbs over the tops of my hands. “I’m not intimidated by Molly. Not afraid of your grief. And your fears won’t run me off.”
Tears fill my eyes.
“I’m not worried about breaking up with the widow because I don’t plan on breaking up with her.” He makes his final rumbled statement while staring at my lips.
My heart squeezes, and there’s just no way to run from the truth. I whisper, “I’m falling in love with you too.”
His eyes flash.
The timer on the oven beeps, and for all intents and purposes, it is a loud gong invading our moment.
“Aunt Meredith, does that mean the cinnamon rolls are ready? I can smell them from here,” Taylor calls from across the living room.
Harlan drops my hands, winks, and steps back. “Later.” His tone implies a promise.
With my eyes locked on Harlan, I answer Taylor. “Yes.”
As the family rushes through the door, our moment ends and a mad dash for the breakfast treats ensues.
“Who wants coffee and who wants OJ?” My mother shakes the new gallon.
“Orange juice, please.” Harlan’s commanding voice fills the room, his gaze searing into mine.
I purse my lips, trying to contain my grin.
He gives me a chin lift and turns to accept a cup from my mom.
Thirty minutes later, stomachs full, sugar highs intact, everyone leaves for their respective post–Thanksgiving Day festivities. The women drive away armed with a retail attack plan that would’ve made Patton proud. The men load up the car for high-caloric tailgating at the SMU football game.
After a quick shower, Harlan joins me in the living room. He rocks sweatpants day. His well-worn navy sweats hang low on his hips, and a tattered used-to-be-white Henley covers his broad shoulders.
With his hair still wet, I want to run my fingers through the dark tips curling at the ends.
Harlan joins me on the couch and removes a fluffy throw pillow from behind his back.
