“I’ve just had a long week, that’s all.”

My simple answer to Vivian’s complicated question doesn’t cut it, just like I knew it wouldn’t. She sits down on the other side of her sofa and looks at me, waiting for me to spill. I shift nervously and I have no idea how I can possibly bring this about. Before and especially since Caleb died, Vivian has been my one and only constant rock.

Vivian runs a hand through her straight strawberry blonde hair, the green in her hazel eyes brought out by her pastel crop top. Of course she knows without having to ask that it has something to do with either Dad or Caleb. What else would I have to be sad about? Well, a few things, but whenever I do end up talking with Vivian and out of whichever rut I happen to be in, it’s usually one of the two.

On that, Vivian knows too that I never get to talk about this with anyone else. Not that I don’t want to—I just don’t have anyone else. I’m fine with that, too. Vivian’s enough.

“It’s nothing,” I say in a rushed effort to downplay how much I’m hurting. I stare at the simple black end table she has placed against the sofa across from us, which is also black. As cheerful as Vivian always is and how flamboyant she is when it comes to clothing and accessories, her apartment is decorated sparsely in a very chic way. Chic just like Vivian. “It’s just Dad’s birthday tomorrow. Not a big deal.”

I watch as her eyes soften to puddles of what appear to be honeydew. “You’re welcome to stay over with me tomorrow, too, you know. I don’t have any plans.”

Relieved, I relax into the sofa and wish it was a little more comfortable, even though it probably cost a fortune. In my mind nothing can beat Grandma’s fifteen year old, well-worn corduroy sofa.

“Can we watch the game?” I ask, referring of course to the Cardinals game. Her invitation to stay was just what I was looking for, and even though there’s a strong chance I might cry once or twice tomorrow, at least I’ll have Vivian.

She grins. “On one condition.”

That wipes the small smile clean from my mouth, and my shoulders drop in disappointment. “Oh god. Lay it on me.”

Knowing Vivian it’ll be something adventurous and equally reckless. “It’s not that bad. Sheesh,” she has the audacity to look offended, and I laugh at her reaction. “There’s just this club that’s become popular and the Tribune wants me to review it…”

By the Tribune she doesn’t mean Chicago’s newspaper—well, in a way. The paper runs a blog detailing and reviewing the city’s best nightlife, and Vivian has been working for it on and off for the past two years since she graduated from university. It’s a good deal for Vivian because if nothing else, she loves to party.

“And…?” I press. The way Vivian trailed off makes me nervous—and rightfully so.

“And… there’s a rumor circulating that the great Trent Harlan will be in attendance tonight. To check out the competition for his new club. If I got the first scoop on Aqua…” she sighs, eyes glazing over as she thinks of all the glory that will supposedly come along with such a coveted story.

“It has nothing to do with the fact that he’s hot as hell, does it?” Vivian laughs and throws a square, flat cushion that feels more like a phonebook when it comes in contact with my face, and I chuck it back at her.

Her smile turns devious. “Maybe a little.”

“And it won’t involve us sneaking past security or risking a felony?” I quip, and Vivian squeals while she shoots up from the sofa through her excitement.

“You’ll come?” She doesn’t need to ask, and she knows it. She has me now. I nod anyway. “Besides, I figured we could use the opportunity to celebrate you earning your bachelors. You don’t seem all that giddy about it, Julia. It’s a big accomplishment and you should be proud.”

Sometimes I swear it’s as if she can read my mind. I wave it off anyhow, because this is the one night I don’t want to think about school. “I’ll be giddy about it when I have my diploma framed and on my wall.”

She sighs and shakes her head at my stubbornness, opting not to pick at the matter any further.

“I don’t have anything to wear,” I remember one more reason why I don’t like to go clubbing. It requires skimpy outfits I don’t feel comfortable in.

Vivian’s surprise is warranted—it’s not easy to talk me into going out to these kinds of things. Aside from hanging out at either of our houses and going shopping once in a while, I hardly ever go out. I’m too shy and it’s too much of a risk. My enthusiasm is just another example of how desperate I am to take my mind from Dad and Caleb.

“You won’t get out of it that easy,” Vivian jokingly snaps and pulls me up from the couch by my wrist. “I have some stuff in the back of my closet from before I put on my freshmen fifteen.”
I roll my eyes at my friend’s faux modesty and nonetheless follow her to her bedroom’s walk in closet. “Oh please, Viv. You know you look awesome.”

And she does. The little weight she gained over the past few years went to her hips and bust and gave her the curves she always wanted—and to think, when we were teenagers she used to be jealous of mine. It’s not as if she’s afraid to show it all off, either, with her tight, short pencil skirts and deep cut shirts she always sports in her office. Lord only knows how much her male coworkers love her for it.

Me, on the other hand? I wear clothes that do a great job in covering up in the curves I kept even after I lost all my baby fat.

There’s no time for me to wonder if I made a good call in agreeing to Vivian’s shenanigans, but I know for certain it will do what I wanted it to in the first place: to forget, even if just for a few hours.

---

Almost the whole night. I get through almost the entire thing, and it’s only when I’m leaning against the bar with Vivian at The Castle that I begin to regret come here at all. The club is every image its apt name conjures—from the exterior, at least. It’s an imposing, massive stone structure that takes up the corner of Dearborn and West Ontario Street. Two large columns stand on either side of the grand entrance doors, a balcony nestled between the columns above it.

The balcony is attached to the The Solar, a VIP area where Vivian insists she spotted Trent Harlan from where we stood down on the first floor. I don’t know how she sees anything at all through the strobe lights and the constant thrum of some sort of dubstep tune I’m not accustomed to, but she seems sure.

“We’re screwed,” I say, ever the pessimistic one in our friendship, and eye Vivian while she stirs her third drink. I couldn’t even tell you its name. “And slow down will you?”

“We are not. I need this, too,” she swishes the alcohol around the small pretty glass. “If I’m going to get us up there.”

An hour and a half alone was spent outside just waiting to get into the place. We’re hard pressed if we really want to get into The Solar, but I know Vivian won’t give up without a valiant, probably idiotic fight. I just hope the night doesn’t end with the both of us getting kicked out.

From the looks of things, this place is the most popular club in downtown Chicago too. Vivian was right—it’s packed. We can’t even make our way through the main dance floor; instead we have to sneak around the parameter of the place to make it to the bar. The heavy, pulsing beat of the music throbs in our ears, and the last thing I want to do right now is dance.

No, I want to go home.

Vivian, on the other hand looks as if she’s right in her element. I pull on the hem of the tiny black dress she loaned me, looking forlornly toward my friend. Wearing neither the dress nor the heels had been my idea. Vivian insisted that if I was going out to celebrate, I had to look the part. Even though the dress hugs my waist too tight and shows off far too much of my modest cleavage for me to ever feel comfortable wearing it.

“So what’s the plan?” I don’t even want to ask, not at the sight of Vivian’s smirk. Trouble’s afoot.
“We’re going to seduce the bouncer,” the drinks must have already gone to my friend’s head. Before I can protest, Vivian latches onto my hand and drags me around the dance floor and toward the stairs, where of course security is posted.

Security Vivian thinks she—we—can seduce.

“We’ll get kicked out,” I warn, though I find it hard to shout over the music again. Vivian only continues to tug me along. The club is open to the second floor, allowing us and Vivian to have spotted Trent Harlan in the first place, and because of it I no longer marvel at the beauty of the place.

Bodies line the railings and I’m nervous some drunken person will accidentally fling themselves down onto the second floor and possibly onto a few unfortunate dancers. No one else seems to be concerned.

“No we won’t. I’ve done this before, Julia. I got this.” Vivian’s confidence will never cease to amaze me, though I shake my head in disbelief. Up above us, I recognize some of Chicago’s most famous socialites. There’s no way we’re getting up there.

At the foot of the stairs, we approach a man wearing an expensive suit and overpowering cologne. His hair is styled carefully into a faux hawk.

“Can I help you ladies?” He asks, tensing at our appearance. By reaction, I stiffen too. This won’t end well. Minutes earlier, we watched as his colleague retreated upstairs and he took over. I know off the bat that Vivian’s devious little plan will involve lies, and lots of them.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” Vivian starts, doe eyed and voice pitched higher and sweeter than usual. She rubs her hand up her forearm mock-worriedly, though to the bouncer I bet it looks fairly authentic. I notice, however, that the action causes her chest to stick out ever so subtly. “But we just left The Solar, and Jules left her purse up there.”

My pulse rockets when I hear my name brought into this mess. Even so, I’m not one to throw my friend under the bus, so I try to conceal my shock as best I can and give the bouncer an animated nod before I quickly avert my eyes, scanning the rest of the second floor.

I don’t spot him right away, but when I do… when I see Harry Styles, looking down at me with his typical pink-lipped smirk while he leans over the railing on the second floor, I swear I’m inches away from having a heart attack.

The sad part about it is that I’m not even kidding around. I only catch his eye for a split second, but the lighting isn’t so dim that I make myself believe he doesn’t know I’ve spotted him. Heat envelops what feels like my entire body, traveling upward past my neck until my face feels like it’s caught fire.

“I’m sorry, miss, but unless you have your passes I can’t allow you up.”

Only those deemed ‘worthy’ are allowed, he means to say, but I can hardly focus on Vivian’s plight now. Harry Styles is here, and he’s seen me. I don’t think my luck can get any worse, even while I wonder if he’s angry with me for turning him down yesterday. When Vivian begins to plead our made up case, I tug on her wrist. She doesn’t listen.

When I really start to consider fleeing, aware that Harry is still watching me, I glance back to him once more and I see that he’s taken his eyes off me to talk to a member of security. He points me out to the other man, and when he nods and starts to make his way toward the stairs, I feel faint.

Maybe he’s still pissed. Maybe Harry’s only sending down security to kick us out.
“Vivian,” I expel the last of my oxygen in a last ditch effort at getting her attention. Finally, she half turns to see what’s gotten me in such a huff.

“What, Julia?” Annoyance colors her short sentence, but as soon as Vivian gets a good look at my flushed cheeks and wide, panicked eyes, she quickly grows concerned.

I can’t point. Harry will know then exactly how much he freaks me out, and it’s not like I even have time with the other security guy making his way down the long, marble staircase. “We need to go—like, now.”

“Why, hon?” Vivian takes a hold of my hand in comfort, but in my mind it’s to keep me from running away. My breaths come in short, panicked huffs.

“I’ll explain later. Let’s just leave. Please?”

She nods wordlessly, but I know she won’t accept my silence on the issue so easy after we leave. The only other time I’ve seen her near as worried was the first time I passed out cold when her cousin scared us during a sleepover at her house four years ago.

Once she hears what it’s all over—surely small in her eyes—she’ll have a fit for ruining our chances of gaining access to The Solar. But for right now, I appreciate her concern more than she can imagine.

Behind us as we walk away, I hear the man at the end of the stairs speaking with the other stubborn member of security. I pull Vivian along with a little more force, near tears even though I have no idea why.

“Miss, Miss—excuse me, ladies.” The security member from the stairs sounds a whole lot more complacent this time around. He halts us with a hand to my forearm, turning both myself and Vivian around to face him.

Because I’m eye level with his chest, I get a look at his shiny gold nametag, which reads Ty. I fight the urge to cringe away from his lingering touch.

Grinning, it looks like Vivian has temporarily forgotten how much I’m still freaking out beside her. But Ty isn’t looking at Vivian—he’s looking at me. There’s way too much attention focused on me, and for once I almost wish I’d pass out than have to deal with this. This entire club, Harry Styles, Vivian’s quest. All of it.

“Mr. Styles has requested your company upstairs,” he says formally, nodding to a spot over my shoulder to where I know Harry is looking down at the scene.

When Vivian lets go of my hand I know I’ve lost her. She turns around to look, as if unwilling to believe it. She giggles through her excitement, professional attitude thrown out the window.

“Holy shit, let’s go.” She starts to pull me back toward the stairs but I dig my heels into the floor. There’s no way in hell I’m going up there.

My saving grace in this moment—or at least I hope—Ty holds his hand up and looks at Vivian while shaking his head. “Only Miss Townsend.”

I swear my heart stops the moment I hear my name in conjunction with Mr. Styles’ request for your company. Then it stutters back to life and I feel as if I’m seconds away from keeling over. I can’t even take Vivian’s momentary bewilderment to try and calm down. Vivian ushers me toward Ty and then I’m the disbelieving one—is she really going to hand me off to some stranger at a nightclub?

She doesn’t even ask how they know my name. I neglected to tell her yet of my weird encounters with the entrepreneur upstairs.

“Find Harlan,” she whispers in my ear, heated, before Ty’s hand ghosts over the small of my back. I’m in this borderline catatonic daze while I allow him to lead me up over the stairs, with the other member of security in tow.

Trent Harlan’s new club must be some scoop. I won’t allow her to live this one down for weeks—in a slight moment of clarity I look back down to her, nearly tripping over the steps in my heels while I do so.

“You owe me an explanation!” She shouts gleefully.

Excuse me? I owe her? After tonight Vivian will owe me her firstborn child. When all this is over, I’ll be sure to talk with her about the value over friendship over business.

There isn’t a whole lot of time to further revaluate our friendship, though, because Ty pulls me across the floor of the expansive space called The Solar at a steady pace and I can feel Harry’s eyes on me. I try as best I can to find some semblance of composure, but I can’t even out my breathing, my pulse still races, and the mere thought of being within arm’s length of Harry again rattles my already fried nerves.

What the hell did Vivian get me into? I’m way, way in over my head.

“Here you are, boss, one lovely lady.” Ty’s colleague jests, and finally Ty’s hand leaves my back and they both retreat back to their original positions. I only have about half a second to breathe easy before I have to look at Harry. I want to set him with a glare for dragging me up here, but the fact remains I came here willingly.

For Vivian. Only for Vivian—that’s what I’ll tell myself.

It’s just the two of us, still by the railing looking out at all the dancing bodies on the first floor. There might be more about a hundred other people up here around us, but right now, it’s just us.

“Hello, Miss Townsend,” Harry says, as casual and put together as they day we met. Tonight he’s wearing a V-necked t-shirt that showcases a minimal amount of chest hair and swallows inked on either side of his sternum. Yet another surprise… back at the presentation, I would never have guessed him to be into tattoos.

“Styles,” I reply, quiet and clipped, and I doubt he even heard me. He steps closer to me and I tense on instinct when his hand presses to the small of my back much like Ty had, but Harry’s touch is much more intense—I feel the heat of his hand radiate through my dress. His touch is scorching.

I can’t even come up with some jumbled form of protest when he begins to lead us in the other direction, further to the front of the building and slowly away from the noise.

A glass of alcohol occupies his free hand, though it doesn’t look he’s even taken a sip from it. Up here, with rich drunk kids and socialites mingling around us, I all of the sudden feel so absolutely out of place and vulnerable. I don’t belong here. Harry’s standing way too close and I have no idea where he’s taking me or why he even invited me up her in the first place. After the meeting at the café two days ago I hadn’t received a single text message from him, so I thought he’d finally given up.

Damn, I was wrong, and I can’t allow myself the giddy excitement I somehow feel over the fact. No, no, no. This is so wrong for me.

He’s so close I can feel his breath on my hair, without a trace of alcohol in its scent. I become enamoured in it, in the feel of his arm around my back and the solid weight of his side pressed against mine. I blink rapidly, as if I’m drunk off his very presence, and finally knock some sense into myself before halting. Harry looks down at me in curious amusement, his angled features shadowed by the dim lighting. “What’s wrong?” He asks over the pounding of the music. The floor vibrates from its intense beat.

We’ve stopped just in front of a grand set of closed French doors. They look to be solid oak, very old, and totally Castle-like. I can see why people like this place so much.

“Why did you bring me up here?” Finally I find my voice, and it’s the only question I can think to ask, brain thoroughly scrambled.

“Are you following me?” He challenges. The way his jade eyes dance tells me he’s kidding, but I take the accusation serious. Out of the two of us, I’m definitely not the one with stalker potential.

We just ran into each other entirely too many times over the past few days. Coincidental, and perhaps a little eerie too.

“Me? Following you?” Harry laughs at my disbelief, a deep throaty chuckle close to my ear. While I might be caught up in how enticing his laugh is, I don’t think it’s funny. “I think you have it mixed up. If anything, it’s the other way around.”

“Well, Jules,” he says while producing a key from his fitted dark denim pants. “That would be a difficult assumption to make, since I own this club.”

Shock. That’s all I can process for several seconds, and then, thankfully, the feeling passes quickly enough. I can wonder why and how he became so successful at such a young age—he couldn’t have been any more than twenty five—later.

“I’m here with my friend on business, Mr. Styles,” I can’t remember when I reverted to calling him by his last name. “That’s all, I can promise you.”

At the talk of venue ownership and Vivian’s sought after scoop with Trent Harlan, I remember our own business relationship and reel back in my attitude. I have a job to do for him and that’s all—it’s also what I’m even here for, and what I need to focus on for Vivian or else coming up here will be all for nothing.

Well, maybe minus the fact that I’m spending time with Harry Styles. As much as he scares me and how much he simply affects me, I can’t say I hate his company. I just know it isn’t a good idea. I can’t allow myself to think of how close he’s standing to me or how just minimal contact with him sets my nerve endings on fire. That’s too scary and foreign for me to even begin analyzing.

“Why didn’t you invite her, too?” I ask, referring to Vivian. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about sniffing out Trent Harlan and coercing him into—into what? I remember, just now, how terrible I am when it comes to coercing men into anything.

Several men, all wearing similar expensive dress shirts rolled at the sleeves and fitted jeans similar to Harry’s, stare at me while they pass by in the narrow space available between us by the French doors and the railing looking out over the club. Harry stiffens as soon as he catches sight of them and his hand snakes around my waist even further until the large appendage settles with a firm grip at my hip.

“Calm down,” he says gruffly, probably sensing how still I’ve gone. “You’re considered fresh meat up here. They need to know you’re with me.”

When the strangers are no longer in our line of sight, Harry unlocks the French doors and pushes them open. I can still feel people staring at us, and Harry is as tense as I am though probably for a different reason entirely. I know he’s not as naïve and inexperienced as I am.

I hesitantly follow him inside the room, ready to be behind a closed, curtained door and away from prying eyes of the other VIP club goers.

Fresh meat? I only now process that. Once again… I’m way, way in over my head. Vivian would rule this situation, seduce Trent into the information she wants and probably Harry while she’s at it, too. Just for the hell of it.

Me, on the other hand? My freaking hands are shaking. They’re still cold, even though I stopped taking my medication days ago. I feel as though I’m still taking them, and while the thought of the danger that can arise out of going cold turkey is scary, I haven’t allowed myself to really think it through.

“What business could you conduct at my club?” he asks suddenly, and the question is so out of the blue and I can’t even think too long on the fact that he closed and locked the door. I know it’s only so no drunken idiots stumble in, but the fear of being trapped in the same room with Harry Styles is very real.

Flustered, I turn away and take in the room for a fleeting second. Its beautiful dark hardwood floors and burgundy walls set the mood of a Victorian bed chamber. All that’s missing is a four poster bed, though the antique sofas set on either side of the room are pretty fitting substitutes.

“We’re looking for someone. It’s not really your concern,” for once I don’t filter my thoughts, too busy looking at the set of doors on the other side of the room that lead out to—surprise—the balcony. If I wasn’t completely wrapped up in Harry Styles, I’d love to see the great view of Lake Michigan the balcony surely provides.

“You’re in my club,” he says, voice suddenly hard and unlike any tone he’s used with me thus far. Gone is the cheeky, forward Harry Styles I thought I knew, and this one is seriously frightening. I whip around to look at him, shocked for the umpteenth time that night, and I can’t help but to notice how his eyes darken when he takes a long step toward me. I take one back, losing my nerve yet again. “What goes on here is my business.”

“Relax,” I try to mollify him, hands risen and shaking in front of me in a placating surrender. “It’s nothing illegal.”

Maybe he sees how much he’s scared me, because he takes a deep breath and loses the tension in his shoulders. He doesn’t break eye contact, as if he doesn’t quite believe me. I don’t know exactly what goes on behind the scenes in clubs like this, but Harry can’t seriously believe I’d be involved in any of it, could he?

Caleb was. And before I found out I never would have guessed him to be, either.

“Alright,” he mutters, though I can tell he hasn’t let it go yet. I remain tense, sure to keep the few feet between us.

“Answer my questions and I’ll answer yours,” I offer daringly, and I want to pat myself for how confident I sound. For once.

“You’ve piqued my curiosity, Jules. You said you do nothing for fun, yet here you are,” he gestures around us with a wide swoop of his arms, and I fight the suddenly magnetic pull to draw closer when I get another breath of his individual, delicious smell.

“Business,” I stress, and I can’t help the overwhelming urge to pull my dress down further on my thighs. It fit me well just like Vivian said it would, but it’s much too revealing for my tastes. Harry watches the movement closely, gaze lingering on my legs for almost a second too long, and he only looks up to me when I cross my arms. I feel way too hot from his appraising eyes.

Something within his eyes and the air around us shifts, and the look he’s giving me becomes even more intense. My heart flutters uncontrollably, but I can’t even think too much on it. He steps forward and I can’t back up any further—my calves are already snug against a hefty coffee table made of solid, smooth wood. He’s so close my dress brushes against his torso with each shuddering breath I take, and I’ve never been so aware of someone’s scent like I am with Harry. Of the woods, spice, and him. And hell, it’s appealing.

I draw a short disbelieving breath and hold it, unbelieving of the situation I’ve put myself in. In a calculated movement, Harry reaches forward and touches my arm in the lightest of traces. When I flinch back, he looks at me in wonder. It’s a known fact that I’m terrible with guys… well, it is between me and Vivian, and maybe Alex. Harry must think I’m a total prude.

“What business are you here on, then? Another graphic design job?” He asks, deep and gravelly.

“No, no,” I utter breathlessly, my better judgement officially down the drain. It’s scary, how much of an affect Harry has on me from just one slight touch.

Isn’t that what I am—a prude? After all, one can only go so long being a virgin before it isn’t cute any more. Harry laughs quietly, his head bowed closer toward me, and it’s only now I realize how much taller he is than me.

“Then what?” His breath is hot and minty against my ear, and it’s sensory overload for me when his fingertips run down the length of my arm. He’s bold—he doesn’t pull away even when I flinch at the initial contact again. No, if anything, my reaction causes him to touch me more. He stops at my wrist and wraps his larger hand around my own.

“We’re—uh… we’re, looking for someone.” It’s a miracle I even manage to get that out while he bends closer and behind me to set his drink down on the table. His other hand, now free, migrates to the curve between my ribcage and hip.

He’s touching me, I’m letting him, and it feels way too good to put a stop to this.

“Who?” Is he seriously insisting on having a conversation right now? Fact is, however, his light even tone is probably the only thing that keeps me from running clean out of the building. Maybe he knows it, too.

“Trent Harlan,” the words just seem to fall from my mouth, as if my careful filter is fried by Harry’s searing touch.

I watch in this sort of shocked awe as his eyebrows pull together and his grip tightens ever so subtly at my waist. If I knew him better, I’d say it’s an almost possessive action.

What the heck is this guy about?

He seems to cool at the mentioning of Trent, and he releases my hand. It feels clammy and freezing at the sudden loss of contact, and I have to stop myself from reaching for his hand again. “What do you want with him?”

“Vivian—my friend. She wants to talk to him. About,” I halt when Harry’s hand on my waist ventures lower, like… almost to my ass lower, and his smirk is undeniable. He knows he has rendered me speechless, and he’s reveling in it. I can’t even stop him. “About his new club. Or something.”

God, in this state I’d consider myself lucky to even recall my last name. His fingertips resume their consuming, addictive trails up and down my forearm, and it’s my turn to look up at Harry in wonder. I don’t know why he’s doing this to me. If only he knew.

“It’s going to be crap,” It takes a moment too long for me to realize he’s talking about Trent’s club. Judging from The Castle, Harry has every right to make the assumption. I actually like this place—and I don’t like clubs, period. “I have his number, though, if you want it.”

“Yeah?” I say, dumbly, and I have to place one of my hands on his bicep just to steady myself. Thankfully, Harry doesn’t seem to mind the extra contact. I feel more lightheaded now than I do when I’m about ready to pass out. And it’s all because of Harry.

“Yeah.”

“That’d be good,” I force. My mind is so far away from Vivian’s scoop and Trent Harlan’s phone number. None of it matters, not in comparison to this. To Harry. “You didn’t tell me why you didn’t invite her up, too.”

He pauses in his movements, dragging his eyes away from his hand on my arm, to meet my gaze steadily. My knees feel weak just at the intensity in his look, and I tighten my hold on his arm.

“I only want to see you,” he says, and it sounds like he means much more than his statement implies.

“Harry,” his name from my lips is strangled and telling of my strong reaction to his actions. And his words, good lord… his words. He only wants to see me. I swear, I’m about to tell him to stop. The word is on the tip of my tongue, but as soon as he hears his name he responds by pressing himself closer to me.

This is going too far.

“Jules,” he responds, and I hear the restraint clear in his own strangled tone; it’s low, husky, and entirely too sexy. I find myself unable to look away when he leans down even closer, his face—and more importantly, his lips—mere inches from mine.

From my dress’s tiny hip pocket, my phone begins to ring. It breaks whatever weird, totally foreign trance Harry’s put us both in, and I scramble to pull the device from my pocket. Harry steps back to put some space between us, a frown set in his pink lips. Obviously, he doesn’t care for the interruption.

When I see the nursing home’s number on the caller I.D., the mood drops until the heat I previously felt with Harry fizzles out all the way. I sidestep from the coffee table until I’m several feet away from him, eyes blank and watering already. I’m almost crying so soon because I’m Grandma’s first emergency contact. So if something happens to her, I’m the first to hear about it. Why else would they call so late? She was in bed hours and hours ago. There’s no other reason for them to call.

“Julia?” Harry questions carefully, and I hold my hand up while I finally find the nerve to answer.

“Julia, I just want to tell you first that this is a mandatory phone call. Your grandma’s going to be okay,” Bridgette doesn’t even allow me to say hello. She’s seen how nervous I am about Grandma’s health, so she knows I’d freak out about her calling so late. Once again, I’m thankful to have her care for Grandma.

“Okay,” I say shakily, just to let her know I’m listening. I’m crying too, and even though I can still feel Harry closer behind me, I can hardly think of his presence.

“Elsie woke up from another one of her night terrors tonight,” Bridgette starts, turning professional. I listen, numb. “She had to be subdued, and I’m calling to get your permission to start her on another sleeping aid. A stronger one.”

As if she’s not already out of this world enough.

Still, I go on to agree with Bridgette and allow her to give Grandma’s doctor the go-ahead on the new medication. Then Bridgette levels with me, softly, and tells me that Grandma’s heart had rocketed so high after she woke up from the nightmare she’d been on the verge of having a heart attack. I close my eyes when I hear this, and suddenly the weight of the world is back on my shoulders.

Harry’s soft touches and intense, wondering eyes are all but forgotten to me now, even when he sits on the coffee table across from me and waits for me to end the call.

The nurse tells me not to worry, but I know it’s serious. Grandma almost died tonight. When I ask if they need me to come down for anything, Harry shuffles closer and I feel his hand at the small of my back. He keeps it there, unmoving, totally innocent and comforting. Bridgette assures me that I don’t have to, and finally, that ends the torturous phone call.

My phone a dead weight in my hand, I drop my arm limply. Harry stands, hand still on my back. “Is everything alright?” He asks, no doubt having caught sight of the tears leaked from the corners of my eyes and down my cheeks.

“Yeah. Yeah,” I say, coming out of my daze somewhat, and it’s only now I realize my heart is beating much too fast. While on the phone I never even felt the flutter, but it’s there, and it’s the strongest it’s been all week. In a hasty movement I turn for the door, and Harry mirrors my action through staying right behind me. “I just—I need to go.”

“Julia, slow down,” he calls, but I’m already turning the lock on the door. I can’t look at him, especially not as I swing the door open and bolt. He stays in the threshold and I can feel his eyes on me as I all but stumble through the crowd and trip down the stairs, eager to leave all of this behind. Tonight—every moment of it. I can’t believe I let myself slip.

Just when I allowed myself to let go, to indulge in Harry’s addictive touch, I was reminded none too gently of how different I am and why I don’t belong here, in this club. With him period. I could never be his equal, not with my broken heart. I can’t ever let myself slip with him again.

Notes

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