Chapter 2: Connor

Loitering in the hallway like a creep, the muffled sounds of Harlow’s sobs rip through me.

What a fucking dick. I hate men who can’t just be straight up. You want to fuck around? Don’t be in a serious relationship. You want a constant in your life? A woman to make your house a home, a woman you can slide into bed next to every night? Then be worthy of her. 

Besides, who in their right mind would step out on a woman like Harlow?

My hands clench into fists as I pace the hallway, unsure what the hell to do. I hate that Low is hurting. Fucking hate it. But I also can’t pretend like I haven’t been the cause of her hurt in the past. I can’t ignore the fact that me seeing her fall apart is embarrassing for both of us. Her, because she doesn’t want to lose face in front of me. And me, because I don’t want to cause her anymore grief. 

For months, our hooking up was casual, fun, and so damn hot I craved it, her, more than any other woman. But when she told me she wanted more — the feelings and future of a real relationship — I pulled back. I knew if I didn’t end it with her right then, she’d shrink her world to fit into mine. Harlow Reid is meant to do big things. Staying in Chicago to be the girlfriend of a has-been MMA fighter isn’t one of them. Still, I had no idea that ending our thing would spur her to disappear from my life overnight. Or that she wouldn’t talk to me unless she absolutely had to for the next two fucking years. 

A whimper sounds through the door, and I wince. 

I can’t just walk away. Not when the sounds of her sobs are ripping through my chest. Not when the image of her with tears in her eyes, her shoulders curving forward, is glaring in my head. 

I don’t know what the protocol is when a woman you care for is hurting because another man did her wrong, but I know I’m about to break ranks. 

Posting up against the wall opposite the bathroom, I give Harlow a few more moments to herself. Where she’s concerned, walking away has always been my default mode. I’m consistent like that. From the first time I saw her, bright green eyes, an infectious laugh, and a presence that charged the air with energy, altering the atmosphere of any room she entered, I knew she was too damn good for me. We never had a chance. 

Harlow could be a Hollywood darling. She deserves it. 

And me? I’m a washed-up, nobody who relied on my street smarts and my fists to get to the ripe old age of thirty-one. Glancing down, I scoff at my split knuckles, calloused fingers, and misshapen hands. Too many fractures. Too much temper. 

Reckless, determined, and demanding, I’m absolutely nothing like Golden Boy. But I always knew Harlow would end up with someone like him. I was the dark, mysterious, alpha she killed time with in her twenties. Girls like Harlow don’t end up with guys like me. At least, the smart ones don’t. And Harlow’s one of the most intelligent people I know. 

Her crying subsides on the other side of the door and some of the pressure in my chest alleviates, like helium escaping a balloon. 

Harlow Reid. The one who got away. 

Nope, the one you pushed away, you dumb ass. 

When I entered Eli’s kitchen and my eyes slammed into hers, I couldn’t believe she was really here. Even though I never ask Eli outright about her, he’s offered enough glimpses into her life over the past few months to bitch about the guy, Bryce Hawke, she’s altering herself for. Eli had no problem telling me that Harlow’s new love interest wasn’t worth a damn. 

“Self-centered and egotistical prick. I know the type.  He’s going to take everything from her and give nothing in return,” my best friend ranted one night after Zoe expressed worry about Harlow’s relationship. 

The more serious their commitment became, the harder it was to avoid. Every fucking magazine in the grocery store checkout aisle advertised their perfect romance.  I even bought a copy once because Harlow looked breathtaking on the cover. It was a candid. She still looked like herself — effortless, flawless, undeniably sexy — and nothing like the woman sipping a mimosa in the kitchen this morning. 

Even before she received the message that made her cry, she was too stiff, too standoffish.  Her hair is lighter, with more blond than the last time I saw her. She’s thinner too, lean like all those California girls who look airbrushed even when they’re trying to be real. 

But worse than appearing every bit the L.A. socialite she swore she’d never become, was the way she looked at me. Disinterested, almost bored. Like we’ve never shared a history. Like I don’t know she has a birthmark shaped like a star on her right hip. Like I’m not the person who held her when she broke down after her mom checked into rehab for the fourth time. Like I’m not the man who can bring her to the brink of her goddamn sanity. Her aloofness struck a chord, squashing my party mood and filling my stomach with anger and disappointment. I hate that she looked through me without looking at me.  I especially hate that I made it this way between us. 

Pushing off the wall, a wave of frustration rolling through me, I step to the bathroom door. This is stupid. I’m not going to stand in the hallway, waiting for Harlow to decide if she wants to talk.  She’s crying at a three-year-old’s birthday party, for fuck’s sake. Clearly, she needs to talk to someone. 

Right now, with Zoe greeting guests and Eli starting the festivities, I’m her best option.

I lift my hand to knock on the door when it swings open. 

Surprised, I falter as she slams into me. My arms wrap around her to keep her from falling. Unexpectedly, she crumbles in my embrace, her strength leaving her as she sags against my chest.

Shit. The gleeful yelling of preschoolers grows closer.  Without overthinking it, I walk Harlow backward into the bathroom, kicking the door closed behind us. We’re no sooner concealed in the powder room than her tears start up again and I hold her tighter. 

Harlow breaks apart in my arms. Witnessing her anguish causes my throat to close, until swallowing is difficult. Anger builds in my bloodstream. I’m furious at pansy-ass Bryce for causing Harlow pain. I’m pissed at the media for blindsiding her. But most of all, I’m angry with myself for not being enough for her when she asked me to be. Now, instead of drowning in her bright green eyes and hearing the music of her laughter, I’m comforting her as she collapses from the betrayal of the man she loves. 

“Shh, you’re okay,” I whisper into her hair, my hand cradling the back of her head. 

She hiccups against my chest and I smile, relishing the sound since it’s the most real Harlow’s been with me in years. 

“I got you, Low.” 

“I’m sorry,” she wails. “I’m ruining your shirt.”

Snorting, I try to bite back my laughter.  She must sense it because she pulls back, looking up at me with puffy eyes and a red-tipped nose. 

I grin, “That’s what’s ripping you up? My shirt?”

Her eyes simultaneously narrow and fill with tears.  I reach out and crush her back against my chest. “Let it out, babe. I promise not to sell your secrets to the tabloids.”

She groans, smacking my ribs. 

I hold her tighter.  Little by little, she relaxes in my embrace. I don’t know how long we  spend hugging, but when I catch sight of us in the huge bathroom mirror, I like our reflection more than I should. 

Petite in stature but larger than life in personality, Harlow still fits perfectly against me. Her blonde hair pops against the tanned skin of my forearms, a consequence of working odd construction jobs while trying to keep my gym afloat. While she’s pristine, I’m flawed. Where she’s outgoing, I’m introverted. But when we’re together, everything slows and I hold onto the moment for as long as she’ll let me. 

Harlow pulls back, wiping the backs of her knuckles against her eyes. When she catches her reflection, she blanches. “I look terrible,” she murmurs, reaching for her purse and pulling out a makeup bag. 

I plop down on the closed toilet seat, silently watching as she pulls out compacts and tubes of gunk. 

“What are you doing?” I ask as she dabs some goo under her eyes. 

“Fixing my face.”

“Your face looks better without all that shit on it.”

She glares at me, tossing the tube onto the vanity. “I’m a mess.” 

She sounds defeated. Slumping to the floor, she rests against the wall and looks up at me. Vulnerability flares in her eyes. It’s such a relief to see a real expression that I move to sit beside her, my legs cramping in the small space. 

“Low, you’re a lot of things, but you’re never a mess.” I place a hand on her knee.  The smoothness of her skin sends a ripple of awareness through me. 

Harlow Reid is all woman. Smooth, soft skin, curvy lines, and sweet angles. She’s always been beautiful. Not just because of her looks — which are goddamn gorgeous — but because of her heart. 

She rests her head on my shoulder, her pretenses from the kitchen disappearing. “My boyfriend cheated on me and the entire world knows.”

I squeeze her knee. 

“I was going to marry him,” she admits, her tone unreadable. 

Her confession rocks me to my core. A blinding type of anger — at Hawke, at Low, at my damn self — blazes, making my skin burn. “You were going to marry that limp dick?” 

Harlow freezes next to me but I don’t care. 

“What the hell were you thinking? The Golden Boy? Really, Low? What’d you want to spend your life following him around until he bored you to death?”

“What do you mean?” she asks, her tone more curious than the defensive anger I expected. 

I glare at her, my hand sliding up over her dress to rest on her hip. “Harlow Reid, you deserve a hell of a lot more than spending your life overshadowed by a man’s ego. Golden Boy? He only thinks about himself, his career. If he cared about you, he would never put you in the position of learning of his goddamn infidelity in a fucking tweet.”

“It was a blog.”

“Whatever. He’s a dick.”

“I feel so stupid.”  Her eyes close and she settles back against the wall. . 

“Why? He’s the stupid one. He lost you.”

“Everyone knows,” she whispers, her fingers twisting her nose piercing the way she does when she’s nervous, uncomfortable, or thinking through something. 

“Who’s everyone, Low? A bunch of people in L.A. you don’t even care about?”

She whirls on me, her eyes blazing. “What do you mean, people I don’t care about? It’s been two years, Connor. You don’t know me anymore.”

“Yes, I do,” I say without hesitation. “I know it’s been a minute, Low, but I know you.” 

She scoffs, shaking her head. “I have a life, a career that I’ve built —” 

“Overseeing losers who try to find love on airplanes in front of a camera?” I cut her off, referencing her position as host on some bullshit reality television show where contestants make absolute asses of themselves thirty-thousand feet in the sky. 

Harlow bristles, jumping to her feet. “At least those people are trying, Connor. At least I’m trying. I put myself out there and yeah, I’m fucking humiliated right now. I’m ashamed and embarrassed and feel so damn stupid. Especially since of all the people in the world to watch me get cut off at the knees, it has to be you.” She jabs a finger at me. 

I sit up straighter, absorbing her anger and hating it at the same time. “Harlow—”

“No. You don’t get to sit here, all sanctimonious, and judge strangers for trying to find love. Is that so horrible? To not want to spend your life entirely alone? I mean, fine, clearly I suck at it, but at least I try.” With a grunt, she shovels her belongings back into her purse.  

“Low, wait a minute.” I stand, blocking the door.  “I didn’t mean you.”

“Didn’t you, though? What makes me any different than any of those people on the show? My life is imploding in real time for everyone to pick apart, just like them, and all because I want to believe that I’m enough for someone.”

The hurt behind her words, coupled with her dejected expression, causes the second shockwave. She doesn’t think she’s enough? Jesus Christ. 

I fight the urge to chuckle. The issue is that she’s too damn much. 

She narrows her eyes at me, as if daring me to laugh. As usual, she’s got the reasoning all wrong. 

I clear my throat, “I’m sorry.”

“What?” 

“I apologize.”

“I know. I just, I wanted to hear it again.”

I hold out my arms again, desperate to hold her. “C’mere.”

“Connor.” She  shuffles from one foot to the other, her indignation burning out as quickly as it flared. 

“I’m an asshole and I don’t know how to do this, but I want to try.”

“Try what?” she asks, a flicker of panic ringing her irises. 

“To cheer you up.”

A snort escapes her nose as a small smile tugs at her lips. “If that’s your goal, you suck at it.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m smirking.”

“C’mere, Low.”

Rolling her eyes, she steps into my embrace and I wrap her up tight, savoring the feel of her in my arms.