CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It’s a strange thing witnessing someone you know as an adult returning to their childhood home, especially when it’s someone you see in a professional capacity. You get glimpses of what they were like growing up through small moments, like how Ryan had barely stepped through the door before he was down on his knees ruffling the hair of an Irish setter, which had come lolloping down the hall to greet him and was spinning round in circles, then resting its paws on Ryan’s shoulders to lick his ears.
Through raucous laughter, Ryan glances up at me with a boyish grin across his face. “This is Sullivan. But his friends call him Sully.”
I’ve never seen Ryan more comfortable and happy than in that moment with his dog.
“Oh, Ryan, you’re going to get his hairs all over your trousers,” his mum, Emily, says, smiling fondly at her son as she emerges into the hall. “Just step around him, Harper, and come on in. He’ll be down there getting Sully overexcited for a while.”
Slender and petite, Emily has strikingly sharp cheekbones and delicate features with gray-blue eyes and honey-blond highlighted hair. She is dressed in a dusty-blue shirt tucked into beige linen trousers and has a calm aura about her, with a small, secretive smile as though she knows something you don’t—similar to the one I’ve caught Ryan sporting from time to time. On her, though, it’s not annoying.
When Ryan finally gets to his feet, she wraps her arms around his shoulders as he bends down to her level and then pulls back to admire him, patting his cheek lightly with her hand and telling him she’s missed him. He looks mildly embarrassed at her attention, but softens, too, and I can see from their embrace that they have a close bond.
I feel a pang of regret that I don’t ever get such a welcome from my family.
“Ryan! You’re home!” comes a booming voice from the end of the hall. Ryan’s dad appears with oven gloves and an apron on. He comes striding toward us, a wide smile across his face.
“And you must be Harper,” he says with a slight Swedish accent. He shakes off the oven gloves to hold his hand out to me. “Welcome! I’m Fredrik. Pleasure to have you, make yourself at home. Ryan, don’t leave your bag on the ground there for everyone to trip over, yes?”
Ryan says, “Give me a moment to breathe, Dad, before you start telling me off for nonexistent mess,” and then they give each other one of those man-hugs that involves just one arm wrapped round the other person and some rough pats on the back.
Fredrik must be where Ryan gets his height from—he’s imposingly tall and broad with light brown hair, speckled with gray, and sparkling blue eyes that could rival his son’s. He chuckles as he instructs Ryan to take our bags upstairs where they’re “out of the way.”
“And there you were thinking I was a neat freak,” Ryan mumbles to me. “You’ll soon see I didn’t have a choice living in this house. I’ll be back down in a minute.”
Sully dances around his legs and then looks distraught when Ryan heads up the stairs, somewhere he must not be allowed. I crouch down to pat his head and he spins around excitedly, then licks my hands as I give him a good scratch behind the ears.
“You’re a dog person, then,” Emily observes as Fredrik heads back into the kitchen.
“I love them, but we weren’t allowed one growing up,” I tell her, smiling at how soft Sully’s head is. “My parents aren’t big on animals.”
“Sully rules the house here,” she admits, laughing at his dopey expression as his tongue lolls out the side of his mouth when I get back to scratching his ears.
“Have you always had setters?”
“Yes, we got the first one a couple of years after we were married. And then, of course, we had Cracker—the love of Ryan’s life when he was a teenager. They were inseparable.”
“I remember him telling me about Cracker,” I say absentmindedly.
Emily nods as though she wouldn’t expect anything less. “She supported Ryan through … well … everything.”
A lump forms in my throat. I know she’s talking about Adam, Ryan’s older brother.
“Dogs are amazing,” Emily continues as I hold Sully a little bit closer. “They can get us through anything. And they’re goofballs, which helps when you need a laugh.”
On cue, Sully gives me a big slobbery lick across the cheek, taking me by surprise and causing me to topple over backward as Ryan appears at the top of the stairs. He breaks into a grin as Sully stands over me, attacking me with licks.
“Come on through and let’s get you a drink,” Emily offers, pulling Sully back and holding out her hand to help me up. “It sounds like you’ve had quite a day.”
“A very unsuccessful one,” I confess.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Ryan contends, coming down the steps. “We did get to sit in one of those cool movie director chairs.”
“What is your obsession with those chairs?” I ask, following Emily into the kitchen, Ryan bringing up the rear. “Surely, watching Max Sjöberg in action beats sitting in a chair.”
“Did you at least get to speak to the great man at all?” Fredrik asks, having removed his oven gloves to put the finishing touches on a huge bowl of salad.
“Sadly no, but we’ll get the interview tomorrow,” Ryan says confidently.
Emily grimaces. “I hope they don’t let you down. It would be awful for you to have come all this way and not get any time with him.”
“Don’t worry, Mum, Harper would never let that happen,” he assures her. “I don’t want to know her methods, but it’s a well-known fact in the industry that Harper Jenkins gets whatever interview she wants.”
“A slight exaggeration,” I say, flushing and looking down at my feet.
“Ryan never exaggerates,” Fredrik insists. “If anything, he’s much too keen to play things down, always leaning toward the cynical. He gets that from his mother’s side—the Brits.”
“Would you like wine, Harper?” Emily asks, rolling her eyes at her husband. “White or red?”
“Whatever’s open.” I smile politely.
“She prefers white,” Ryan jumps in, opening the fridge and finding a bottle.
Emily shoots him a small smile, and I wonder how much his parents know about me.
“Thank you so much for having me this evening,” I say. “It’s so kind of you when it’s so last minute. I told Ryan I could easily find a hotel…”
“Nonsense,” Fredrik insists with a wave of his hand, Emily nodding in agreement as she passes me a glass. “It’s a pleasure to have you. Take a seat, anywhere you fancy.”
I move to the table at the far end of the kitchen, next to the open French windows that look out onto a beautifully kept garden, which has a footpath winding down the middle, surrounded by various colorful flowers. At the bottom of the garden, next to a small wooden shed, is a blossoming cherry tree.
“Wow, your garden is stunning,” I observe, setting my glass down at one of the places nearest to the windows. “Are you both gardeners?”
“That would be me,” Emily says, ordering Sully to sit in his bed in the corner, before gesturing for me to sit down as she pulls out the chair on the opposite side of the table. “Fredrik is better in the kitchen. He doesn’t have the patience for plants. Do you have a garden in London?”
I shake my head. “No, but I did have some herb plants on my windowsill. They didn’t last very long. I wouldn’t say I’m a natural. I kept forgetting about them, to be honest.”
“Ryan’s very green-fingered,” Emily tells me.
“Mum always says this, despite the fact that the last time I helped out in the garden was when I was fifteen,” Ryan sighs, carrying the salad over to the table and then coming to sit next to me. “I think she hopes that if she tells me I’m a good gardener, I might find some interest in it. So far her tactic hasn’t worked, but she admirably persists.”
“I’m telling you, he had a knack for it,” she says, prompting Ryan to give me an I-told-you-so look and making me laugh. “We used to plant things together, turning the soil and weeding while he practiced his speeches for debate club.”
“You were in debate club?” I ask, impressed.
“He was captain of debate club,” Fredrik informs me, bringing over a steaming chicken dish, fresh from the oven, that he sets down on a mat in the middle of the table.
“Great, thanks, Mum and Dad,” Ryan mumbles. “We’ve been here all of half an hour and you’re already spilling childhood secrets to Harper. Since it’s now common knowledge, I just want to be clear that being captain of the debate club at school was considered very cool by all my peers.”
“Oh, I can imagine,” I say with a teasing smile. “You know, it makes complete sense to me that you would be captain of the debate club.” I turn to address his parents, now that Fredrik has taken his seat at the table, too. “Ryan is very good at arguing his point when it comes to a heated discussion in the office.”
“That’s code for ‘Ryan is a pain in the arse,’” Ryan translates.
“Not what I meant.”
“Ah, but he is a pain, because he’s stubborn,” Fredrik says, gesturing for my plate so he can serve. “Always has to have the last word in a fight. It’s maddening.”
I turn to look at Ryan accusingly. “Hey! You always say that about me!”
He shrugs. “Takes one to know one.”
“You could never win with Ryan, but he used that power wisely,” Fredrik says, passing my plate back once he’s loaded it up. “You know, he founded his school newspaper? When he proposed it, the head teacher refused. He was worried it would encourage anarchy, I think. Well, as you can imagine, Ryan wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”
“Dad,” Ryan groans, “Harper isn’t interested in hearing about—”
“Um, Harper is very interested, thank you very much,” I interrupt. “Please carry on.”
“He rallied support from the other students, proposed a debate for and against a school paper to take place in an assembly and be judged by a panel made up of teachers and students—clever, right? The vote was unanimous. Ryan got his way and became the very first editor. It’s still running at the school today, and it’s great experience for the students who want to go on to study journalism at university.”
“Wow!” I say, genuinely impressed. “That’s really cool, Ryan. You never told me that.”
“Debate club, gardening, school newspapers—why bother filling you in on such sexy achievements when I can just bring you back to my parents and let them do the honors?” he mutters, taking a drink in between mouthfuls.
“To be fair, you do quite a good job of that yourself. Let’s not forget you telling me that story about your famous cricket ball catch in the lake.”
Fredrik lets out a gruff laugh. “Still boasting about that one, eh, Ryan?”
“It came up naturally in conversation!” Ryan justifies.
I grin. “He did mention it’s still up on your mantelpiece.”
“At his insistence,” Fredrik says. “I’m sure he’ll point it out to you later.”
“It really was the pinnacle of my career,” Ryan sighs, sitting back in his chair. “Harper got the scoop on Audrey Abbot after sixteen years; I caught a cricket ball mid-fall backward into a lake. You tell me which is more impressive?”
“Speaking of, I loved that interview,” Emily tells me, her eyes widening with interest. “What was she like in person? You must get to speak to the most amazing people as celebrity editor.”
“Audrey was as incredible as you’d expect,” I confirm, much to her delight. “She was guarded at first—no surprises there—but once she got talking, she really was fascinating.”
“Did she approach you for the interview?”
“Not exactly. I had to bring her round to the idea, but it wasn’t as painful as I was expecting.”
“Have you always been interested in the arts?” Fredrik asks, swallowing his mouthful.
“Yeah, I always leaned more toward the arts at school. I loved reading and film, too.”
“And did you always want to be a journalist?” Emily asks.
“Okay, Mum and Dad, chill out on the questions,” Ryan says, blushing.
“What?” Fredrik says innocently.
“You’re interrogating her!”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, laughing. “It’s actually really nice that anyone is interested.”
His parents look a bit confused by my comment, which I let slip without thinking. I try to gloss it over. “My parents aren’t fans of my chosen career path, so I’m not used to being asked about it.”
I take a mouthful, and as I’m chewing I notice a flicker of sympathy cross Emily’s face, so I quickly swallow in order to change the subject.
“So, did Ryan tell you about the rounders match we played at my friend’s birthday party? The one where I beat him but he was such a sore loser, he wouldn’t admit to it?”
Fredrik throws back his head to laugh, while Emily smiles into her glass.
“This sounds all too familiar,” Fredrik tells me. “We rarely play board games because someone doesn’t take kindly to losing.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Ryan holds up his hands. “Firstly, we don’t play board games because Mum always cheats”—Emily gives him a mock-indignant look—“and secondly, Harper, I think you’ll find that I got you out fair and square, and if anyone had been watching closely, there would have been no contest over the result.”
I gesture to him. “You see what I have to put up with in the office?”
“I don’t know how you do it, Harper,” Emily says.
“You’re a saint.” Fredrik nods.
“This is outrageous,” Ryan says, as I can’t help but giggle. “My team won that rounders match, no question about it.”
“If you tell enough people that, Ronan, maybe your local newspaper will run a story on it,” I muse, swirling the wine around my glass.
Ryan sighs, burying his head in his hands.
“I like her,” Fredrik laughs, pointing his glass at me. “You can come again.”
After dinner, Ryan and I insist on clearing the table and washing up, allowing Fredrik and Emily to head into the sitting room. I laugh as we battle with Sully trying desperately to get to the plates as we load them in the dishwasher, and then Ryan takes charge of washing any pots that won’t fit in, while I head up drying duty.
“Sorry about them pelting questions at you,” he says quietly when we hear music on in the other room. “I hope it didn’t make you uncomfortable.”
“Not at all. They’re great.”
He smiles, passing me a soapy casserole dish. “Yeah, they’re all right.”
“I feel like I learned a lot about you tonight. The gardening talent came as the biggest surprise.” He laughs, and I glance out the windows at the garden now bathed in a dusk blue as the sun sets. “That blossom tree is so beautiful.”
“We planted that for Adam,” he says.
I turn to look at him. “I’m so sorry, Ryan.”
“There’s some photos of him in the sitting room, I’ll show you.”
“Was he similar to you? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“No, it’s nice to talk about him. We were both competitive, but we had very different personalities. He was much sportier than I was, and things came so easy to him. He beat me at everything but books.”
“Books?” I ask, putting down the casserole dish.
“Yeah, he wasn’t big on reading. Too easily distracted. He preferred being outside, always had to be doing something. That’s why when he got sick … well, it was just particularly hard seeing him in bed all the time, you know?”
I nod.
“I used to bring him books when he was going through his treatment; I picked ones about sports usually. Sometimes I’d read to him and do all the voices to make him laugh,” he says, smiling at the memory. “Even when he was sick, he still managed to remind me that I was a dork.”
“He wouldn’t have been surprised, then, that you became a dorky journalist.”
He laughs. “Not at all.”
We share a smile and he passes me the final pot. My fingers brush over his as he hands it to me. Sully gives a loud bark, making us both jump.
When we’re finished in the kitchen, we join Emily and Fredrik, who lets me ask him a bunch of questions about his life in Sweden before he moved to England, where he met Emily.
He roars with laughter when I tell him that Ryan pulled the “but I’m Swedish” card to get in on the interview with Max Sjöberg, happily informing me about the time Ryan’s cousins, who live in Stockholm, taught Ryan a bunch of very rude Swedish words when he was little. Apparently, Ryan repeated them in front of everyone over dinner, not knowing what he was saying, taking his paternal grandmother by such surprise that the wine she was drinking went right up her nose, prompting her to repeat the very rude words herself.
It gets late and we head upstairs to bed after Fredrik and Emily give me a very warm hug good night. Ryan shows me to the spare room, which is at the end of the landing, right next to his and opposite the bathroom.
“There’s a towel there for the morning, and if you need anything else, just say,” he tells me, putting his hands in his pockets.
“I think I’ve got it all, thanks to our handy trip to Boots.”
“Good. Oh, I got one of my old T-shirts out for you,” he says, nodding to the gray one folded on my pillow. “I know earlier you said there was no point in buying pajamas for one night, but I figured you might want something to sleep in.”
“Thanks, Ryan, that’s so … thoughtful,” I say, beaming at him. “And thanks again for letting me stay the night.”
“And to think you could have had a lovely evening all to yourself without hearing about tales of my youth. Bet you’re glad you took me up on the offer.”
“I am, actually.”
His expression changes then, his amused smile dropping away into something more serious as our eyes meet. I feel my heart beating faster as silence engulfs the room and we stand in front of one another, trying to work out what’s going on.
I suddenly remember something.
“Mae wanted me to put in a good word about her,” I blurt out.
He looks confused. “What?”
“Mae, the publicist today? I think she likes you and she’s really great, so if you’re interested, you should ask for her number tomorrow or whatever, because I think she’d say yes to going on a date,” I babble away hurriedly.
He nods slowly. I drop my eyes to the floor.
“Okay, thanks,” he says eventually. “Well … good night.”
“Good night.”
Turning to go, he hovers for a moment in the doorway, turning his head to the side slightly, as though he’s going to say something, but then thinks better of it.
He shuts the bedroom door firmly behind him.
AUGUST 2012
Several glasses of wine down on an empty stomach, I suggest that we go back to Ryan’s for our next drink.
It’s bold and presumptuous, but I’m worried he’ll be too shy to make the move, and I’ve got my mind made up that this is happening. A huge weight has been lifted now that the interview is over and I reckon I deserve a night of fun. We both do. His jaw tenses at my suggestion, and then he nods, croaking that it sounds like a good idea. His nervousness makes me happy, as though it’s confirmation he likes me, too.
He had picked a pub that was nearer my parents’ than his flat because he was being polite, so we have to take a taxi to his place. We sit in the backseat in silence—both of us just giving ourselves a moment to take in what’s happening—until I feel his hand brush against mine. I don’t move my hand away, instead threading my fingers through his, and suddenly I’m holding hands with Ryan in the back of a taxi and it’s so cringe, but because we’re drunk, it’s okay I guess?
He lives in a big apartment block of flats, and we have to suffer the excruciating bright lights of the shared corridors before getting to his front door, where he fumbles with the key in the lock. He pushes the door open and gestures for me to step in first. It’s a small flat but nice, with a spacious lounge and the kitchen area tucked away at the back. It’s very obvious that two men live here, as there’s not much in way of decoration, but the black IKEA bookcase next to the TV stand has Ryan written all over it—the books are arranged in alphabetical order by author surname.
He offers me a drink, and I ask for a white wine. While he pours a glass, I perch on his sofa, tapping my knees with my hands. He puts on some music and then comes over with the drinks, handing me mine before sitting down next to me. Our knees are angled toward each other, almost touching. Being this close is exhilarating. Which is strange, because I sit next to him every day in the office.
But something has changed now. I fight the ache of wanting to be closer.
“I’m surprised at your choice of music,” I admit. “This is actually quite a good song.”
He shakes his head in amusement. “I’ll try not to be insulted. What kind of music did you think I was into?”
“I don’t know. I always pictured you reading serious books and listening to something grown-up, like old jazz, while drinking a Scotch. Maybe smoking a pipe.”
He bursts out laughing, that lovely free laugh of his when he forgets to restrain it.
“Basically, what you’re saying is, you think of me as someone who hangs out in gentlemen’s clubs in the 1950s.”
“More like a cool spy, like the ones in those books you like.”
He gives me a look. “Are you just trying to make me feel better?”
“I bet my estimation of you is better than how you think of me.”
“Really?” He raises his eyebrows.
“You think I’m an airhead who is obsessed with celebrities.”
“Wrong,” he states simply.
“Fine. You think I’m a smart person who is obsessed with celebrities.”
He smiles into his glass.
“Well, I don’t care what you think, Ryan Jansson,” I continue brazenly. “If you ask me, you need a little more celebrity culture in your life. It’s worrying how little you know about anyone in the public eye. I’m proud of my cultural knowledge. Ask me any film and I’ll be able to tell you which actor starred in it.”
“I don’t feel the need to test you, Harper, I know that you’re—”
“Aaaaaany film! Come on! Any one! The first one you think of!” I insist.
“Okay, okay! Uh … um … I can’t think of any. My mind has gone blank!”
“You can’t think of one film?”
“It’s too much pressure!”
“The first one that pops into your head! Just say it!”
“Shakespeare in Love!” he blurts out.
I stare at him. He looks upset with himself.
“Did you say … Shakespeare in Love?” I check, and press my lips together so as not to laugh in his face.
“You put me under too much pressure and it was the first film that came to mind.”
“Uh-huh.”
“My mind went blank.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of, Ryan. I’m a big fan myself.”
“I didn’t say I was a big fan of it. It was the only film I could think of.”
“Excellent performances by Joseph and Gwyneth.”
“You’re judging me.”
“I swear I’m not.”
“I can tell when you’re lying.”
“No, you can’t.”
“I can,” he insists, before letting out a sigh. “Anyway, your point is proven: you have excellent cultural knowledge.”
“And you have proven you have a … fascinating taste in film.”
“Here we go.” He shakes his head, before offering me a small smile. “Just so you know, I don’t think of you how you think I think of you.”
I frown at him. “I’ve had too many drinks to decipher that sentence. Start again.”
“You’re wrong about how I think of you.”
“Yeah? Then tell me, Ryan, how do you think of me?” I ask innocently, taking a sip of my wine.
He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me.
I freeze, completely under the spell of his unflinching gaze.
He puts his drink down on the coffee table and then reaches over to take my glass before setting that down next to his. It’s such a simple but sexy move, him taking control of the situation. Up until now—the suggestion to go back to his, the fingers entwining in the taxi—I’ve been leading the charge. But now, the way he’s looking at me, it’s different than before. There’s a want there.
I smile so he knows. I want you, too.
He leans forward and I close my eyes as he presses his lips against mine, kissing him back hungrily. We fall back onto the cushions and I wrap my arms around his neck as his hands drift down my sides to my waist. My heart is pounding as I move my hands to the front of his chest, fumbling at his shirt buttons, desperate to feel his bare skin underneath.
He stops my hands with his, lifting his face to hover over mine and smiling, before rolling off the sofa onto his feet, straightening and holding his hand out to me. A little confused at the pause in proceedings, I take his hand and he pulls me up to stand with him, steadying me as I stumble, before leading me through a door off the lounge and into a bedroom.
I want to look around his room properly, but I want him more.
As soon as Ryan turns to face me again, I step toward him, tugging at his shirt as his hand brushes my hair out of my face. He kisses me again, crushing our lips together, and I’m so turned on I can barely breathe. His hands lower to my waist and then slide to the top of my back where he finds the zip of my dress, pulling it down so I can slip out of it as it crumples onto the floor. I frantically attempt to undo the buttons of his shirt, but they seem impossible, my fingers are shaking from exhilaration. I feel Ryan smile against my lips as his fingers take over from mine, whipping his shirt off in a matter of seconds.
As we hastily remove the rest of our clothes, we move unsteadily toward the bed, and when the back of my knees hit the mattress, I fall back onto the navy duvet, pulling Ryan down on top of me. As he presses his body against mine, I lift my hips up into his, and he pauses. For a moment I feel frozen with fear that he’s realized this is a mistake.
Instead, he whispers against my lips, “I’ve wanted this since the moment I saw you,” and kisses me so deeply, I shudder in frenzied anticipation.
We spend the weekend in a bubble of blissful happiness. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I devote myself to the role of heroine in a rom-com, walking around his flat in just my knickers and his shirt, nuzzling into his neck while he strokes my hair and kisses my forehead, spontaneously having sex at three o’clock in the afternoon without a care in the world for anything else but each other.
It’s surreal, a fleeting fantasy that I know has to end come Monday morning when we’re obligated to go to work, but for now it’s perfect. When I first woke up on Saturday morning, naked and slightly hungover, I got the classic wave of anxiety and fear, terrified that it might be awkward, but as soon as Ryan stirred and kissed all the way along my shoulder, I relaxed.
It was he who suggested we stay together for the weekend, and when I mentioned that I had no spare clothes, he said no problem, we could go back to my parents’ in a taxi and he’d wait in the car while I ran up and packed a bag.
“Unless that sounds much too intense, which I totally understand if it does,” he had said hurriedly, trying to read my expression.
It was intense. To sleep with a colleague after a boozy night was one thing, but to then pop back home to pack a weekend bag sounded utterly absurd and the actions of a love-drunk, horny teenager. But to be honest, that’s how I felt. Ryan had somehow opened this Pandora’s Box of suppressed feelings—I’d spent two months fighting with this guy and going out of my way to annoy him, and now, I couldn’t get enough of him.
So I went with it: he waited downstairs while I packed a bag and told Mum I was spending the weekend at a friend’s, not that she seemed to care. She hadn’t even noticed I’d been gone all night, assuming I’d gotten back late after they went to bed. When I shut the front door of the house and hopped into the backseat of the taxi, his eyes lit up and he leaned over and kissed me, as though he’d been wondering whether I really was going to return.
It’s a magical weekend; too perfect to be true. I lie next to him under the duvet, studying his face, his long eyelashes, his faint stubble, the way his throat moves as he answers all the questions I ask about him, wondering how I’ve spent two months next to this man and not really appreciated how mesmerizing he is.
“By the way, what did you mean last night when you said you’d wanted this since you saw me?” I press when we get onto the topic of the office, laughing at our spats.
“I meant exactly that,” he replies, turning on his side to face me.
“But how? I mean, it’s hard to believe. I got my hairbrush stuck in my hair in the first five minutes of meeting you.”
He chuckles, reaching over to run his thumb along my cheekbone. “I promise you, it’s true.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because it was obvious you didn’t like me.”
“I didn’t not like you!”
He looks at me skeptically.
“Okay, maybe I thought I didn’t like you, but only because you were so rude to me at first. I thought I was just making the feeling mutual.”
“How was I rude?” he asks, confused.
“You looked so disappointed that I was interning with you, and then you said something about us maybe being in different departments. I knew straightaway you thought I didn’t deserve to be there.”
His brow furrows. “Okay, I can see how that could be misleading, but I promise that’s not what I was thinking. I was worried that I’d be working with someone so distractingly pretty,” he explains.
“Yeah right!”
“I swear!”
“Ryan, there is no way that you were thinking that.”
“Harper, look where we are now,” he says, moving his face closer to mine so our noses are almost touching. “Like I said, I’ve wanted this from that first moment. Which wasn’t ideal when I knew I had to focus and do really well at this internship if I was going to get a job at the end of it. Trust me, trying to keep my distance from you has been torture.”
I want to believe him because it’s so lovely.
“Well, you managed it up until now,” I say with a smile, exhaling and turning onto my back to stare up at the ceiling. “And I guess we’ll find out soon enough if that focus landed you the job. It’s going to be weird, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Going back to the office after this weekend. Finding out whether one of us got the job; the other one having to pack up and leave when the internship ends on Wednesday.”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice low and sad.
“My parents are going to be so smug if I don’t get the job. I’m not sure I’ll be able to face them. They’ll be unbearable.”
“What are your parents like?” he asks curiously.
I hesitate. I was ready to change the topic, like I always do, but something stops me and for the first time in forever, I feel like telling the truth. Maybe it’s because he’s already been so vulnerable: he told me about his brother and that he wanted me from the moment we met.
Maybe it was his excited expression when I got back in the taxi at my parents’ house.
Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me now.
Whatever it is, it makes me trust him. So, I tell him everything. He patiently listens, his brow furrowed, first in concentration, and then sadness and sympathy. When I conclude, telling him that I want this job so that I can show them that they’re wrong, he doesn’t do that annoying thing that people have done before and say he’s sure my parents are secretly proud of me deep down or anything like that.
Instead, he props his head up on his elbow.
“Screw your parents,” he says. “Want this job for yourself. Not for them. They don’t deserve any credit for what you achieve.”
In that moment, I’m glad I told him the truth.
And I don’t tell Ryan this, but I feel a wave of excitement for what might happen between us; what the future might hold. Because I know that this man is special and I’m not sure I’ll ever want to give him up.