Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
"Wow," she says, though she doesn't pull her hand away. Her fingers curl around mine, a small, tentative squeeze that feels more significant than any victory I've ever had on the ice. “You’ve turned into a smooth talker.”
Dinner is a blur of rich flavors and intense conversation. We talk about her work in the ER, the way she finds peace in the quiet moments of her small apartment, and her love of mystery books. I tell her about the realities of my life. The endless traveling, the late nights sleeping alone in different hotels, and the way the silence of my penthouse feels like a physical weight when I come home after a game.
"It's a big space for one person," I say, describing the glass-and-steel cathedral I call home. "Everything is white and gray and perfectly placed. It looks like a magazine spread, and it feels like a museum. I built it to be a sanctuary, but I think I just ended up building a really expensive vault."
"Maybe you just haven't found the right things to put in it," she suggests quietly. The fire has burned down to glowing embers, and the staff is beginning to clear the other tables. We are the last ones on the deck, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and shadow.
"Maybe," I agree. I stand up and walk around the table, offering her my hand. When she takes it, I pull her close, my arm sliding naturally around her waist. She fits against me perfectly, her head reaching just past my shoulder. We walk back toward the helicopter pad, the sound of the water lapping against the pilings the only music in the night.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JAXSON
The flight back is different. The adrenaline of the takeoff has been replaced by a heavy, magnetic pull between us. We don't talk much through the headsets this time around. I keep my arm around her, and she leans her head against my shoulder, her eyes closed as we drift over the dark expanse of the water. I can feel the warmth of her body through my coat, a steady heat that makes the cold reality of our situation seem far away.
As the city lights reappear, Miller checks in. "Heading back to the airfield, Mr. Thorne?"
I look down at Harper. She’s looking at me, her gray eyes dark with a sudden, sharp intensity. There’s a challenge there, and a surrender. We’re at the edge of something, the moment where the goal has to become something real.
"Actually," Harper says, her voice clear over the comms, "why don't we see that vault of yours, Jaxson?"
My heart does a slow, heavy roll in my chest. I look at the pilot. "Change of plans, Miller. We’re going to the penthouse."
The helicopter performs a slow, sweeping U-turn over the downtown core, banking away from the airfield and toward the cluster of high-rises that line the waterfront. I watch the skyline view shift, the familiar geometry of the city rearranging itself as we head toward my home. I’ve never wanted anything in my life as much as I want Harper Coleman right this second.
We land on the roof of my building, the wind from the rotors whipping Harper’s hair across her face. I lead her toward the elevator, the silence of the rooftop absolute once the engines cut. I scan my watch on the keypad, and the doors slide open. “Cool trick.” Harper laughs.
“Wait until you see the rest of my tricks.” The elevator ride is a descent into a different kind of tension. We stand inches apart, the air in the small car practically humming with the things we aren't saying.
I can see the reflection of us in the polished steel doors. I look like a man who has finally found what he was looking for, and she looks like a woman who is about to jump into the deep end without a float.
When the doors slide open directly into the private foyer outside my door, I use my watch to open this door, too, and the lights hum to life, illuminating the stark, minimalist beauty of the space. It’s exactly as I described it—cold, perfect, and empty. But as Harper steps across the threshold, the museum-like quality of the room begins to fade. She brings color into the gray, a vibrant, living presence that makes the expensive furniture look like what it is, just things.
I close the door behind us, the lock clicking into place with a finality that echoes through the room. I don't turn on any more lights. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer enough illumination, the city below casting a blue-and-amber glow over the hardwood floors. Harper walks to the window, looking out at the expanse of the Sound, her silhouette framed by the lights of the harbor.
"You weren't kidding," she says softly. "It is a vault."