Chapter 2: Damien

As a colorful profanity cuts the air, I move to the edge of my balcony. A trickle of fear drips down my spine at the heartache in the screamer’s tone, erasing the calm I felt moments ago and setting me on edge. 

I frown when I spot my sexy-as-sin downstairs neighbor. Haylee, Harlow... Her name is something like that. Quirky but strong.

Harper.

Right now, Harper is heaving deep breaths, her head bent, wine sloshing over the rim of her glass. 

I take a swig of my scotch and lean over my railing, studying the petite brunette as her shoulders shake with anger and something else…something that causes my chest to tighten painfully. 

My brother, Charlie, has experienced moments of reckless desperation, more since his engagement ended, and it always hurts to see someone struggle with their pain. 

She shudders out another breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” drops from her mouth like a chant. Or a plea. 

I clear my throat. 

Her body locks down and slowly, she peers up at me. Her eyes—a brilliant blue, like the hottest part of a flame—blaze before she snaps them closed. Her cheeks redden. “How much of that did you hear?”

I blow out a breath, my worry easing at the sass in her tone. “The motherfucker or the fuck, fuck, fuck part?”

She swears again. 

My smirk widens into a smile. “You okay?”

Her eyes open. “What do you think?”

I stare at her. Her eyes are fierce, her hair is pulled up on top of her head, one of those high ponytails that reminds me of cheerleaders in high school. She’s rocking a baggy-ass T-shirt and sheer leggings and still, she’s a ten. A fifteen. 

I shake my scotch, the lone ice cube clinking against the glass. 

My hockey team, the Thunderbolts, didn’t qualify for the Second Round of play-offs. Tomorrow, I have no practice. No mandatory weightlifting. Nothing to do but hang out and enjoy a couple months of summer. 

While I usually avoid female drama, Harper, a woman I’ve eye-fucked from afar for the better part of the past year, seems to be more enticing than theatrical. Definitely someone I can pass time with and enjoy her presence. Get lost in it, maybe in her. 

“I think you should come up for a drink.”

Her eyes widen, her lips parting. Her nose ring, a cerulean stud, glints in the moonlight.

I chuckle. I like that I’ve surprised her. 

She bites her bottom lip, and my chuckle dies because fuck me, she’s sexy. 

“I’m about to finish off a bottle of wine,” she admits slowly. 

“Bring the bottle with you.” I lift an eyebrow. Will she agree or blow me off? 

She tilts her head, as if studying me. “Give me five minutes.” 

“See you in five,” I agree. “Code’s 2413.” I toss out the elevator code since I live in the penthouse.

I wait for her to move back into her apartment before I tear into mine, cleaning it up as best as I can. I toss dirty dishes in the dishwasher. I stuff dirty clothes in the hamper. I tidy the stupid throw pillows my teammate’s girlfriend, Maisy Stratford, purchased to warm up my living space. I may have groaned when she showed up with them, but she was right. Girls appreciate the homey touch. 

The elevator dings, the doors opening. 

I turn to see Harper clutching a bottle of red wine and balancing two takeout containers on one hand. 

“You didn’t have to bring food,” I say, moving toward her and reaching out to take the containers. 

“I’m still eating dinner.” She places the wine bottle on my kitchen counter and surveys my space. “Nice digs.”

“Thanks,” I snort, liking how cool she plays it. Or maybe she’s not impressed at all, which makes me like her even more. 

As an NHL player hailing from old Connecticut money, living in a penthouse, most women like tangling up because of the novelty of my profession or the obvious display of my financial security. But this woman seems more lost in her own thoughts than anything related to me. 

“I’m Harper.” She holds out a hand. “Harper Henderson.”

“I like the alliteration.” I shake her hand. She rolls her eyes. I grin. “Damien Barnes.”

“Nice to meet you. Officially.”

“Yeah.” I move around the kitchen counter to pour her a glass of wine and refill my scotch. “You moved in a year ago, right?”

“A year next month.” She slides onto a barstool and opens the takeout containers. “We’ve got poppers and nachos.”

I place a wine glass in front of her. “This is dinner?”

“For tonight, yeah.”

“Rough day?”

She shrugs one shoulder and bites into a nacho. “You could say that.”

It’s clear she doesn’t want to talk about it and with any other woman, I’d back off. But something about Harper Henderson entices me. “Work stuff?”

She pins me with a look that borders on a glare. “Personal shit.”

“Of the romantic variety?” I press, swiping a jalapeño popper because the season is over and I can indulge in all the shit I usually stay away from. 

Harper sighs. “My ten-year high-school reunion is in two weeks.” 

“Oh.” I chew the popper and nearly choke as the heat of the jalapeño hits me. 

Harper rolls her eyes again and slips from her barstool, moving around me and navigating my kitchen like she’s been here before—shit, has she? Nah, I’d remember if she crashed one of my parties. She passes me a glass of water. 

“Thanks,” I mutter as I gulp it. “You hated high school?” I guess, once my coughing is under control. She doesn’t look like the type to have hated it. She looks like one of the girls who ruled the hallways but…maybe I’m reading her wrong?

“No, I loved it,” she admits, a thread of nostalgia in her tone. 

I lift my eyebrows. 

Amusement flickers in her eyes. “You don’t quit, do you?”

“Never.” I smile. 

She shakes her head, but a little grin plays over her lips. “My high-school boyfriend, the one I dated for most of college and thought I’d marry, hell, everyone in our town had been planning our wedding since we were like twelve—” 

“That guy.” I nod, knowing exactly who she’s talking about. The one who is the standout, golden kid that all the girls want to fuck and all the guys want to emulate. My brother, Charlie, comes to mind. At least, the version of him before his relationship went to hell and he started partying too hard. He can still turn it around but if he keeps going at the pace he is, he’ll end up losing a hell of a lot more than his ex-fiancée and position at Dad’s company. 

“He cheated on me with my childhood best friend the semester I went abroad—”

“Damnnnnn.”

“And then proposed to her.”

“Shit.” I peer at her, hating the ripples of hurt that bleed over her expression. 

Harper sighs. “They called off the wedding. It’s been years and still…I don’t want to see them. Nor do I want to face everyone else from my graduating class as they stare at me, waiting to see how I react. Do I greet Anna with a hug? Do I ignore Sean? Do I inquire about their personal lives?” 

“Just…don’t go,” I offer. 

She snaps her fingers, pointing at me as she sips her wine. Her elbow falls off the countertop and I bite back my chuckle. Harper Henderson is tipsy and it’s pretty adorable. “Exactly. I was going to decline but my mom—” 

I groan knowing what’s coming. 

“She RSVP’d for me.”

“Your mom should meet mine,” I commiserate, sipping my scotch. 

Harper snorts. “Yeah, well she’s RSVP’d to Anna’s mom, and included an imaginary plus-one I now need to pull out of my ass like freaking Houdini.” She drains her wine glass. 

I tip my head to check out her ass. “Your ass is much nicer.” 

She laughs, her eyes flashing. I straighten, the sound of her laughter hitting me hard. It’s a strong laugh with a thread of breathlessness, and already I want to hear it again. I clear my throat. “That shit’s harsh,” I agree, feeling bad for Harper because she seems so stressed, genuinely worried about rocking up to this reunion at all, never mind solo. 

She moves to refill her glass but the bottle’s drained, so I uncork another one, passing her a full glass. “The reunion is here, in Knoxville?”

“Thanks.” She accepts the wine. “Yeah, I grew up about twenty minutes from here. They were supposed to hold it downtown at the Premier Hotel—” 

“Fancy.”

She smirks. “But there are so many people coming in from out of town that want to see our school again so…it’s just at my old high school. Like homecoming and prom.” A wistful look crosses her face. “A throwback kinda night.” 

I drop my elbows to the top of the island, moving into her personal space. 

Harper looks up, her eyes holding mine prisoner, but she doesn’t back away. She waits me out, and God, I like it. Her fire, her challenge, her. 

“You should take me.”

Her eyes flare in disbelief before she laughs. “What?”

“I’ll be your plus-one.” I pluck a nacho and stuff it in my mouth before I move even closer, drawn to her plush lips, the scent of her skin. Coconut and sunshine. 

She narrows her eyes at me, shifting closer, our faces inches apart. “Seriously?” Her tone is breathy, laced with disbelief and a halting kind of hope that makes my heart hurt for her. 

This is the last woman that should be publicly humiliated for falling for the wrong guy. One who clearly doesn’t deserve her. 

“Seriously,” I say, committing to the event. What do I have to lose? It’s the kind of thing I’ve done for friends or teammates’ little sisters and cousins in the past. I’m an exceptional plus-one and have proved it at countless weddings, a few charity galas, and once, a funeral. 

Harper’s hands dart out and she grips my T-shirt. She tugs me over the countertop and I stumble forward, caught off guard. Surprise rips through me as her mouth lands on mine. 

I grab her upper arms to keep from falling forward on the counter. A warning rolls through my mind—she’s vulnerable, tipsy, overwhelmed—but then her tongue runs along the seam of my lips, and I part them, falling into the kiss faster than I volunteered to be her date. 

She kisses me hard and I shift, my hand cupping her cheek as I angle her head. I move around the counter, and she turns into me, her thighs parting for me to step between them. She doesn’t break our connection and neither do I. Instead, I savor her lips, this kiss. 

Harper pulls me under. She’s equal parts soft and hard, sweet and fierce. She’s intoxicating and confusing. Captivating and complicated. 

She pulls back and I release her, my hand slipping down her arm until I can hold on to her wrist. 

“You can still back out,” she offers. 

And I laugh. The sound surprises both of us because it’s so sincere. “I’m not going to back out, Harper.”

“But”—her brow furrows—“what’s in it for you?” Her cheeks blaze the moment the words are out of her mouth as her gaze darts down. 

Immediately, I feel like a piece of shit. I drop her wrist and shuffle back a few steps, gripping the back of my neck. “Look, that kiss was hot, but we never have to kiss or touch again. I’m coming because…we’re neighbors.”

She arches an eyebrow, as if she doesn’t believe me. 

“And I’m a Good Samaritan,” I continue. 

She smirks. 

“I’ve been checking you out hard for nearly a year.”

Her eyes narrow. “Yet you’ve never done anything about it.”

I laugh again. Damn, this woman is surprising. Refreshing. “That’s because of my job. And…your proximity,” I admit. My focus is on hockey all the time. I only indulge in hook-ups, and sleeping with a woman who lives on the floor beneath mine is a type of drama I’ve learned to steer clear from. “Look, I’ve got nothing going on for the next two months. Most of my teammates headed back to their hometowns for the summer and—”

“Your teammates?” 

Seriously? I bite my tongue before I voice that. “I play hockey.”

She stares at me blankly. 

I laugh again. Who is this girl? “For the Thunderbolts.”

Understanding dawns and she chuckles, shaking her head. “Really?”

“Left wing.”

“Wow, I, um, had no idea.” She tilts her head, her eyes latched to mine. “Are you sure you want to show up to a high-school reunion with me? People will talk.”

I shrug. “I don’t put much stock in what people think.”

“I wish I was more like you,” she says, a thread of hurt in her tone. 

“I think you’re pretty great the way you are.”

“You don’t really know me.”

“No,” I agree. “But I’ve got two weeks to learn as much as I can.”

“If we do this, go to the reunion together, I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable or obligated to—”

“I’ll be the best fake boyfriend you’ve ever had,” I promise, going above and beyond to prove—what? That she deserves better? More than what she had in the past? I close the space between us and drop my hand to her knee. “Listen, I don’t do relationships. There are no big complications in my life. I don’t have a girlfriend. The guys on my team, and their girls, will tell you that I’m fun to hang with. I’m not going to overthink this one way or the other. You need a date, and I can be that for you. I can already tell we’ll have a good time. It will be fun night and”—I pause, shrugging—“at the very least, we’re neighbors who could be friends.” I point out to the balcony. “I see you, drinking on your balcony, every time I’m drinking on mine.” 

“We could be drinking buddies,” she surmises, a hint of a smile on her face. 

“We could be something, Harper.”

“Starting as a fake couple.” She bites her bottom lip again. 

I hold up my scotch. “We’ll be relationship goals.” 

She laughs and clinks her glass against mine. “Okay, let’s do it. Thank you, Damien.”

I smile, liking how my name sounds in her voice. Liking how she looks at me with admiration instead of reverence. 

“To high-school reunions,” I say, tipping back my glass. 

Harper laughs again and it’s like music, sweeter than anything I’ve heard in a long time.