TWENTY-SIX
Harper eyed the package on the kitchen island and contemplated her next move.
Wine. The next move was always wine.
So what if it was nine in the morning. This wasn’t just any morning. It was Christmas Day, and she was alone in a mansion, playing at poor little rich girl. No one was here to judge except the ghosts of the past and Harper’s chatty conscience, a voice that could easily be drowned out by vino. She poured a liberal glass, toasted no one in particular, and turned her attention to the package sitting before her like it might contain the head from Seven.
That seemed unlikely, because it was from Remy. His Riverbrook address was in the upper left-hand corner, her address in Lake Forest was centered in a big loopy scrawl. It arrived yesterday, but as she was spending the holiday alone, she figured she’d open it today.
With wine.
She sliced open the package with a steak knife and removed the more decorative gift box inside it. Carefully, she untied the ribbon as if she might reuse it later. Old habits.
Pulling apart the layers of tissue wrap, she gasped at what she found. The accompanying note was in the same expressive script.
Merry Christmas, minou. I figure this might inspire you to get all that team testosterone under control come the New Year.
Yours, Remy
She burst out laughing. Anyone else would have given her a feminine gift, such as a cashmere scarf (Kenneth) or cashmere gloves (also Kenneth). Only Remy would give her something so perfect it brought a lump of emotion to her throat.
A flash of metal caught her eye. There was something else in the box, wrapped in tissue. She extracted a platinum bracelet cuff, the sort of piece she would wear. But this was no ordinary trinket.
Spelled out in stamped letters was the message she longed to give the press, haters, and the ghost of Clifford Chase: Zero Fucks Given.
Oh, God.
Fortifying herself with a gulp of Bordeaux, she punched in a text message on her phone. Thank you.
Her phone rang within thirty seconds. “Am I forgiven?” came that sexy Cajun drawl.
“For what? You didn’t do anything.”
“That’s how I usually start these conversations. Puts a lady on the back foot immediately.”
She sighed at how charming he was. “I might have overreacted. But Bren was right there.”
“I talked to him, and he’s not going to say a word. Listen, Harper, I don’t want to fight. I just want to be with you for the time I’ve got left in Chicago. I’ve missed you in my bed. Femme, I need you there.”
Her entire body swooned. “Should I bring your gift next time? Might make for interesting foreplay.”
Her eyes fell on what Remy had sent—a nutcracker, but not just any nutcracker. Undoubtedly custom made, it was a slender figure with long blond hair, a Rebels hockey jersey, and red heels. It was Harper Chase herself.
“My balls are too big for that, minou. It’s what you might call symbolic.”
A parting gift. Remy was trying to inspire her to stay strong when he had moved on. Tears pricked the backs of her eyelids at the sweetness of the gesture.
“I didn’t get you anything.”
“Just seein’ my nieces’ smiles when they opened their presents this morning is gift enough. They sure liked the Rebels jerseys you sent ’em, and Sophie’s wrapped herself up in that literary quotes scarf even though it’s makin’ her sweat buckets. Alexandre and Marie were thrilled with the wine, too.” He paused. “That was mighty nice of you to think of them.”
“I have an employee discount on Rebels merch and a wine cellar gathering dust.” She licked her lips. “Maybe I could give you your totally impromptu present now.”
He chuckled, raspy and sexy. “Oh yeah?”
“Are you alone?”
“Nope.” Shouting and laughter that made her heart clench with envy bubbled up in the background. He lowered his voice. “For shame, Ms. Chase, wanting to corrupt me in the bosom of my family. How about I call later and tuck you in?”
They said their good-byes and Harper filled her wineglass to the tippity-top. Five, ten, maybe forty-five minutes later, Violet walked in. “What’s up, Dictator Spice?”
Harper raised her head from the kitchen island, where she was taking a self-pity break. She sniffed loudly. “Why are you here? I thought you were spending the holiday”—she waved at some point in the distance—“somewhere else.”
Violet shrugged. “It fell through. I thought you’d be off at Bailey’s mom’s exchanging Argyle socks and drinking brunch.”
Harper hiccupped. “I’d rather be alone.”
“With your creepy doll.”
“It’s not a creepy doll.” She tugged it protectively to her breast. The hair was a little mussed from Harper trying to braid it and create a mini French knot. “It’s—it’s a nutcracker of a Rebels fan.”
Violet drew closer, picked up the note, and read it. “Well, I’d be drinking, too, if my boyfriend got me this lame gift.”
Harper snatched back the note. “He’s not my boyfriend and it’s not lame. It’s perfect. He’s . . .” Perfect.
Violet pulled a glass from the rack above the island and poured a drink. “I see.”
“You don’t see anything. You don’t see how terrible this is.”
“You’ve fallen for him.”
Maybe she did see. She tried a different tack. “This is the worst thing that could happen.”
“Is it?” Violet sipped her wine. “Why is it so terrible? Doesn’t he make you happy?”
Ignoring that, Harper busied her hands with putting the gift away. It was just a gag gift, really. No reason why she should be reading such significance into it.
Yet she felt compelled to explain. “He makes me feel desired. Wanted. He makes me feel like a kiss could solve all my problems. Like a sandwich can melt all my troubles away. But all those things, they’re just fleeting.”
“Especially sandwiches.”
Especially sandwiches. He fed her, fucked her, fussed over her. But he wouldn’t be here when she needed him to skate like there was no tomorrow.
“I’ve been through this before.”
“You said it didn’t end well. That Stroger guy got traded out or something?”
Harper went for her glass, but knocked it over instead. “Oh, God, I’m so stupid.”
But Violet was already grabbing the paper towels, mopping up, and passing her own glass to Harper.
“It’s okay, sis,” Violet said, and just that one little word—sis—unleashed a fresh wave of emotion. Tears fell down Harper’s cheeks, and she belched like a warthog. She wanted to tell someone about the time it all went wrong and her heart had turned to granite.
But she wasn’t drunk enough to spill, or maybe the one person with whom she wanted to share every fear and insecurity was nine hundred miles away. “This thing with Remy—it’s so dumb of me to do it, but he’s very persuasive and he makes me feel special and the fact he’s leaving soon—”
“Harper,” Violet said, squeezing her shoulder, “it’s okay to be upset about trading Remy out. If you feel something for him . . .”
“I can’t.”
“That’s not quite the same thing. Listen, I won’t say anything more, except . . .” She looked torn. “Remy is not that other guy, the jerk from Boston, and neither is he Clifford Chase. If you tell him you want him to stay, he’ll probably do it. If you want to continue seeing him after you trade him, he’ll probably go for that, too. Guys are a lot simpler than girls.”
“It’s just sex. Really, really great sex.”
“And sandwiches. And creepy-ass dolls that look like you.”
“Oh shut up.”