CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Vik
TO WIN HARPER BACK, I need a plan. A really awesome, kick-ass plan. After all, Harper’s almost as in love with her planner as she used to be with me. She loves forethought, organization and ten-step strategies for handling anything and everything. If I want to show her that I’ve changed and convince her that I love her, it’s not enough to drop at her feet and start belting out the I love yous. I wouldn’t believe me, either.
I’d insist on proof.
Lots and lots of fucking amazing proof that did not involve our bodies getting naked and exchanging dirty favors—although I’m totally making a list for our honeymoon. Yes, honeymoon. I’m dreaming big. And anyhow, the longer I have to fantasize, the more creative I’ll be. It’ll be like my really early, super-awesome Christmas present to her.
Huh. Now, that’s an idea. I could make Christmas come early. Never mind that it’s September, we live in Vegas and we have more palm trees than pines. My planning ahead should just score me bonus points. I whip out my phone and Google-fu nets me the seeds of a plan. You know that song “Twelve Days of Christmas”? If you don’t, you’re about to.
I kick off Monday by sending a prospect to Harper’s work with an early Christmas present. I’d bring it myself, but she’s currently pissed off and not answering my texts. Pretty sure I’ll get shit from the rest of the club about my presentation, but I’ll deal. Goolie certainly isn’t happy about the big, pink box he gets to carry on his bike. Or maybe it’s the even larger black velvet ribbon that took me fucking forever to tie. FYI, there are much better ways to spend an hour with ribbon. I’m hoping Harper keeps it and I can show her.
Inside the box is a planner. It’s pink to match the box, and I nearly gave myself second-degree burns hot-gluing the black bows to the front. From the number of bow-bedazzled clothes in Harper’s closet, I’ve deduced she really likes bows—so I’ll give them to her. The inside of the planner, however, reflects my tastes. I’ve cut-and-pasted pages from the Kama Sutra. We can pick a different position for each day of the year.
Harper doesn’t say anything.
No texts.
No phone call.
No fucking skywriter drawing my name and hers across the Vegas sky.
Sure, that last one’s a stretch, but I won’t think about failing. Losing Harper isn’t an option. Since I have a bike and know where she is, I ride over at five o’clock to wait in the parking garage next to her car. Five o’clock becomes six and then seven. It’s ridiculous how much she works. When she finally appears, it’s almost eight and she looks exhausted. She also looks good enough to eat. Her pink shirt’s got a bow sitting right over her tits and her heart, just pointing the way for me.
She doesn’t see me because she’s so intent on reaching for her door handle. Her face is strained, and she has the look of someone getting the hell out of dodge. She juggles an impressive mountain of paperwork as she points her clicker at her car. It’s definitely intervention time.
“Babe. How was your day?”
She shrieks, paper mountain collapsing in an avalanche, and she points the clicker at me. Thank fuck it’s not a gun or I’d be a dead man.
“You.” Her eyes narrow.
“Me.” I consider going in for a hello kiss, but her eyes promise that would just seal my death sentence. I settle for crouching at her feet and scooping up her papers. Gives me a real nice view of her legs, too.
“What is this?” She smacks me on the head with her new planner. She makes no move to help me in my collection attempts. That’s okay—I’ve got no problem sitting at her feet for hours. Might eventually have to work my way up—with my mouth—but I’m a patient man. Mostly.
“It’s a Christmas present,” I tell her.
“It’s September.” The tone of her voice seriously questions my sanity.
“Christmas is coming early this year. That’s your first present.”
“There are more?” She sounds distinctly unthrilled.
I hum a few bars of the “Twelve Days” song and she groans.
“Are you here to torture me?”
“Nope.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Giving you a heads-up.” I grab the last paper, pat the mess into a vaguely rectangular shape and stand up. “I’m giving you the twelve days of Christmas and tomorrow’s our first day.”
“I don’t want Christmas. I don’t want twelve days with you. And there’s no us.” She stabs me in the chest with the clicker after each sentence.
I open her car door, drop the stack of paper inside and then hold the door for her like a fucking gentleman. I should paint my Harley white and pretend it’s a horse and I’m a knight.
“What do you want, Vik?”
I keep it short and sweet. “You.”
She’s equally to the point as she drops into the driver’s seat. “Fuck off.”
* * *
Do you know the words to the Christmas song? Because whoever wrote that thing had the world’s worst taste in Christmas gifts. Asshole definitely wasn’t a Macy’s shopper. The first day of Christmas calls for a partridge in a pear tree. Achieving this requires a minor felony on my part and takes the better part of Tuesday. I bribe one of the Bellagio’s waiters for one of those silver room service domes and then I load it up with a nice roast chicken and a poached pear swimming in something alcoholic. More money changes hands when I reach Harper’s building and it gets me inside to her front door. This is where the second felony comes in.
I’m naked except for the bow around my neck. Harper really, really likes bows. And dinner. And sugar. I’m just hoping she likes me most. I lean hard on her bell because this whole plan will go much better if she spots me before her neighbors do. It’s twenty-four long, naked seconds before she opens the door. I count each one, which just goes to show how much Harper’s changed me, right?
“Jesus.” She stares at me and I refrain from the obvious jokes about not being a deity. Instead, I wave the tray at her.
“Surprise. Can I come in?”
Look at me using my company manners and asking instead of telling.
“You’re naked.” She looks a little wild-eyed. Also, her gaze may dip beneath my bow. She’s welcome.
“I’m apologizing,” I correct. “I fucked up big-time, Harper. I get that. You told me that you loved me, and I told you shit. You want me down on my knees? Because I can do that.”
“What makes you think this is what I’d want?”
“Me? On my knees? I think you’d fucking love that, babe.”
Generally speaking, groveling isn’t something I do. Ever. And getting down on my knees only happens when it involves pussy and my tongue. But for Harper? Anything’s possible. I drop down and set the tray down on the floor in front of me. This both frees up my hands and prevents her from slamming the door closed.
“Oh my God.” Her gaze darts down the hall.
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
“Can I apologize?”
Christ, she’s fucking beautiful. My dick picks this grossly inappropriate moment to stand up and applaud her.
“Go.” She points toward the elevator. “Just—go.”
“I brought you dinner. It’s a partridge and a pear. Not sure I worked out the ‘in a tree’ part, but I’m hoping you cut me some slack.” I nudge the room service tray toward her, and for a minute, I think I’ve got her. Then she shoots the tray back toward me, zips inside and slams the door. I retrieve my clothes from the stairwell, get dressed and move on to the next step in my plan. I’ve got eleven more days, as I explain to the homeless guy I end up sharing the chicken with. We sit on the curb, picnicking, and I figure day one could have gone worse.
* * *
The second fucking day of Christmas calls for turtledoves. Since real birds shit everywhere and would disagree with Bing’s digestive tract, on Wednesday I clean the drugstore out of Turtles and Doves. I take the whole lot of chocolate over to Harper’s office at dark o’clock and let myself in. This requires smiling charmingly at her assistant, who’s more than willing to let me wait for Harper in Harper’s office. I keep my clothes on this time because Harper loves her goddamned job and I won’t do anything to jeopardize it.
“Day two, babe,” I tell her when she shows up clutching a coffee. Since I’m sitting on her desk, she can’t exactly miss me. Figure I won’t scare the shit out of her this time, either.
She jabs a finger at the sugar mountain stacked beside me. “What is this?”
Since she asked, I sing her the verse. “On the Second day of Christmas my true love sent to me two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.” I pause. “I didn’t bring you another chicken, though. Didn’t seem like breakfast food. Guess I could have gone for chicken and waffles. You want a redo?”
She rubs her temples. “Why are you here? Why do you think I’d want you here?”
“I know what you like.” The trick is to sound confident. Remember what I said before? Harper. Forgiveness. Another chance. That’s all that matters.
“How do ten thousand calories reflect your greater understanding of me?”
“You like candy. You like laughing. You have an awesome fucking sense of humor.”
Harper stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. Which I may have. My dad would have smacked me upside my head, and he’d have been right. Of course, he’d also have laughed his ass off—and then he’d have suggested that we fill Harper’s office to the ceiling with candy. Go big or go home, right?
Thinking about him hurts just a little less today, although it still feels like getting a root canal with no drugs. And possibly using a shovel to do the digging around in my gums. Or my heart.
Harper braces her hip against her desk. She hums a bit of the song. “You’re really doing the entire song?”
“You bet.” And because I’m all in and dignity has gone out the window already, I start belting it out at the top of my lungs. I hop off the desk, grab her hands and dance her around in circles. I even throw in a few pelvis thrusts.
“Oh God. Stop.” She’s giggling, though. She doesn’t look pissed off anymore. She looks...happy.
I stop.
“You want me to strip? I’ll give you breakfast and a show.”
Don’t think I didn’t plan for this. Thanks to the staying power of the Sharpie, I’ve drawn a hundred big, black, loopy bows on the Calvin Kleins I bought precisely for this occasion.
Harper slaps a hand over my mouth. “Not in my office.”
“Where?”
This seems promising. Like hot-makeup-sex promising.
“You need to go.” She starts shoving boxes of chocolate underneath her desk. She must have an early meeting.
“I’ll go if you promise to read the plan I’ve put together and go over it with me tomorrow.”
She pauses in her candy cleanup. “You want me to go over your plan?”
I go with the truth.
“You like plans. You like to know where things are going. So I made one for us.”
Honestly? What I want is for her to go out on a date with me. Make love with me. Ride with me, fight with me, love me. It’s that last part of the plan that’s most important.
She stares at me.
Pretty sure she’s trying to figure out the fastest way to get my ass out of her office because she comes to the obvious conclusions.
She gives in.
“Okay.” She scowls. “But you have to wait until Saturday. Some of us have bosses that care if we show up.”
I ignore the dig because I’m one step closer to my goal. To Harper.
* * *
Thursday the song calls for three French hens. In retrospect, I should have gone with “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” Courting would have been much simpler. Finding French hens in Vegas is every bit as difficult as you think. The only reason I don’t visit a damned pet store is that Bing would either vote me off the island or have lunch. Instead of wildlife, I send a six-pack of beer from a brewery that does a Twelve Days of Christmas series. I scribble a note that’s three-quarters picture, one-quarter words. The picture is me trying to tree three very reluctant hens in a palm. I think for a minute and then go with more truth. I tell her how much I want to be with her to celebrate all her milestones. And how I’ll be there if she lets me for the shitty days, as well, but with an even bigger beer.
Friday I up my game and actually produce four calling birds. Okay. So she doesn’t get to take them home with her, but I think she’ll like this better. I adopt four black-and-white penguins at the zoo on her behalf. Since my large check comes with naming rights, I christen them Harpsichord, Harpie, Doodle and Monster Dick.
Today, however, is Saturday.
D-Day.
And either Armageddon or the second coming of Christ when I succeed or fail at convincing Harper to take me back. And yes, I’m feeling the pressure. It may have taken me way too long to realize what I feel for Harper, but now I’m hopelessly, headlong in love with her, and she’s the only woman for me.
I pick her up and she settles behind me, her arms wrapped around my waist. See how we fit together? The way we move together as we ride down the Strip?
That’s the best fucking sign right there.
I just need to convince Harper. When we get to the Bellagio, I pull over. I’ve got a buddy who owes me and I’m cashing in all my favors.
“You’re going to get a parking ticket.” Harper’s forehead gets these cute little creases when she’s trying to figure out what I’m up to.
“Watch.” I switch places with her on the bike because I need to hold her.
Her frown gets deeper. “The fountain show doesn’t go off for another eleven minutes, Vik.”
I slide my arms around her. How can I not hold on to this woman? Not only is she fucking gorgeous, but she’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. She’s organized, funny and has a dirty streak that will make me a very happy man.
“Three,” I whisper against her hair.
“You’re not singing again, are you?”
She doesn’t pull away, and I almost get distracted by the amazing way she smells.
“Two.”
I kiss her ear just because it’s there and I’m weak. Christ, I love every inch of her. Her hair’s pulled back in a ponytail that begs for me to fist it.
“One.” I bite down lightly because some things won’t change.
She rewards me with a little moan—just as the fountains explode. Timing is everything. The water soars upward, “Twelve Days of Christmas” blaring from the hotel’s speakers. While she stares slack-jawed at the show, I scoop her up and stride over to the fountains. By the time I’ve planted her ass on the railing and caged her in with my arms, she’s coming back to her senses.
“You planned this?” She sounds dazed.
Mission fucking accomplished.
“You said I never planned anything. That I never looked ahead. I just never had anyone I wanted to plan for.”
“And now?” She licks her lips. I don’t think she likes having nothing between her ass and an entire lake but me and a very thin railing. I’d like to tell you that I immediately set her back on her feet, but that would be untrue. I love having her off balance and hanging on to me. I won’t ever let her fall.
“I’m hoping I’ve got you.” I wrap my arms around her back, pulling her closer. “You’re my tomorrow and my tomorrow after that. Give me a chance to prove that to you for the next sixty years or so.”
“Vik?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“I forgive you. Can you let me down now?”
She really doesn’t like her current position, does she? I take shameless advantage.
“Wrap your legs around me.”
She does, and I can’t stop myself from patting her ass as I twirl her around in the biggest goddamned circle. Tourists are looking at us like maybe we’re an act and they should drop a quarter in our hat. Let them look. I’m holding all I need.
Well, except for one teeny tiny detail.
“Did you bring the planner I gave you?”
“Yes?” She sounds a little breathless. I slide her down my body, making sure I touch every smoking-hot inch of her.
“Take it out.”
She gives me a look. I’m gonna become really familiar with that look over the coming years if I’m lucky. That look says we’re in public and I just said something filthy. Still, she fishes the hot-pink planner out of her purse and hands it to me.
“Did you read my plans for us?” I drop down onto a bench. The fountain show is wrapping up, and my friend is probably getting all kinds of shit for his off-script performance. I’ll make it up to him later.
Harper flushes. “I read through October. You have a filthy imagination and no one could possibly have that much sex.”
I look forward to proving her wrong.
“We wouldn’t work,” she says, shaking her head. “I like rules and plans and sticking to one path. You may want me right now, but at some point—”
“We can argue over which direction we go or what road we take. We’ll be like those old couples fighting in the parking lot, and we’ll do it with love. I can be your Mr. Right. I can be whoever you need, Harper. You just gotta let me try.”
I flip the planner open to the spot I’ve bookmarked with a hot-pink ribbon. Guys don’t hot-glue-gun shit ever. Not unless they’re MacGyver and they’re building a nuclear reactor out of spare crap in their garage. The lady at the crafts store showed me how to do it, though. Wouldn’t let her touch it because it had to come from me. Especially since there’s a big-ass diamond ring hanging off the end of the ribbon.
“I love you,” I say.
And then I haul my T-shirt up and show her my new ink. Pink, black and right over my heart, Harper’s face is inked into my skin. The words beneath it read Property of Harper. It’s my very own property patch. You have to be strong to partner with a man who belongs to an MC. Harper’s got that strength. She’s always had it. But if I want her to throw in with me, I’ll have to be there for her, too.
And I really fucking want to.
“You mean it?” She blinks and for a moment I think she’s about to cry, but then a blinding smile breaks through, lighting up her own face. “I love you, too.”
“You be mine, I’ll be yours and we’ll live happily fucking ever after.” I gesture toward my bike. “And if that doesn’t work, we can at least ride off into the sunset every night.”
“Together.” She sighs.
And that’s it. That’s my perfect answer, my second shot at happiness, my whole world, because she throws her arms around me and there’s nothing better than this.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE MARRIAGE CLAUSE by Alexx Andria.
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