Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 37197 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37197 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Making it all even worse is that ever since coming home from the hospital, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Harlow. Can’t stop thinking about that kiss. She turned and sprinted away so quickly, I didn’t have time to get her number from her. Of course, the fact that she turned and sprinted away that fast makes me wonder if I crossed a line with her. In the moment, it felt right. The passion coursing through me felt reciprocated. It seemed to me that she wanted it as much as I did. That she enjoyed it as much as I did. But the fact that she ran away from me without another word has left me trying to figure out what the fuck happened.
With nothing else to keep me occupied, I’ve spent the last few days obsessing about that kiss. About Harlow. And trying to understand what happened. We spent my time in the hospital flirting and being playful with one another. I thought she would have welcomed a kiss. Had I misread the signs? Had I somehow misinterpreted her flirting? I don’t think I did. I’m usually pretty perceptive and like to think I read people really well. But the fact that she pulled away from me and then bailed is making me question everything.
I’m not the kind of guy who second-guesses himself. In my line of work, there is no room for doubt, and second-guessing myself could lead to my death or the deaths of my men. It’s why I make the best decisions I can, execute my plans, and don’t look back. It’s why the fact that I’ve been sitting here, second-guessing everything about the kiss is driving me absolutely fucking bananas. I don’t think I’ve ever misread a situation as badly as I seem to have misread this one, and it’s left me absolutely confounded.
I stop pacing and look out my front window, watching a couple of cars pass by as my mind spins with a thousand thoughts. Maybe if I were back at work, I wouldn’t be obsessing about this as badly as I am. But part of me thinks I might anyway. What I realize as I stand at the window is that it’s not necessarily the kiss and Harlow’s reaction to it, or what it all means that’s bothering me so much. It’s not precisely what I’m fixated on.
It’s her.
I think what’s gotten under my skin so much is the fact that I thought Harlow and I had connected on a deeper level. I know I shouldn’t be thinking about her like that. Not only is she half my age, she’s my son’s ex-girlfriend. For those reasons and so many more, Harlow White should be the furthest thing from my mind. But over my time in the hospital, spending as much time together talking and getting to know each other like we did, we really clicked.
There’s just something about her that’s gotten under my skin, and I can’t quite shake her. I can’t stop thinking about her. I don’t connect with people very easily. I never have. Things with Harlow just seem so natural and flow so easily that I can’t get her out of my head. The nagging feeling of having Harlow running around my head is like a splinter just beneath my skin that just won’t stop stabbing me. And it’s because I don’t have answers. I don’t know why she ran off on me like that. It’s those questions and not understanding what happened that’s bothering me so fucking relentlessly.
I know I should find some way to let this go. Find some way to put her out of my mind. Find some way to accept that she ran off as an answer to all the questions in my head. I know I should stay away from her. But I can’t. I want—no, I need—to hear her say the words.
“Fuck it,” I say.
“Hunter, what are you doing here?” Harlow asks. “Are you okay? Are you—”
“No, I’m fine. Getting better every day,” I reply.
“Then, why are you here?”
I lean against the counter at the nurse’s station and look into her eyes, bluer than the Caribbean sea. Spots of color rise in her cheeks and her full lips part, surprise on her face. She’s sitting alone in front of a computer, looking as if she’s inputting information from a handwritten chart into the system.
“Honestly? I came to see you,” I tell her.
Her eyes widen slightly, and her lips form a perfect “O” as she looks at me, the expression of surprise on her face deepening.
“You came to see me?” she asks. “Why?”
“Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Her eyebrows shoot up and the expression of surprise on her face morphs into one of absolute shock. Her full lips tremble and the spots of color in her cheeks flare, turning an almost neon red that spreads to her neck and the top of her ears.