CHAPTER ELEVEN
A few days later, I’m pretty sure I’m going to lose my mind before Saturday rolls around. Harlow has been quiet. Preoccupied. She won’t sleep next to or with me. I’m frustrated and jacked up as hell. It’s been a long week without her—without touching her, without drowning inside her. I’m losing my mind.
Yesterday, we started another speech assessment—the most conversation we’ve had since I blurted that I want to marry her. This test is more physical and nonverbal than the previous ones. She stopped midway through to ask me questions about my proposal. Sharp, direct queries. I knew instantly she meant to ramp up my anxiousness to see how I’d perform. But when she hinted that she was leaning toward a no, I froze up and lost my shit. With a growl of frustration at this fucking unpredictable deficiency and her aloofness, I stomped out of the room.
Harlow tracked me down an hour later pumping iron in the home gym with an apology and a confession that she hadn’t meant any of those less-than-subtle suggestions. The honest truth was, she’s still thinking and she feels terrible for using our relationship to try to put me on edge. When she kissed my cheek, I knew she meant it. I also know she understands how much I want her in my life.
That woman having such a hold on my heart is unsettling, but I can’t change it.
“Hey, Noah.” She strolls into my office the next evening all dolled up in a sundress, wedge sandals, lip gloss, and curls. She’s slung her purse over one shoulder.
I remove my earbuds and pause the game commentary I’ve been studying. “What’s going on? Going somewhere?”
She nods. “Keeley is picking me up for happy hour and a little karaoke. She’s convinced I need to get out. I think they just want to grill me about why I’ve been quiet lately.”
I’d like to do the same, but I have to respect her space for another four days. Marriage—even for a year—is a big decision.
“Be home for dinner?”
“I don’t know. Depends on how crazy my sisters-in-law get. I’ll call you once I know.”
I’d rather not eat alone and I don’t love the fact that she’s going to a bar while she looks so beautiful, but she’s an adult. And I just want to marry her, not control her. “I’d appreciate that. Thanks.”
With a nod and an awkward pause, she’s gone. I miss the easy conversation we used to share. I wonder if proposing was a colossal error on my part. I don’t regret it, exactly. But I wonder if, instead of moving us forward, she sees marriage as a threat to her independence or heart that is only setting us back.
Sighing, I stand. I hate the not knowing, and I swear I’ll lose my mind before she puts me out of my misery—one way or the other.
Once she’s gone, I prowl around the house. It feels huge and empty without her. It’s still too big for two people, but when Harlow is here, she’s humming as she cooks, shouting at the enemies on her video game as she’s playing, or blasting music as she lies by the pool. This place is full of life when she’s under my roof.
If she goes, it will be empty as hell. I have no idea what I’ll do with this huge house. We haven’t been together even two weeks, but it feels as if she belongs here and I’ll be the interloper if I have to be here alone.
I pace, trying to imagine another scenario. What will our house feel like if Harlow lives here as my wife, round with our baby? Instantly, I’m hard and aching and wishing she’d decided to stay in so I could remind her of some of the ways we’re best together. The last week without making love to her feels more like a year.
I need to stop this train of thought or I’ll spend the entire evening in misery.
Flipping on the game console, I launch myself into the Middle English-style adventure and am just completing a side quest when I hear the slam of a car door. Who got onto the estate and how? The only people who are approved are family—hers and mine. Trace is working today. My mother doesn’t like to drive the windy roads out to here. Harlow is with her sisters-in-law. By process of elimination, I’m not surprised when Maxon and Griff stroll into the family room through the open patio door.
“Knock, knock.” Maxon raps his knuckles on the doorframe, then lounges against it negligently.
“Hey. Come in.” I suck in a deep breath and try to calm my nerves. They know I’ve had issues, so it wouldn’t be a shock if I stopped talking, but without Harlow here to interpret and referee, this might get ugly.
“Sorry to drop in unannounced,” Griff says. “But when our wives said they were going to take Harlow out and shamelessly grill her for information about you two, we thought we’d chat with you about a few things.”
Meaning they want to shamelessly grill me for information, as well.
“Sure.” This sounds like an opportunity for me to sputter and choke, but I plaster a smile on my face and pretend that it’s going to be great. “Beer?”
“I’ll take one,” Griff calls as he sits on the sofa.
“I guess I’ll take water. My brother manipulated me into being the DD.” When Griff flashes Maxon a grin, the older Reed grumbles. “Bastard.”
After I get everyone situated, I turn the game and the TV off and sit in the chair opposite. “What’s up?”
“We talked to Evan yesterday,” Maxon informs me. “Over the phone. His story checks out. I even got brave and called my mother to ask her for information. She confirmed some of the story, so I think he’s legit. We all agree to submit DNA swabs to be sure. The results should come back by the end of the week. But if he’s really our brother…I guess the family just got bigger.”
“Great.” Why tell me?
“Did Evan say anything else to you at the airport?” Maxon quizzes.
“Just that his mom had been your dad’s assistant and that she died when he was five. Your dad wanted nothing to do with him, so he became a ward of the state. I’m guessing he grew up in the foster system.” I shrug. “That’s it.”
“Google confirmed all that, too. But there’s more.”
“Apparently, he’s the founder and CEO of one of the fastest-growing tech infrastructure businesses in the U.S. He’s worth billions.”
“At twenty-five? Impressive.”
“I don’t know a Reed who isn’t ambitious. It’s been bred into us all. We come out wanting to conquer the world,” Maxon says, and he’s only half joking.
“Evan did say something about wanting to move himself and his operations to Hawaii. I’m surprised. This isn’t a high-tech Mecca. Then again, he mentioned wanting family.”
“That he doesn’t know? It seems sudden,” Maxon mused. “But maybe it’s an orphan thing.”
I frown. “When he approached me in the airport, he didn’t explain why.”
“Until we figure it out, we’re approaching him cautiously. Clearly, he doesn’t want money from us, but he wants something. If he’s looking for close-knit camaraderie from the Reed clan, he’s going to be shit out of luck.”
It’s probably none of my business, but if Harlow says yes to my proposal, I’ll be the man who stands up with and for her. I just hope by opening my mouth, I’m not sticking my foot in it. “Your sister certainly thinks so, guys. The fact that you knew about Evan and Bethany but didn’t tell her really upset her.”
Maxon sits up straighter. “We just wanted to protect—”
“I know. She even admitted that in your shoes, she might have done the same.” I feel my brain slowing. My jaw freezing. It’s suddenly fucking hot in here, and I feel sweat breaking out across my neck and chest. But I manage to get a few more words out. “She was pissed.”
Griff sighs, then looks at his brother. “I told you…”
“Fuck. Harlow is so independent. She used to be easygoing and rolled with the punches like a pro,” Maxon insists. “Something changed after she went to college.”
“Yeah, she grew up and realized she had an identity of her own.” Griff shakes his head as if Maxon is an idiot.
“Maybe.” The elder Reed doesn’t sound convinced. “So is that why she’s dodging my calls right now? She’s annoyed that we didn’t loop her in about Evan?”
“Probably.” I refuse to candy-coat the truth. But I have to go for broke here. If I can bring Harlow back together with her brothers and enlist their help at once, I’d score big. Besides, they’re going to find out sooner or later. But to have this conversation I have to talk.
I drag in a steadying breath, wait a few moments, hoping my state will improve.
The brothers exchange a glance.
“It’s cool, man. We’re not mad,” Maxon assures. “You’re just being honest. Relax.”
Griff nods. “Exactly. We did this to ourselves. I can’t blame you at all. Just say what’s on your mind when you’re ready.”
Eyes closed, I nod and feel myself slowly let go of the stress. Finally, I feel everything that tensed up release.
“I asked your sister to marry me.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Neither Reed brother moves or blinks, just stares at me. Do they want to beat the shit out of me or just think I’m certifiably insane?
Finally, Maxon rakes a hand over the top of his short, spiked hair. “I’d say you’re fucking kidding us…but I can see you’re not.”
I shake my head.
“She said no.” Griff sounds as if he’s sure of that.
With a jerk of my head, I refute him. “She’s said she’ll give me an answer this weekend.”
Another exchanged glance. Now they look impressed.
I don’t mention how badly she wants a baby. If I do, one—or both—of them may plant their fist in my face.
“I’m shocked she didn’t give you a full-out fuck no,” Maxon admits. “Especially after Mercedes Fleet cropped up.”
“I don’t know that woman,” I insist. “I didn’t fuck her. I’ve never even met her.”
Neither brother says a word. No idea if they’re convinced. I don’t have proof, just the truth.
“So why do you want to marry Harlow? As a shield from the press?”
“Hell no.” Don’t they get it?
“Well, it’s not for the speech therapy. You can get more experienced help with that anywhere.” Griff sips his beer. “So why?”
“Keeping it real? I’ve never been in love, but I’m pretty sure I am now. That notion scares the shit out of your sister. Why? And why doesn’t she believe in love? Your wives both suggested I look at her relationship with your parents.”
Neither brother seems to want to look at me for a long moment, then Griff sighs. “Probably a good place to start.”
Maxon turns a shade of dull red. “Yeah.”
Like talking to their sister, there’s a wealth of information in what Maxon and Griff aren’t saying. I wonder what they’ve endured with their parents.
“Maybe I should meet them.”
Both brothers look at me in horror. “No!”
“Why would you want to do that?” Maxon spits.
“It’s insane,” Griff confirms. “And they’ll just spend time figuring out how they can use you to their advantage. Trust me, if they did something to Harlow, they’ll never own up to it, much less apologize.”
There’s a family history here I don’t understand. Maybe I never will. But they’re the experts.
I shrug. “I have to try something. Talking to Harlow can be like talking to a wall.”
“Another Reed family trait,” Griff quips.
Maxon nods. “I keep coming back to that first year of college. I noticed it that Christmas when I flew home for the holidays. Have you asked her about that time of her life?”
“No. I can try.” But she’s not speaking to me a lot right now, and if I interrogate her too much before she answers my proposal, I’m pretty certain her maybe will become a quick no.
“Don’t. Let me get the girls to see what they can pry out of her. More soon.” Maxon claps me on the back, then texts Keeley.
Griff sends off a quick message to Britta and quickly gets a reply. “They’re on it.”
It strikes me then that her brothers are actually on my side. “Thanks. You want Harlow to marry me?”
Neither says anything for a long moment. Finally Griff breaks the silence. “We want Harlow happy. As soon as I met Simon Butler, I knew he wasn’t going to do the job.”
Maxon nods. “He’s too much like Dad in all the worst ways.”
“But I think maybe you can make her happy,” Griff says. “I’ve seen Harlow with boyfriends and lovers over the years. I’ve never seen her quite as in tune with one as she seems to be with you. There’s something between you two. And frankly, if she didn’t feel something for you, she would have given zero fucks about Mercedes Fleet and told you to shove your marriage proposal on the spot.”
He’s right. That whole paying attention to what Harlow doesn’t say works for everything she’s hiding, not just her secrets.
“Exactly,” Maxon seconds. “And if sex brought you together, keep giving it to her, man. Don’t give Harlow too much time to catch her breath. Or think.”
I choke on my sip of beer.
“Never give her space,” Griff agrees with a nod. “With a woman like her, you have to stay one step ahead.”
Finally I manage to swallow. “She won’t like me in her face all the time.”
“You’re right. That’s not what I mean.” Maxon shakes his head and scoffs. “Just focus on keeping her sated and smiling. Because as much as the Reeds are allergic to emotion, they’re addicted to sex.”
I’m totally happy with that approach. I have the upper hand in bed. So if I can make that advantage work in my favor, then hell yeah. It’s on. And I’ll do my best to pleasure her into saying yes.
On Friday afternoon, I’m having trouble sitting across from Harlow in the home office. She’s scanning her notes, absently piling her dark hair in a loose topknot and securing it with a pencil. The red bikini top she wore when we first met cradles her lush breasts. A moment later, she stands, and the flowing floral sarong around her hips emphasizes everything about her that’s both delicate and curvy. I barely notice when she opens a thick tome, flips through, her brows knitting in a frown of concentration.
Even after getting out with the girls on Tuesday, she’s distant. Maxon and Griff said their wives got zero information out of Harlow except a polite clap after Keeley finished singing. Harlow successfully dodged me most of Wednesday for meetings with some local therapists. On Thursday, we completed the assessment we hadn’t earlier in the week. This morning, I had a TV interview with a local station on behalf of a nearby food bank. If it hadn’t been for the generosity of others after my dad died, I might not have had three meals a day. I give faithfully and encourage others to do the same. After that, I had to run an important errand that required me to make a few phone calls so I could have a little privacy.
Finally home, I sit across from Harlow and watch her, wondering what the devil that woman is thinking under her studious facade.
“Baby?”
Head stuck in a book, she holds up a finger. “Almost done. I want to get this right since I know we’re working against the clock.”
She’s not wrong about that. Cliff called me again yesterday to update me on the Mercedes Fleet situation. The woman wants me to acknowledge her baby and pay child support. I’ve refused. The news is still making waves on social media and in the sports world. My agent wants me to accept the deal before the network retracts it. I can’t until I know whether I’ll actually be able to fulfill the role. But I want the job so bad. I love football. I want to stay in the game however I can. Not to relive my glory days. I was never into that. This sport is in my blood. I know these players. I understand how the game is played better than most. I think NFL fans are the best, most loyal people. I’m not ready to walk away from any of it.
A few minutes later, Harlow sets the book aside. She sits across from me, clasps her hands, and levels a serious look my way. “Here’s what I’ve come up with. You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” But am I? My stomach knots. Sure, her diagnosis could fill in the gaps, help me understand so I can move forward. This information might also terrify me with how hopeless my situation is.
“You might have some residual lapses in speech following your last concussion. I’m not discounting that possibility,” she says. “I think it’s more likely, however, that because you lost your ability to speak for a short time after your injury, you associate it with being unable to play the game any longer. That’s a source of anxiety for you. And because of that, you found it hard to announce your retirement at your post-Super Bowl interview. The fact that you were unable to filled you with more anxiety, and something in your head clicked. The association was set. So when you get into tense situations, you have the disconnect between your brain and your mouth. It works the same with being really tired because I’m guessing that after the Super Bowl you were exhausted.”
“You think I’m crazy?” That’s what she’s come up with?
She finally cracks a smile and looks at me with soft understanding. “No. And you’re not defective, either. Nearly forty million Americans suffer with some form of anxiety, so you’re hardly alone. I suspect your anxiety is a post-traumatic thing. It wasn’t so much the concussion that disturbed you as it was your inability to speak afterward. Am I right?”
“Yeah.”
“So that’s it. When you start to experience anxiety, you associate the loss of speech with that, so the symptom kicks in. When you’re calm and rested, it doesn’t happen.”
I get what she’s saying but… “So you do think I’m crazy?”
“No,” she assures, taking my hand.
It’s the most contact we’ve had in days. I clutch her fingers in mine.
“What I think is that the loss of your career was something you weren’t prepared for. Coupled with your injuries, which caused the problem, your anxiousness about the changes in your life are manifesting in this way. I’ve suspected this for a while, but I wanted to validate my thoughts, so my professors helped me to reach out to some people, a few even local, so I could get different perspectives. This is pretty much the consensus.” Harlow rises and comes around the desk, never releasing my hand, before she sidles up to me and curls herself in my lap. “What this means is, we should experiment with ways to keep your anxiety and stress levels down—exercise, diet, meditation—that sort of thing. If we can’t control it with those methods, we look at psychotherapy or medication. We search for what works.”
I pull her into my arms and hold her close, closing my eyes to let her words sink in. I’m overwhelmed. It sounds as if this process won’t be overnight. What if it takes months—or years—to work? I don’t have that long. I need results now. “I’m not ready to turn down the job.”
I’m barely able to get the words out. I feel both hot and frozen. The world is quaking beneath me, but I’m utterly unable to move.
“It’s way too early for you to do that. And if the network job won’t work for you, maybe you continue to cover football in writing. You’ll find a way. But you’re going to be fine. We’ll work to keep improving your response, see if we can disassociate the stress with your loss of speech. I don’t know how. This isn’t my exact area of expertise, but I’m here.” She meets my gaze. “And I’m sorry I tried to run out on you last week. We have an agreement, and I’m committed to helping you however I can.”
Harlow doesn’t say anything about my proposal. She still has until tomorrow to answer me, so I don’t push. I can’t help but think about how much easier it would be to handle my condition if I knew she was going to be around for at least a year—and maybe for a lifetime.
“So…what do we do now?”
“I’m making arrangements to tweak the groceries coming in. You should eat a lean diet of turkey and other tryptophan-rich foods, beef and anything else rich in B vitamins, salmon, whole grains, blueberries and bananas, all kinds of green and leafy veggies. You need to avoid processed sugar…” She winces. “And caffeine.”
“No coffee?” The rest of the diet sounds fairly normal, but lack of java is a major issue.
“We’ll wean you off, but it would be best if you started your day with a chamomile or green tea.” She looks apologetic, and I have to remember that she’s trying to help, not kill me. “We’ll make sure you get sunlight every day. I want to try starting and ending your day with meditation. You already get exercise. How’s your sleep?”
Without her beside me? “Surprisingly shitty lately.”
“We’ll try some valerian drops or capsules. If you’ve had adequate sleep, then—”
“I’ll sleep better if I have you beside me.”
I don’t mean it to sound like emotional blackmail. She might take my words that way, but I’m simply giving her the truth.
Harlow pauses. Her arms tighten around my neck, and I feel her stiffen. “All right. If that’s what you need, I’ll be there.”
I hold her tighter and bury my face in her neck. No, she can’t help me, but somehow when I’m with her I feel so much more calm and whole.
Guess it’s that love thing.
“Thank you. When do we get started?”
She pulls back and gives me a tremulous smile. But I feel her shaking and I don’t understand.
Her voice is almost too chipper. “No time like the present. Let’s do it.”