*Harper*My third cup of coffee sits half-finished on the table, paint still clinging to the edges of my nails from a morning spent lost in my latest piece. McKenzy’s out running errands, the apartment is quiet, and I’m riding the kind of creative high that only comes when everything just clicks.I’m about to dip my brush into a streak of deep teal when my phone buzzes. I grab it without thinking, expecting McKenzy or Scott or maybe one of the guys.It’s the gallery in Chicago.My stomach flips.“Hello?” I answer, trying not to sound like someone who just inhaled a cinnamon roll while juggling a paintbrush between her teeth.“Harper! It’s Stephanie at the Whitney.” Her voice is bright, almost bubbly. That’s already a good sign.“Hi!” I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder, scrambling for a notepad in case I need to write anything down.“I hope I’m not interrupting, but I wanted to call personally,” Stephanie says. “We’ve had some really wonderful interest in your work after that
*Harper*McKenzy’s perched on top of a step stool, paintbrush clenched between her teeth, holding two wildly different knobs up to a half-finished dresser. One is sleek brass, the other shaped like a ceramic lemon.“I’m thinking weird fruit motif,” she says around the brush. “Or is that too quirky farm wife?”“Knowing you,” I say, smearing cobalt blue across my latest canvas, “it’s exactly the right amount of quirky farm wife.”She grins and tosses the lemon knob into her tool bag. “Perfect. If Scott hates it, I’ll tell him to take it up with my creative genius.”The studio feels especially bright today, sunlight spilling through the windows, illuminating the organized chaos we’ve turned it into. My corner smells like oil paint and turpentine. McKenzy’s side smells like sawdust and wood stain.McKenzy spins on her stool, eyeing my painting. “That’s new.”“Just started it last night,” I say. “It’s about Melody. Sort of.”She leans closer, frowning slightly. “It’s angry.”“It’s complica
*Harper*I’m practically vibrating with excitement when I burst into the apartment, nearly knocking poor McKenzy off the couch. She’s got paint in her hair, a bowl of popcorn balanced on her lap, and her laptop open to some DIY tutorial. The moment she sees my face, her eyes go wide.“Okay, what’s got you bouncing off the walls like a caffeinated squirrel?” she asks, grinning as she sets her popcorn aside.“We’re doing it!” I practically sing, spinning in a circle. “We’re having our art show. And it’s going to be huge.”McKenzy gasps and leaps off the couch to grab my hands. “Shut up. Are you serious? How did this happen?”“Damien,” I answer, breathless from my impromptu happy dance. “I mentioned it to him, and before I could even finish the sentence, he had this whole plan. He said he’s going to blast it all over social media and call in favors from every art critic, influencer, and high-society snob he knows.”McKenzy’s jaw drops. “Holy shit. You know what this means, right?”“That
*Tomas*I know Harper well enough by now to see when stress is eating her alive, even when she tries to hide it behind that bright, brave smile. Her art show has been consuming every spare second of her time, and on top of that, she still acts like Carmen is going to jump out at her every time we’re out together.That’s why today is all about her.She has no idea what I have planned, and the look of surprise when I show up at her door with a coffee in one hand and a bag of pastries in the other makes me feel like I already won the day.“Buenos días, preciosa.” I kiss her cheek as she opens the door, stepping inside before she can protest. “I’m stealing you for the day.”She blinks at me, still in her robe, hair a messy knot on top of her head. “Stealing me? What do you mean?”“I made an itinerary.” I wave a folded piece of paper in front of her face, then set it on the counter. “You deserve a ‘you day,’ Harper. No painting, no stress. Just you being pampered like the queen you are.”H
*Harper*I stare at the dining table, wondering if I’ve overdone it. I’ve definitely overdone it. McKenzy, Melody, and I are the only three having dinner, but I’ve cooked enough for a small army. Roast chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, a side salad, and fresh bread with this fancy herb butter that McKenzy made sit on the table ready to be consumed. I even baked a peach cobbler because I remember Melody liking peaches when we were kids.I know it’s ridiculous since this is just a dinner to discuss baby shower plans, but my anxiety has forced me to create something that feels warm and welcoming, even if this entire situation is about as awkward as it gets. McKenzy peeks over my shoulder as I straighten a fork for the fourth time.“You want to tell me why you’re acting like you’re hosting the damn royal family?” she asks sarcastically.I snort. “Because I have no idea how this is going to go, and if it’s a disaster, at least I can feed her into a food coma,” I tell her honestly, laying
*Scott*Harper’s been acting different all afternoon. It’s subtle enough that most people would miss it, but I know her too well. She’s smiling too tightly, laughing with a little too much energy, fidgeting in the way she only does when she’s trying to hide something. I could probably write a field guide to Harper Ward’s anxious ticks, and they’re all fully on display today.We’re hanging the last of her paintings in the studio, lining up each piece she’s created for her gallery showing. Harper’s perched on the step stool, holding a canvas while I measure and mark the wall. She’s so focused now, she’s barely breathing.“All right,” I say, stepping back. “That’s level.”“Great,” she says, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.I hand her the hammer, and she drives the nail into place with more force than necessary, her knuckles tight around the handle.“Okay, what’s going on?” I ask, leaning my shoulder against the wall. “Because if you hit that nail any harder, we’re gonna end up
Harper“You should totally do it. My sister made loads of money. I think she paid off all her student loans!” McKenzy says, tapping the ‘Apply’ button on the screen insistently.I look at https://atalooseend.com like it’s a snake that’s going to bite me. How did it come to this?!“You’re a poor, starving artist who doesn’t sell enough pieces to cover the rent,” she answers my unspoken question, her tone flat. “You have student loans so far up your ass you can taste the red ink! Trust me, this is your best option.”“But… what if they want sex?” I question, wondering if I have it in me to become an escort. I’ve never done anything like that before, though I’m certainly not a virgin.McKenzy stabs her finger at the bold, red, 64-font words on the ‘About’ page. “‘Dates are NOT required to or encouraged to provide sex or engage in sexual acts’. It’s even in the legalese we read in the sample contract. Big and bold. In fact, if we go to the home page…” She reaches over my shoulder and maneu
HarperI try not to pull a Marilyn Monroe as the wind whips the flared skirt of the sleeveless aquamarine dress I am wearing. McKenzy loaned me a pair of high-heeled, strappy sandals to match, and they aren’t helping the situation much as I teeter along the sidewalk, expecting to be swept away like Mary Poppins.As I turn the corner onto Raymond Avenue, I pause to adjust one of the straps on the right sandal. “I should have worn tennis shoes,” I grumble, even though I know that wouldn’t be appropriate. It’s my own fault for losing one of my own silver slippers. Not in a Cinderella way, but in a this-closet-is-an-unholy-vortex way. I’m sure, when I finally get around to cleaning it, the missing slipper will reappear. .“Yeah, when I’m being moved to a nursing home,” I mutter. I catch my reflection in one of the storefront windows and pat back a strand of my hair. At least that’s clipped up in a twist so the wind can only do so much damage.In the reflection, I also see a police car. I
*Scott*Harper’s been acting different all afternoon. It’s subtle enough that most people would miss it, but I know her too well. She’s smiling too tightly, laughing with a little too much energy, fidgeting in the way she only does when she’s trying to hide something. I could probably write a field guide to Harper Ward’s anxious ticks, and they’re all fully on display today.We’re hanging the last of her paintings in the studio, lining up each piece she’s created for her gallery showing. Harper’s perched on the step stool, holding a canvas while I measure and mark the wall. She’s so focused now, she’s barely breathing.“All right,” I say, stepping back. “That’s level.”“Great,” she says, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.I hand her the hammer, and she drives the nail into place with more force than necessary, her knuckles tight around the handle.“Okay, what’s going on?” I ask, leaning my shoulder against the wall. “Because if you hit that nail any harder, we’re gonna end up
*Harper*I stare at the dining table, wondering if I’ve overdone it. I’ve definitely overdone it. McKenzy, Melody, and I are the only three having dinner, but I’ve cooked enough for a small army. Roast chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, a side salad, and fresh bread with this fancy herb butter that McKenzy made sit on the table ready to be consumed. I even baked a peach cobbler because I remember Melody liking peaches when we were kids.I know it’s ridiculous since this is just a dinner to discuss baby shower plans, but my anxiety has forced me to create something that feels warm and welcoming, even if this entire situation is about as awkward as it gets. McKenzy peeks over my shoulder as I straighten a fork for the fourth time.“You want to tell me why you’re acting like you’re hosting the damn royal family?” she asks sarcastically.I snort. “Because I have no idea how this is going to go, and if it’s a disaster, at least I can feed her into a food coma,” I tell her honestly, laying
*Tomas*I know Harper well enough by now to see when stress is eating her alive, even when she tries to hide it behind that bright, brave smile. Her art show has been consuming every spare second of her time, and on top of that, she still acts like Carmen is going to jump out at her every time we’re out together.That’s why today is all about her.She has no idea what I have planned, and the look of surprise when I show up at her door with a coffee in one hand and a bag of pastries in the other makes me feel like I already won the day.“Buenos días, preciosa.” I kiss her cheek as she opens the door, stepping inside before she can protest. “I’m stealing you for the day.”She blinks at me, still in her robe, hair a messy knot on top of her head. “Stealing me? What do you mean?”“I made an itinerary.” I wave a folded piece of paper in front of her face, then set it on the counter. “You deserve a ‘you day,’ Harper. No painting, no stress. Just you being pampered like the queen you are.”H
*Harper*I’m practically vibrating with excitement when I burst into the apartment, nearly knocking poor McKenzy off the couch. She’s got paint in her hair, a bowl of popcorn balanced on her lap, and her laptop open to some DIY tutorial. The moment she sees my face, her eyes go wide.“Okay, what’s got you bouncing off the walls like a caffeinated squirrel?” she asks, grinning as she sets her popcorn aside.“We’re doing it!” I practically sing, spinning in a circle. “We’re having our art show. And it’s going to be huge.”McKenzy gasps and leaps off the couch to grab my hands. “Shut up. Are you serious? How did this happen?”“Damien,” I answer, breathless from my impromptu happy dance. “I mentioned it to him, and before I could even finish the sentence, he had this whole plan. He said he’s going to blast it all over social media and call in favors from every art critic, influencer, and high-society snob he knows.”McKenzy’s jaw drops. “Holy shit. You know what this means, right?”“That
*Harper*McKenzy’s perched on top of a step stool, paintbrush clenched between her teeth, holding two wildly different knobs up to a half-finished dresser. One is sleek brass, the other shaped like a ceramic lemon.“I’m thinking weird fruit motif,” she says around the brush. “Or is that too quirky farm wife?”“Knowing you,” I say, smearing cobalt blue across my latest canvas, “it’s exactly the right amount of quirky farm wife.”She grins and tosses the lemon knob into her tool bag. “Perfect. If Scott hates it, I’ll tell him to take it up with my creative genius.”The studio feels especially bright today, sunlight spilling through the windows, illuminating the organized chaos we’ve turned it into. My corner smells like oil paint and turpentine. McKenzy’s side smells like sawdust and wood stain.McKenzy spins on her stool, eyeing my painting. “That’s new.”“Just started it last night,” I say. “It’s about Melody. Sort of.”She leans closer, frowning slightly. “It’s angry.”“It’s complica
*Harper*My third cup of coffee sits half-finished on the table, paint still clinging to the edges of my nails from a morning spent lost in my latest piece. McKenzy’s out running errands, the apartment is quiet, and I’m riding the kind of creative high that only comes when everything just clicks.I’m about to dip my brush into a streak of deep teal when my phone buzzes. I grab it without thinking, expecting McKenzy or Scott or maybe one of the guys.It’s the gallery in Chicago.My stomach flips.“Hello?” I answer, trying not to sound like someone who just inhaled a cinnamon roll while juggling a paintbrush between her teeth.“Harper! It’s Stephanie at the Whitney.” Her voice is bright, almost bubbly. That’s already a good sign.“Hi!” I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder, scrambling for a notepad in case I need to write anything down.“I hope I’m not interrupting, but I wanted to call personally,” Stephanie says. “We’ve had some really wonderful interest in your work after that
*Scott*The house feels too quiet when Harper’s not here. Even with Milo chasing his tail in the living room and the soft hum of the radio in the kitchen, it’s not the same. There’s no burst of laughter from the next room, no clatter of her paintbrushes or the sound of her humming off-key while she raids my fridge.I knew when we started this wild, unconventional, what-the-hell-are-we-even-doing relationship that Harper would never belong to just me, and I accepted that. Most days, I’m fine with it. But when she’s in San Francisco, it’s impossible not to feel like I’m missing a part of her. Still, that’s my problem, not hers.So the second I hear she’s back in town, I text her.Me: Dinner at my place? Home-cooked. I promise.Her response comes almost immediately.Harper: Does this include puppy snuggles? Because I miss Milo. (And you, I guess.)I laugh out loud, shaking my head.Me: I’ll allow it. Be ready at six.When she slides into my truck, Milo goes ballistic, wiggling all over t
*Harper*Flying with Damien never stops feeling opulent. The jet is sleek and perfect, just like everything he owns. The leather seats are softer than my actual bed, and the flight attendant knows my drink order before I even ask.Damien’s beside me, dressed too well for travel, effortlessly handsome in that “I own the world” way that still leaves me slightly breathless.I sip my champagne, curling my legs under me as the clouds drift past the window. “So, just out of curiosity, what do you think regular people do when they want to visit their boyfriend in another state?”Damien grins, stretching an arm across the back of my seat. “I have no idea.”I laugh, leaning into him, the bubbles already fizzing pleasantly in my bloodstream.Before long, we’ve landed and made our way through town to Levi’s Stadium. The place is loud and alive, fans decked out in red and gold, chanting and waving banners. Damien’s private box is, as always, the best seat in the house.Rafe looks incredible on th
*Harper*My phone rings as I’m balancing a coffee mug in one hand and my sketchpad in the other. I almost ignore it, but the Chicago area code catches my eye. It’s the Whitney Gallery. I set everything down and grab my phone just before the call rolls to voicemail. “Hello?”“Hi, is this Harper Ward?”“This is she.”“This is Stephanie from the Whitney Gallery in Chicago. I’m calling with some incredible news.”I blink, my heart leaping into my throat. “Go on,” I squeak out, annoyed by how amateur I sound. “We sold your piece,” she says, her voice bubbling with excitement. “It went for considerably more than the asking price. You’ll be receiving a huge check from us.”“Oh, my God,” I breathe, my knees weakening until I have to lean against the counter. “That’s… wow. That’s amazing.”“It’s well deserved,” Stephanie says warmly. “We’d love to have more of your work if you’re interested.”“I’m definitely interested,” I manage, my mind spinning.We wrap up the call, and when I hang up, I j