CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Harper licks lemon ice cream in a cone.
“This doesn’t make up for Santa,” she says, pointing at the treat as we leave her favorite gelato vendor. “But it’s a good start, and you’ve bought my silence for another few days.”
“Good. That’s all I need.”
“Saw the picture of you and Charlotte this morning.” She nudges me as we walk along Central Park, en route to a quick softball practice with our team’s star slugger, Nick. The three of us snagged the field for thirty minutes on a Friday afternoon before the actual game tomorrow. I’ve got my glove and bat, and Harper has her glove in her free hand.
“You really can’t stay away from me online, can you?” I tease her.
“I know. It’s a terrible addiction I have, my gossip fetish.”
“So it ran? The one from Sardi’s?” I ask, confirming what I suspected Abe would do.
“Yup.”
“That reporter from Metropolis is such a tool.”
She furrows her brow as she licks the icy treat. “Wasn’t in Metropolis.”
As we turn into the park, I ask, “Well, where was it?”
She shakes her head, bemused. “I really can’t believe you don’t look this stuff up about yourself.”
“Believe it. I don’t. Never have. Tell me.”
“It was Page Six.”
My eyes widen. Page Six is the big New York gossip outlet. I try to avoid Page Six.
“How’d that happen? I thought he worked for Metropolis Life and Times.”
“He’s an intern there,” Harper says. “Abe Kaufman. I looked him up. He’s in journalism school at Columbia, so he freelances for Metropolis Life and Times as well as Page Six. Looks like he sold the picture of the two of you to more gossip-centric one.”
What a tenacious fucker.
I consider the benefits. If I’m seen on Page Six with my loving fiancée, this could be key placement for Dad for the sale. Mr. Offerman would wet his pants to see me appear like the good, solid, soon-to-be-married son of the respected businessman he’s buying the store from. “What did it say?” I ask hopefully.
She stops on the path, shoves her glove at me, and whips out her phone. She clears her throat. “Ahem. Spencer Holiday, son of the founder of the well-known jewelry chain Katharine’s, and creator of the popular dating app Boyfriend Material, known for its lack of photos of a certain member of the male anatomy, is betrothed to his business partner and co-owner of the popular bar chain, The Lucky Spot. Charlotte Rhodes is also a Yale graduate, and the ring on her finger is as large as Holiday’s little black book. Looks like he’ll have to burn that list of numbers soon, since the one-time bachelor playboy was using it a few weeks ago. Time to zip it up, Holiday! Check back on Sunday for even more juicy photos and the full story on the engagement.”
Smoke billows out my eyes. I want to find that horse-faced, cub reporter and throttle him. Wait. I hate violence. I’ll play dirty instead, and slather his Facebook page with so many nut shots he has to shut it down.
Not my nuts.
Just nuts. Nutscapes, preferably.
I drag a hand through my hair. “This is everything Dad didn’t want in the papers.” I point to the phone. “And what the hell is he going to add to this on Sunday? He kept pushing about how new it was, and asking when we started dating. Like that’s interesting? But this write-up is just complete crap. Why would the reporter write that stuff? Why do they do that?”
“Because it sells, that’s why. But that’s not why I’m reading the piece to you.”
I hand her the phone and we resume our pace. “Why are you showing it to me?”
“You really don’t know why I read this stuff?”
“Because you like gossip?”
“You’re such an idiot. I do it for you. To look out for you.”
I soften for a moment. “Really? You do it for me?”
“I do. Because you don’t. I look you up online to make sure there’s nothing we have to deal with, and this is something we have to deal with.”
I nod. “Right. We need to figure out how to spin it for Dad.”
She shakes her head. “Wrong again.” She stops once more underneath a magnolia tree that canopies us with lush, green branches. “Look again.” She taps the screen. “Look at this picture.”
I stare at the image. Abe caught the moment when I was sniffing Charlotte’s neck. My face is only half-visible, but Charlotte lights up the screen, radiant and joyful. Her eyes are bright, and I swear I see of a flicker of something in them, but my mind returns briefly to her neck and the way she smelled last night. The scent memory washes over me—peaches. She smelled like peaches and dirty dreams.
Like happiness and desire all at once.
“See what I mean?”
I look at my sister and realize she’s been talking to me as I’ve been drifting off. “What do you mean?”
She pokes my sternum with her index finger. “Don’t break her heart.”
I stare at her like she’s crazy, but for one rare moment, Harper’s blue eyes are serious. There’s no joking, no teasing in them. “I like Charlotte,” she adds, as we walk along the path to the fields. “I know this started as a fake thing, but it’s becoming real. At least for her.”
I start to say for me, too, but I’m too floored by her words—I’m not sure I can form my own. I was so certain Charlotte’s ground rules were genuine, that her intentions were truly just for sex, and that her goal was for us to remain friends after a few fucks. But women have intuition, even my sister. They see things men don’t. “Really?”
Harper rolls her eyes. Ah, my pain-in-the-ass sister is back in full force. “I know this is shocking to you, since your knowledge of love and relationships is woefully limited. You’ve never had a serious relationship.”
“That’s not true,” I say as we resume our path through the park. “I went out with Amanda in college.”
“Oh, well la dee dah. Four months. Whoa. Let me call the record books because that is soooo serious.”
“It felt serious at the time.”
“Spencer, this may surprise you, given the trail of destruction you leave behind, but every now and then, God knows why, a woman might develop real feelings for you when you screw her. Just be careful, especially when it’s someone you care about as a friend,” she says, as we reach the ball field. Nick’s there already, practicing his swing.
A million questions race through my head. I want to sit Harper down and quiz her. To ask her more about Charlotte. But Harper elbows me. She licks her lips and stares salaciously at Nick. “He’s so fucking hot.”
I drop my bat. It hits my toes before I can jump out of the way. “Did aliens just take over your brain?”
“Look. At. Him.” She’s ogling my buddy, who’s wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt. “His arms. Oh my God. They are the definition of arm porn. I’m going to take some pictures to stare at later.”
She starts snapping photos on her phone.
“I’m calling the psych hospital. We’re checking you in,” I say, wincing because my stupid toe smarts now.
Nick catches her gaze and sets his bat on the ground, leaning casually onto it, like he’s some kind of star ball player. “Hey, Harper. You’re looking foxy.”
Foxy? What the hell? Down is up and right is wrong, and New York is falling into the ocean instead of California, because why the hell is my best guy friend hitting on my sister?
Harper juts out a hip coquettishly. She waves at Nick with her fingers and bats her eyelashes. “So are you, hot stuff,” she says, then winks at him before she points at his shirt. “Can you take it off? So I can get another shot.”
“Oh yeah,” he says, sounding like a stripper as he yanks off his T-shirt.
“Yum.” She smacks her lips and mimes making a cat claw. She leans into me and whispers, “I am so going to be visiting him one-handed tonight in my fantasies.”
My eyes pop out of my head, and I clasp her shoulders.
“You have to stop now. We can get you help. There are treatment centers for temporary insanity.”
“There’s no stopping this train,” she says, tossing her glove on the ground. Shoving her cone into my hand, she struts over to Nick, who’s shirtless, his chest and abs on full display. Harper runs her fingernails down his pecs, then locks her arms around his neck.
My fists clench, not because I want to hit Nick, but because some primal brotherly protective instinct is curling through me.
“Dude. Hands off. That’s my sister.”
Harper swivels around. “Gotcha! That’s for ruining Santa Claus for me.”