Harper Styles can't believe she's really doing this. It's one thing to take
a job as an escort to pay her way through college. It's another thing to
fly to Ohio and pretend to be some stranger's girlfriend so he can get
through a wedding without his family climbing all over him. She's
outside of the airport when she meets possibly the most beautiful man
she's ever seen. Later, in the first class lounge, she realizes that this man
is her client—Slate, world-famous drummer for Black Lilith. Slate
needs a girlfriend to deflect his parents' attention from his womanizing,
rockstar lifestyle. Unable to convince his best friends to lend him their
girlfriends, he's resorted to hiring an escort to pretend to be his lover
and smooth the rough relationship he has with his family. She asks him
for his real name, but he gives her a coy smile that makes her weak at
the knees. He also makes it absolutely clear that he will not sleep with a
woman he's paying. As long as she's technically his employee, he will
not take advantage. But the chemistry between them is immediate.
Harper can be anything a man needs, but she's starting to realize that
what Slate really needs is a woman to break through his walls.

Harper needs a smoke before she kills someone.
Her fingers shake a little as she steps out of the cab and onto the curb
outside of JFK Airport. She'd spent most of the drive staring out the
window, desperate for something—
Anything to calm her nerves. But they just got louder and more
insistent when she starting seeing planes in the air and buses with
'Airport Express' written on them. She was really doing this.
The cabby hands her the purple carry-on she'd packed hastily that
morning. She thanks him. It's a bit chilly, even for New York in March,
and she pulls her coat tighter around her neck as she fishes in her back
pocket for the cabby's tip.
"Thanks, sweetheart," he says, giving her a wink.
For a moment Harper panics. Does he know? Is he expecting—
But then he's gone, and Harper forces herself to relax. She's got a heavy
black jacket on, and beneath it is a simple flannel and blue jeans. Her
black hair is done in gentle waves. She deliberately went for an
all-American girl look this morning, even forgoing makeup beyond a
little light concealer to hide the sleepless night she'd had. No one can
tell what she's doing here. And even if they could, there's nothing to be
ashamed of. Lots of girls take jobs to put themselves through college,
and even though this job isn't the sort of job she'd tell her grandmother
about, she refuses to let herself feel ashamed, or dirty, or any of the
other words that come to mind when people hear the word 'escort.'

God, I need that smoke.
She heads for the Departures door and makes a quick detour to the
gaggle of people waiting outside, their shoulders hunched in the cold
and their fingers curled around cigarettes. There's a garbage bin
overflowing with butts and a general air of desperation as these people
suck up as much nicotine as they can before they have to get on a flight.
Harper isn't addicted—she's a casual, nervous smoker. No personal
trainer worth her salt would have anything more than a casual fling
with cigarettes.
Harper pulls a packet out of her purse. The lighter she brought with her
is a cheap throwaway since she knows she won't be able to get it
through security. She can buy a new one when she arrives in Iowa.
She's never been to Iowa before. She had to Google it last night when
her boss-madame—she doesn't know what to call Angelica
Spencer—telephoned to tell her that she' d be getting on a plane in the
morning. That her first job as an escort would be literally escorting
someone to a wedding of all things, and parading as the man' s
girlfriend for his friends and family. Harper thinks he must be some
kind of big deal since Angelica emailed her an NDA to sign before
giving her the plane ticket. The contract didn't say his name. It just
referred to him as 'the client.' But whoever he is, Harper feels kind of
bad for him. Is he one of those social outcasts who can't get a date? Her
lighter won't work. She keeps flicking it, her fingers shaking with a
combination of nerves and cold, and she mutters under her breath as the
damn thing spouts sparks but no flames. The cigarette remains unlit
between her lips and she almost wants to cry with frustration. This is
not the time for this damn lighter to stop working! "Need a hand?"
Harper looks up at the voice and feels her jaw drop. The man in front of
her is quite frankly—stunning. He's hidden most of his body under a
heavy suede jacket, but Harper's been working to be a personal trainer
for half her life, so she knows an impressive specimen when she sees
one. His biceps bulge beneath the fabric, and she doesn't need to look
any closer to know that there are some rock-hard abs hidden under all
of his clothes. He looks like the kind of

man that guys at the gym keep posters of for inspiration.
But the body is only half of it. His face is strongly defined and casually
handsome. Model worthy, she thinks, and sweet Lord what she wouldn'
t give to see this guy in an underwear campaign. He' s got blond hair
which looks a couple of days away from needing a wash, and eyes the
color of dark chocolate.
She realizes she's staring when those eyes flicker down to the cigarette
still dangling from her lips. She recognizes that he's holding a lighter
and it's immediately clear that she's acting like an idiot.
"Oh, thanks," she says, hastily throwing her own cheap lighter in the
garbage behind her.
She turns back and the man extends his hand. He flicks the lighter
quickly and the flame launches without a problem. Harper gazes at it
for just a moment before leaning forward, sucking in a breath of smoke
and mint as the cigarette catches light. She glances up and catches him
staring at her lips, which are fuller than average and one of her best
features.
"Thank you," she says again, drawing away and taking another drag of
smoke, enjoying the way his eyes never leave her mouth. She pulls the
cigarette from her lips and blows out a long stream of smoke.
"Pleasure's all mine," he replies. Harper grins at the obvious double
entendre. "Don't suppose I can bum a smoke?"
Harper hands him the packet she's still holding. He takes it from her
and their fingers brush, and Harper shivers because neither of them are
wearing gloves. He's got chipped black nail polish, which usually isn't
much of a turn on for Harper, but on this guy it is. Hell, this guy could
probably stand there in a unicorn onesie and she'd find it a turn on. He
really is a beautiful man.
He lights his cigarette, seemingly exaggerating the movement of his
lips and watching her the whole time. Harper obliges him by admiring
the show he's giving her.
"Thank you," he says, blowing out a stream of smoke and handing her
back the packet.
"Pleasure's all mine," she replies as she shoves it back into her bag. He
laughs easily. It's a deep, chesty laugh. If it weren't for the

smoke coming out of his lips, she would have thought that he was a
singer. But singers don't smoke. Then again, she's going to be a
personal trainer, so she isn't exactly in a position to judge. "Are you a
singer?" she asks.
He frowns with his eyebrows, but the rest of his face smiles. "No," he
says. "Why do you ask?" "You have a nice voice."
He stops frowning. "Thank you," he replies, delighted. "So do you. But
I'm not a singer, I'm a drummer."
"Oh," Harper says. She observes his muscles again, wondering if it's a
combination of carrying and beating drums that gave them to him.
"Professional?"
"On my better days." He blows out a lungful of air. Even though they're
surrounded by people, Harper feels like it's just the two of them. He has
this way of looking at her which makes her feel as though she's
endlessly fascinating. "Must be nice. " "It keeps me off the streets. "
They smile at each other. Harper can't remember the last time she felt
this easy with a guy. She doesn't think it's just his smooth moves. Since
she moved to New York, she's had plenty of men give her nice smiles
and let their eyes linger. She's pretty enough, with a slim figure thanks
to her routine, but with one of those 'girl next door' faces that she
despised in high school, but has since become a blessing and a curse. It
makes her approachable.
This guy, for some reason, isn't just flirting which wouldn't be enough
to set him apart from the others who have flirted with her in the past.
He's giving her the courage to flirt back, though how he's managing it
she can only guess. Usually, she' s looking at her feet, wondering what
a man wants, wondering whether she wants him, and wondering if
there' s something she' s missing or if it' s all a joke. Usually, she needs
to know a guy before being flirty with him, which is why she' s only
ever dated friends. Men she knew through mutual acquaintances who
weren' t afraid to take the lead in romance. But this man just makes her
want to smile and keep smiling, and ask him if he

wants to get dinner and a movie, like some high school movie cliché.
"What about you?" he asks.
"I'm tone-deaf..." she says, "...and I can't keep a beat for anything."
He grins. "I meant what do you do for a living?" he asks.
I have sex with people for money.
Not technically true. She hasn't had sex for money yet.
Today is her first time—her first client. And she could just tell him that
she's a personal trainer even though she's not certified. Fet. Only one
year left, and if the mountain of student loans weren't looming over her
like a monster from a fairy-tale, she would have been excited about it.
Instead, here she is, getting ready to board a plane with a stranger and
fly to Iowa with him. He'll probably keep her 'working' all weekend.
She wishes she'd asked Angelica to give her a one-nighter first. A man
who just wanted to fuck and leave. How is she supposed to pretend to
be a man's girlfriend in front of his family if she doesn't know him?
Thinking about that makes her look at her watch. When she sees the
time, she panics.
"Shit," she says, taking one last drag of her cigarette and throwing the
butt in the garbage. The man she was talking to looks confused.
"Sorry... I've got to, ah... sorry..."
She grabs her purple carry-on bag and speed-walks toward the doors.
"Hey, wait!" the guy calls after her. "I gotta go I' m gonna be late—"
"What's your name?"
Despite her instincts—she's never going to see him again, what's the
point in looking back—she turns her head to see him watching her go in
confusion. He's still got the cigarette in his hand. Now that she's
looking at him from a distance, she realizes he' s got a battered brown
backpack at his feet.
"Harper!" she calls back before she can think of a reason not to. She's
never going to see him again. And it's just a first name. But it feels good
to think that he'll have something to call her in his head if he ever thinks
about her again. All she'll have is 'the sexy drummer,' which is

maybe for the best considering what she's about to do.
Then she's passing through the doors and all but running to the check-in
counter. She's got a client to meet at the bar of the American Airlines
lounge, and she can't afford to be late.
She checks her ticket again to make sure she hadn't dreamed up the
First Class designation. Whoever her client is, he's generous enough to
buy a hooker an expensive seat.
Stop calling yourself that. You 're an escort, and there's nothing wrong
with that.
She repeats the sentiment over and over as she joins the First Class
queue at the American Airlines desk, though there's a small part of her
that wonders if the men surrounding her in business suits can tell.
Maybe she shouldn't have gone for all-American. Maybe high class
would have helped her blend in more.
Her ticket is under her own name. Harper Lee Styles. Her mother
thought ' Harper Lee' was a good idea at the time. But Harper reminds
herself that she will need to introduce herself as Tiffany. That's the
name Angelica picked out for her.
What a cliché, she thinks to herself as she hands over her ID and is
waved through to security clearance.
A few minutes in security and an aggressive pat down from one of the
lady guards, and she's speed-walking to the American Airlines airport
lounge. She checks her watch again and breathes a sigh of relief. She's
early. She doesn't need to meet her client for another ten minutes.
She slows down so she can savor this moment. It's not every day she
gets to go into an airport lounge. She wishes her mom and dad could
see her now. Then she remembers how she got the First Class seat, and
decides that it's probably best they can't. She just wishes she'd finished
that cigarette.
The lounge is all done up in blue and white and the chairs look
ridiculously comfy. There's a free buffet along the wall with fruits,
vegetables, and a pasta salad that looks particularly tempting, and it' s
completely deserted. Harper wonders where the rest of the people in
the First Class line at the check-in desk are. She shows the
bored-looking woman at the reception her ticket. She expects to get
some sort of third

degree, but the woman just waves her through with a sigh. Harper steps
tentatively into the lounge, realizes that no one's going to come and
kick her out, and then she relaxes. She even allows a small smile to
grace her face.
At the back of the room, a long black bar beckons. The back wall has a
mirror which is obscured by every kind of hard liquor she can imagine.
She resists the urge to order something really strong because she needs
her wits about her if she's going to do this.
It's not just the expectation of flirting, though that is something she
dreads, there's the sex part as well. She's no blushing virgin, not by a
long shot. It'll just feel... she isn't sure how it'll feel. Maybe like it's
hanging over her? Like he' ll be expecting her to start stripping the
moment, they get somewhere private, and she' ll have no choice
because he' s paid for her? She doesn' t know if she' ll be able to cope
with that. Will he expect her to fuck him on the plane?
"Something to drink, Miss? " the bartender asks. She looks younger
than Harper but is obviously old enough to serve alcohol.
"Ah. just water, please," Harper replies.
"You sure? We've got champagne."
Harper's stomach churns at the thought. "Just water, please."
Gazing at the mirror while the bartender pours the drink, Harper begins
to wonder what her client will look like. The thought is immediately cut
off when she sees the sexy drummer's reflection in the mirror.
She spins around on her stool, clutching the bar for support. How did...
what did, she can't even form the thoughts.
He gazes around the lounge, apparently looking for something. Then
his eyes fall on her and he blinks for a moment, before grinning. He
starts to make his way over to her and Harper begins to panic. He 'd
looked confused for a moment like he wasn't expecting her, but what if
he'd followed her there? What if he's still talking to her when her client
shows up? She can't afford to be seen with another man when she's
already been bought and paid for.
She opens her mouth, but he cuts her off.
"Tiffany?" he asks, his lips turning up in a crooked smile.

Harper's heart pounds in her chest. No way, she thinks, no way. "Yes?"
she replies hesitantly.
He sticks out his hand, with its chipped polish and leather cuffs which
she hadn't noticed until now. "I'm Slate. I'm your client."

"Son of a bitch," Harper breathes. It takes her a moment to realize that
she's said it out loud.
Slate laughs. Harper watches his Adam's apple bob up and down and
has to remind herself to close her mouth.
"Sorry," she says quickly, trying to cover up the mistake. "Sorry, I just
wasn't expecting—"
"Yeah, neither was I," Slate says cheerfully.
What kind of name is Slate, she wonders.
He gestures to the bar. "Did you order something?"
"Water..." Harper turns and sees that there is, in fact, a glass of water on
the bar. And a bartender waiting for her tip. "Did you want something?"
"Red Bull?" he asks the bartender. Harper winces. Red Bull is a nasty
cocktail of chemicals that makes personal trainers want to barf on
principle. But Slate is not her training client, he's an entirely different
kind of client, so she doesn't say anything.
As the bartender bustles away, Slate takes off his jacket, revealing
finely sculpted forearms and a tight button-up shirt which shows off the
six-pack Harper had been expecting but apparently hadn't been
prepared

for. "So, is Tiffany like a stage name?" he asks.
He gestures for Harper to take the seat next to him. She does. Her mind
is still reeling with the knowledge that the sexy drummer is her client.
She had been expecting some poor, unfortunate soul who couldn't get a
date. A few minutes in Slate's presence is enough to convince her that
he could have any woman he wanted.
He's paying me to sleep with him.
I am being paid to sleep with this Adonis.
Challenge accepted.
"Yes, it is," Harper replies, as easily as she can while she climbs onto
the bar stool. Slate rests his forearms on the bar, and she takes a
moment to admire their definition. Maybe she should recommend drum
playing to her clients when she finally gets some. "It's kind of a
requirement for. people like me. "
"Do you mind if I call you Harper?" Slate asks. He gives her a grin
which makes her want to melt. "I like Harper. "
When Harper became Tiffany, Angelica warned her not to tell clients
her real name. She'd said that it makes things personal. That it can
make them needy and unwilling to accept that their relationship is
strictly business. She'd told her that under no circumstances should she
ever reveal her real name or, if she did it by accident, to make it clear to
a client that they were to call her Tiffany during their time together.
"Sure," she says. "You can call me Harper. "
"Great!" Slate says.
The Red Bull arrives. Slate thanks the bartender, but he doesn't take his
eyes off of Harper. It makes her feel special, though she knows that
there's no reason for it. It's just polite, she thinks, for a man to keep his
eyes on his date. Even when the date is a bit. unconventional.
He flicks the can open with one finger, and the sickly sweet smell of the
drink nearly makes Harper gag.
Despite Slate not paying attention to her, the bartender is clearly paying
attention to him. She's got a napkin and pen in her hand, and she's
biting her lip as if she's working up some courage.
"Excuse me?" she asks.
Slate finally looks at her. "Yeah?"

"You're Slate, right? The drummer from Black Lilith?"
He glances at Harper, but she doesn't recognize the name. She's not
really into music, except dance because it's good to work out to. He
nods and the bartender makes a movement like she's trying to contain
her excitement. So Slate must be famous.
While he's signing the napkin that's eagerly thrust under his nose,
Harper pulls out her phone and Googles Black Lilith.
Rock band.
Formed in a garage in high school. Rising stars, chart toppers. World
tour.
The front man is dating the band's manager.
The bassist recently starting dating their lyricist.
No wonder Slate made Harper sign an NDA before he hired her. But
that raises even more questions. A world-famous drummer could
definitely get any woman he wanted. Hell, the bartender looks about
ready to drop her panties, and she can see quite clearly that Slate's
already here with somebody. So why would he hire an escort for a
wedding weekend?
Slate hands the bartender her napkin, thanks her for her support with a
charming smile, then asks if he and Harper can be left alone for a while.
"Of course, sir. I'll just be right over here if you need anything.
Anything at all. "
The bartender makes herself scarce. Slate turns to Harper with an
apologetic grin.
"Sorry about that," he says.
"I didn't realize you were famous," Harper replies.
"Oh?" For some reason, he looks delighted. "Don't worry about it. It's
not important."
"Isn't it?"
"It's actually nice," he goes on. "A lot of people know. After a while,
you start to figure out which ones are more interested in the band than
they are in me. "
Harper nods. She thinks of her own concerns when it comes to

people and how she's constantly wondering what they want. What their
motives are, whether or not they've got good intentions. Whether
they're planning things for her. She had that fear of other people beaten
into her over the years. One too many bad experiences had left a sour
taste in her mouth, and she could only imagine how much worse it
would be for someone like Slate—already inhumanly gorgeous—to
also be constantly on the alert because of fame.
"I could tell you didn't recognize me," he adds. "Could you?" "Yeah."
"To be honest, I don't think I've ever heard one of your songs." He
laughs again. If Harper could bottle that laugh and wear it as perfume,
she would. It's doing all kinds of weird things to her head.
"Well, if you're gonna pretend to be my girlfriend, we should probably
change that," he says. That statement reminds Harper of why she's
there, but for some reason it doesn't fill her with the sudden dread
which had been following her around all morning like a black cloud. It'
s just Slate stating a fact. He doesn't make her feel like she should be
defending her job, and it's a blissful feeling.
Once again, she's struck by how easy it is to talk to this guy. Maybe it's
because he looks at her like what she's about to say is actually
interesting. Maybe it' s because, back when they' d been sharing a
cigarette, he' d watched her lips but still looked at her eyes when they
spoke. There' s something undefinable about Slate that makes her feel
like she can be open with him.
Which is dangerous in her line of work. But then again this is her first
time. She' s bound to make mistakes.
Might as well make them with Slate. He would make a wonderful
mistake.
"I'll listen to some of your band's songs on the plane," she says. "Tell
me about yourself?" Slate asks suddenly. He's still leaning on his
forearms, but his body is twisted toward her, and he knocks back half
the can of Red Bull in one gulp, making Harper suppress a shudder of
horror.
"I'm whoever you want me to be," Harper tells him. "That's how

this works. "
His grin disappears, replaced by a slight frown, and he runs his hand
through his gorgeous blond hair. "I don't... ah... " He chews his lip,
suddenly flustered, which is a good look on him. "I've never really done
this before. You know." he glances over to the bartender to make sure
that she's not listening, ".. .I've never paid a woman."
Harper can believe that. He'd probably have a line of women a mile
long ready and willing to pay him, but he's clearly never had to work
hard to get a girl into bed. Harper reaches over and rests her hand on
Slate's forearm. Partly because Angelica told her to initiate contact if
the client seems shy, and partly because she's desperate to get her hands
on those muscles. She wants to ask him about his exercise routine but
now's not the time. Sure enough, his arm is as hard and hot as she'd
hoped it would be.
"Can I tell you a secret?" she asks. Slate leans forward conspiratorially
and nods. "This is my first time, too. " His eyes go wide, and she
realizes how that could have sounded. She feels a blush creeping up her
neck as she hastens to add, "Not, like, my. first time. Just. My first job.
You're my first client."
Would a virgin cost extra?
"Oh," he says, his eyes going wide in understanding. Then he grins
again. "So we both have no idea what we're doing?" "It would seem
that way."
"Fantastic!" he says. Harper answers his grin with one of her own. "In
that case, why don't you tell me about the real you. I know I'm the...
client... but I want you to be yourself. Or as close to yourself as you're
comfortable being in front of a complete stranger," he adds, with a
self-deprecating shrug of the shoulders.
That makes Harper pause. She'd been told over and over not to get
personal with a client. It was practically Angelica's Rule #1 on her long
list of rules. Until she'd met Slate, Harper had been prepared to follow
that advice. She'd been ready to come up with an elaborate back-story
to fit whatever her client needed to get himself through the wedding
weekend in Iowa. But here is Slate, looking so unfairly handsome,
telling her to be herself and looking really genuine about it. And even
though

there's always a little part of her that tells her to be careful and not to
trust completely until all the facts are available, she wants to trust him.
She wants to be personal with him.
They're going to sleep together at some point. That's about as personal
as it gets.
As soon as that thought crosses her mind, it's instantly chased by
thoughts of what it will be like. Good Lord, with those muscles and her
stamina, her mind immediately conjures over a dozen possibilities. She
wonders if there's workout equipment wherever they're staying because
she's had a long-standing fantasy involving exercise balls, and his ab
muscles hint at the core strength necessary to pull it off.
She takes a large gulp of water. Her mouth is suddenly dry.
"I' m studying to be a personal trainer," Harper says, reeling her mind
back to the conversation at hand, because if she lets herself sink any
further into her fantasies then she might not be willing to come out of
them. She'll have plenty of time to explore the possibilities of Slate's
body when they get to Iowa. Or maybe even on the plane. Suddenly a
quickie mid-air doesn't seem quite as daunting. "I've got a year to go
and then I'll be certified. I'm an only child, born and raised in Omaha."
"Omaha," Slate says, excitedly. "So you're a country girl?"
"In a way," she replies. "Townie in a farming community. My parents
didn't own land. They ran the sports center."
"That's great!" says Slate, pausing to down the rest of his Red Bull.
Harper wants to Heimlich it out of him but reminds herself that it's not
her business what he puts in his body. "You'll get along great with my
family, then. "
A twinge of something like anticipation runs through her before she
remembers that she isn't going to 'meet Slate's family' in the traditional
sense. She' s going to Iowa to pretend to be his girlfriend. She's meeting
his family for show, and not because he's so proud of her he can' t wait
to take her home and introduce her to his folks.
"Good, I'm glad," she says to cover up her disappointment. "What
do they do?"
A dark look crosses his face, which surprises her, but in a moment it's
replaced by a cheerful smile. "Mostly they sit around and think about

all the ways they're better than other people."
"Then. why would I get along with them? "
"Your family aren't farmers... they're entrepreneurs."
"Oh."
He winks and sets the empty Red Bull can down on the bar. A sudden
burst of Mr. Big fills the air between them making Slate jump.
I' m the one who wants to be with you,
Deep inside I hope you'll feel it too!
He pulls his phone out of his pocket and sends Harper an apologetic
look.
"Sorry—"
"No, go ahead."
He answers the phone. "Yeah?... Yeah, Tommy, I'm at the airport.
Yeah, I have my passport. What are you, my mother?... Yeah, the. ah.
Tiffany is here. But her name' s actually Harper. We' re calling her
Harper now. And before you say anything, I will remind you Sersha
doesn't know that you wax your chest."
"That was one time!" a man's voice shouts from the phone so loudly
that Slate has to pull his hand away from his ear and grimace at the
volume.
Harper covers her mouth so whoever is on the other end of the phone
can't hear her laughing at him.
"Okay, okay, calm your tits." The man says something else, but it's at a
normal volume so Harper can't make out the words. "I see... well, tell
Dash he can have as many Pop-Tarts as he wants as long as he replaces
them. with the chocolate kind, none of that fucking strawberry bullshit.
Okay. give my love to Sersh. "
He hangs up.
"Sorry about that," he tells Harper, stuffing the phone into his pocket
and giving her another apologetic look. "That' s Tommy. He' s in the
band. I' ll need to tell you about him. In fact." he runs his hand

through his hair and sighs, "...you'll need to know about everyone,
won't you? For authenticity."
She wants to ask him why he even needs an escort, but she senses that
now is not the time. Maybe when they're on the plane.
"I signed the NDA," she says, hoping that will ease his mind.
But he just shakes his head. "I'm not worried about that," Slate tells her.
He looks at her, and she feels like he's seeing something more than the
average person can see. "You're not a gossip. I can tell. I just don't even
know where to start."
Harper takes another sip of her water and glances at her watch. They've
got an hour before they have to board their flight.
"Start at the beginning," she tells him.

They're on the plane and halfway to Iowa by the time Slate is finally
finished catching Harper up on the strange quasi-family of Black Lilith.
"Okay... so let me see if I've got this," Harper says. The First Class seat
is just as uncomfortable as the ones in economy, but there' s more leg
room and free champagne. She wiggles around to get comfortable
while Slate watches her with an amused smile. "Logan is the lead
singer, dating Mikayla, who was the band' s PA. They dated in secret
but Mikayla called it off because she didn't like to lie, so he wrote a
song about her and performed it on tour. And now they're dating... and
she's the manager?"
"Correct," Slate says.
"That must have been weird."
"Well, I knew the whole time," Slate tells her. He sips his coffee, he
stopped at one glass of champagne and rolls his shoulders to work out
the kinks. Harper does her best not to stare at the rippling muscles of
his biceps. "But yeah, Dash and Tommy were confused."
"I'll bet," Harper replies. She only half-believes him when he says that
he knew the whole time. "So then Bass Note, your production

company, hired Sersha... who is from Ireland... to be the band's lyricist.
Tommy is the bass player, and he's been your lyricist since you started
playing together in high school, so he hated her. But then they started
dating because you tricked her into taking him his phone while he was
visiting his family. " "Also correct."
"Are you the band matchmaker?"
"I should be. None of the guys know what's good for them." The plane
hits a spot of turbulence and Harper feels a jolt of apprehension, but
Slate looks unfazed. She tries her best to relax. Flying, she tells herself
is nothing to be afraid of. The rest of the passengers in First Class look
bored. There's one couple who caught Harper's eye right away, sitting
at the front next to the exit. The man looks old enough to be her
grandfather, and he's had his nose buried in the latest Forbes since they
took off. He's got his hand on his companion's knee as well. The
woman is closer to thirty, with bleached blonde hair and a permanently
pinched expression. She's had five glasses of champagne since they left
New York. They had shared a look when Harper boarded the plane, and
Harper understood immediately that they were there for the same
reason. The woman had given Slate a longing look as he and Harper
had passed.
Harper's eyes land on that couple as she tries to organize her thoughts.
The various relationships in Slate' s band could make up a soap opera.
"So Tommy's ex-girlfriend, Danielle, used to be the band's PA but
Logan caught her stealing money and fired her. She tried to seduce
Tommy and Sersha caught them at it, which made her fly back to
Ireland. so Tommy had to fly over and get her. " "Yes."
"And now they're happily in love."
"I don't think they've used the 'L' word yet," Slate says. "Logan and
Mikayla definitely have. They're always wrapped around each other,
it's gross."
The plane hits another bump and Harper swallows her anxiety. "There's
Dash on lead guitar. Single. Logan's baby brother who's really into
gaming and geek stuff. "

Slate nods with a slight grin. "To be fair, he and I share the gaming
interest."
"And how did we meet?" Harper asks. "I mean, what are we going to
tell your parents?"
Slate straightens up in his seat. "Here's what I'm thinking," he says.
"You and I met at the gym, right? You're a personal trainer in training,
and I am a rockstar who needs to build his stamina." Harper has a
fleeting thought that his stamina is probably excellent, but she doesn't
get the chance to say it before he's already moving on. "I, of course,
saw you and thought you were gorgeous, so I asked you to give me
some pointers. You proceeded to wipe the floor with my out-of-shape
ass, and I asked you to dinner. "
Harper is blushing from the 'gorgeous' comment and doesn't realize
until a beat too late that she' s supposed to respond. "How long have we
been together?"
"A month," Slate says. "Enough time for me to want to bring you to a
wedding, but not long enough for the press to find out. "
"Who's getting married?" Harper asks.
Slate rolls his shoulders again. "My cousin, Grayson. His fiancee is a
bit high-strung, but she's harmless. She'll want to be your best friend for
the weekend and then she'll forget your name."
"I usually get along with people," Harper replies.
And she does. It's an important skill for a personal trainer to be able to
connect with people quickly and make them trust you. At least, that's
what she's always believed. She's never had a problem making friends.
When she was younger, growing up in a small community, she learned
very quickly that being likable was the fastest way to a calm and easy
life. So she trained herself to judge what people want of her, and then
she gave it to them. It never extended to romantic connections—no
matter what she did, she could never figure out how to flirt—but she
could be friendly easily enough.
"That's good," Slate says.
It' s probably why he hired a prostitute. To get along with people.
Personal trainers and prostitutes have more in common than she'd
thought. Thinking of that draws her mind toward something else.

"There' s not going to be press at the wedding, is there? " Harper
asks.
While she doesn' t think that she would have a problem with
press—she' s American, tabloids are a fact of life—she does have
concerns that the press could dig deeply into her life. Maybe even find
out what she does for a living. She doesn' t think she would survive
having her parents find out, never mind the potential backlash from
employers when she finally gets her degree. There' s a niggling voice in
the back of her head which tells her that she' ll be forever brandished as
Slate's whore if the press find out. That no matter what she does or
where she goes, the stigma will never leave her.
Not that there should be a stigma. Because this is nothing to be
ashamed of.
But Slate, thankfully, shakes his head. "No press," he says. "Mikayla' s
covering for me, and no one even knows my real name, let alone where
I come from. "
Harper cocks her head. "Your real name's not Slate?" she asks.
"I wish."
"So what is it?"
He gives her an almost pitying look. "I'm afraid that's classified," he
says.
"Oh, come on!" she replies. "If I'm your girlfriend, I should know your
name"
It occurs to her that she might be speaking a bit too loudly, but when
she cranes her neck she sees that the rest of the First Class cabin is busy
with their heads bent over tablets and iPhones. No one is paying them
any attention at all. Even the blonde woman at the front is too far into a
champagne bottle to bother with them.
Slate just grins at her. "Sorry, Harper, it'll take more than a month for
me to give up the goods. "
"What about the rest of the goods?" she asks without thinking.
It' s such a cheesy line that she wants to smack herself. At the same time
she deliberately doesn't look away from him or change her expression,
committing to the course even if it's a mistake. It's something she' s
always had a problem with, not knowing when to quit,

or being too stubborn to accept quitting as a possibility. She could have
gone to her parents and asked them for money, and they would have
obliged her without hesitation, but asking them would have felt like
quitting. It would have been admitting that she couldn't handle life on
her own. So she answered an ad in the paper, telling herself over and
over that there was no shame in sex work.
Slate's eyes run down Harper's body and she suppresses her shiver
under his scrutiny. "Well, my mom and dad have set aside a room for
us. As far as they know, we're consenting adults in a monogamous
relationship. they can connect the dots. But it' s a pretty big bed, and
there's a couch as well if you're more comfortable with me sleeping
there instead. "
"What?" Harper asks, suddenly confused. "What do you mean?"
There's a moment when she thinks that he might be blushing, but she
decides that it must be a trick of the light. There's no way that a man
like this, who looks the way he does, would blush under the scrutiny of
an escort. Then he glances around like she'd done a moment before to
make sure that no one is watching. He leans forward so she can smell
the coffee on his breath and see the tip of his tongue creep out to wet his
bottom lip.
"I'm not going to sleep with you," he tells her. Harper hadn't considered
the possibility that he would say that. If she had, she wouldn't have
thought that heart-stopping disappointment would be her primary
emotion upon hearing the words. But he did, and it was.
"You're... not?" she asks. She tries so desperately to keep the
disappointment out of her voice, and she thinks she manages it. Mostly,
to her own ears, she sounds confused. Maybe even a little bit hurt. "You
know that's what you paid for, right?"
"I paid for a date to a wedding," Slate tells her. His eyes run over her
body again, and there's something close to regret in his eyes which
makes Harper feel better. Bolder, even. "Not that I'm not tempted," he
goes on, his eyes lingering over her chest and thighs, covered as they
are in her all-American costume. "But there's a line... I'm not going to
pay for sex. "

He'd said he was tempted. He looks like he regrets every word coming
out of his mouth. That' s something, at least. "I don' t suppose I could
get you to change your mind?" she says. She wants to say that she
doesn' t want to have an unsatisfied customer, but after what he just told
her she doesn' t think that would be the way to go. She angles her body
just a little bit so that he can see her toned stomach when her shirt
stretches across it.
Slate gives her a lingering look, but shakes his head. "Don' t worry," he
says, "I'll still give you a good review."
"I'm not exactly on Felp," she replies.
He shrugs. "When I sleep with a woman, it's because I know she wants
to be there. "
Having never been in this situation before, Harper isn't sure whether
she should go for finessed flirting or just come straight out and tell him
that she would definitely want to be there if he were offering. Harper
has never been much good at finessed flirting, so that makes her
decision for her.
"I' m not exactly unwilling," she says. When he glances at her eyes, she
blatantly looks him up and down and is rewarded by an amused quirk to
his lips. "Quite the opposite, in fact."
"Ah, but the only reason you're here is you're being paid," Slate says. "I
can't sleep with you knowing that."
"Not even if I want it?" she asks.
He purses his lips. "Not if you're being paid to want it." He sounds
annoyed with the words even as they slip out of his mouth, but his lips
are set in a determined line.
Harper lets out a frustrated growl, then quickly glances over her
shoulder at the pair of stewardesses chatting at the back of the First
Class section. They're so wrapped up in themselves that they probably
wouldn't notice if the cabin were on fire, but Harper still doesn't want to
risk it.
A part of her is delighted. A beautiful man with a chivalrous side? She
thought those only existed in books or movies. But at the same time,
she's not exactly thrilled to hear that her client, a man she would have
happily slept with for free, has labeled her off limits. It feels like she's

been expecting carrot cake for weeks, but when she got offered
chocolate mud cake she was told that she couldn't have any.
Just my luck that I get a job as a whore and my first client wants me to
keep my pants on.
The plane hits another pocket of air and Harper grabs the armrest, her
heart in her mouth.
"You all right?" Slate asks quickly.
"I'm fine," she replies. "Just... I'm fine."
The plane smooths out. Or, at least, it smooths out as much as can be
expected at that altitude. There's nothing but a hollow metal cylinder
between Harper and a long plummet to the ground, and she desperately
wishes that she could forget that.
"You're not trying to trick me into holding your hand, are you?" Slate
asks. His tone is amused, but when Harper glances over she sees an
edge of concern around his eyes.
She rolls her eyes at him. "I've never been a good flyer," she says.
Then, because her mind appears to be following her body's instructions
without her knowledge, she adds, "Of course if you want to help me
take my mind off of this, I'm not going to stop you."
Harper has never been a flirt, but being around Slate—knowing that
he's interested, at least, even if he refuses to act on it—makes her
bolder. She's rewarded by a deep, hearty laugh.
"You're adorable," Slate tells her, and Harper feels her cheeks warm up
but she doesn't balk or look away.
He reaches out and entwines their fingers. Her hand is dwarfed by his.
She tightens her hold on his fingers because she likes the way his skin
feels against hers. She can only imagine what the rest of his body
would feel like, naked and pressing her into a bed.
Their eyes meet. She smiles.
"What else should I know about your family?" she asks.
"Well, if my mom offers you cobbler, take a slice and pretend you like
it because it's an old family recipe and she's too stuck on tradition to
realize that it tastes like farts."
As Slate explains the finer points of his mother's cooking, his hand
never leaves hers. Harper doesn't want to draw attention to it in case he

decides to pull away. She doesn't want him to pull away. She
desperately wants him to come closer.
The plane hits another bump, and Slate squeezes her hand before she
even has time to feel nervous. He doesn't pause in his story, though. He
just keeps talking, pretending that he doesn't notice the way her body
freezes with the sudden jerk from the aircraft, giving her at least that
one moment of dignity. When the plane evens out again, she squeezes
back.
She looks over and watches him talk, becoming so absorbed in the sight
of his lips moving that she almost forgets to listen to the words. Her
thumb brushes over the back of his hand. A plan starts to form in her
head. Surely even a man as chivalrous as Slate won't be able to hold out
against a woman offering herself on a platter for over two days? She's
going to be pretending to be his girlfriend the whole weekend. She' ll
probably be glued to his side most of the time, flirting and carrying on
like a woman in love. People will be expecting it.
And she is getting paid to put on a show.

By the time they arrive in Iowa, Harper already has an attack strategy.
She listened to Slate's stories for the first half of the trip, then listened
to some BlackLilith songs that he downloaded using the plane's awful
Wi-Fi. Harper thinks it's sweet that he didn't have any of his own songs
on his phone. Just hard rock and some sugary-sweet pop in the form of
Britney Spears and Taylor Swift, which he seemed to genuinely and
unironically enjoy. They're about to touch down in a tiny airport just
outside of Pella. Harper gazes out of the window of the plane as a large
banner comes into view dangling from the hanger: Pella, Iowa: A
Touch of Holland.
"Pella wouldn't know Holland if it got bit in the ass by a tulip," Slate
says beside her. She glances over and sees a hint of distaste around his
eyes.
Then the plane hits the runway and Harper's heart leaps into her throat.
She clutches Slate's hand and he gamely keeps hold of her even though
his fingers must be aching by the time the plane finally slows down to a
regular speed and starts taxiing into the hanger.
"Have you ever been to Holland?" Harper asks.

"Not yet," Slate replies. "My family's German, but they still love the
Pella-slash-Holland shtick."
"Yeah?" Harper gives that some thought. "You know, I actually have
no idea where my last name comes from? "
"What is it?"
"Styles."
Slate thinks about it for a minute. "Not short for Stilinski." "I have
absolutely no idea," Harper replies. "Sounds English. "
"You're into genealogy?" It wouldn't have struck her as something that
would interest a man like Slate.
His lips form a tight line, but when he looks at her again, he grins and
shrugs. "When you meet my parents, you'll understand. They're pretty
into knowing where people come from. Whether they come from 'good
stock' and all that."
Harper realizes that she has now broken two of the cardinal rules of
being a hooker—never give out your real first name, and never give out
your real last name. She'd done both without even thinking.
"So are you going to miss your gym?" Slate asks as the plane comes to
a stop. The couple in front of them are already out of their seats and
reaching for their bags, even though the fasten seatbelts sign is still on.
"You're a personal trainer, you must have a very specific gym that you
go to."
"I' m a personal trainer in training." she tells him, ". and I can do my
routine anywhere. As long as there's somewhere to jog."
Slate lets out a long breath. "You know, I don't think I've been jogging
in years. "
"You should come with me," she says. Then, because she remembers
her plan, she adds, "Any excuse to make you all sweaty. "
Slate raises an eyebrow and laughs out loud. Harper appreciates a man
with a sense of humor, though it's a bit of a blow to her ego that her
flirting seems to inspire laughter. That's not exactly her intention.
"You're not going to give that up, are you?" Slate asks, his eyes still
sparkling with mirth.
"I don't give up as a rule," says Harper.

He squeezes her hand as the fasten seatbelts sign goes dark and the rest
of the cabin starts moving to collect their bags. They stay seated for a
moment, and Harper holds Slate's gaze.
"You're not helping my willpower here," Slate tells her. There's
something dark and promising in his gaze that makes Harper want to
dive across the armrest and pull him into a kiss.
"And yet somehow, I just can't bring myself to be sorry," Harper
replies. She wonders if she should toss her hair or lick her lips like she's
seen people do in movies. She's tried the licking lips thing in the mirror,
and she always ended up looking like a lizard.
But Slate is looking at her mouth. So Harper goes for a compromise
and gently bites on her lower lip. He seems to focus more intently on
that. Then he blinks, shakes his head slightly, and releases her hand so
he can get up to take their bags out of the overhead compartment.
Harper desperately hopes that her disappointment doesn't show.
"I have an iron will," Slate says, rooting around in the overhead and
shooting her a smirk. "You cannot break me, seductress."
Harper leans back in her seat and takes a deep breath so that her breasts
press against her shirt. "Challenge accepted. "
His smirk turns into a grin as he shakes his head at her. He's being a
good sport about this. Maybe he thinks this is a game? That he and
Harper are going to be one-upping each other all weekend. Harper can
get on board with a game like that, but she's always had a competitive
streak. She plays to win.
Slate takes down his beat-up backpack and her purple carry-on. Harper
wonders if, as a couple, they should have maybe only packed the one
bag, but then she remembers that they're only supposed to have been
dating for a month. Surely that's too soon to be putting together joint
luggage? Maybe she's over thinking this.
She stands up and stretches her legs, looking down the aisle at the
blonde woman she noticed earlier. She realizes that the blonde woman
has been observing her. When Harper meets her gaze, the woman looks
pointedly at Slate and gives her a wink. Harper's eyes flicker to the old
guy that the blonde is with. Harper arranges her face into a look that,
she

hopes, conveys commiseration. The blonde woman shrugs.
"Shall we, gorgeous?" Slate questions, offering Harper his hand and
helping her into the aisle in front of him. Ahead of them, the front doors
of the plane open and people begin to disembark. "We shall,
handsome," Harper replies.
She does swing her hair over her shoulder then. She tosses it aside like
she's seen shampoo models do, fixing Slate with a look as she eyes him
up and down, and she's rewarded by his eyes going dark again. Just for
a moment. Then he smiles brightly, cheerily, like there's a sun behind
his eyes that lights him up from the inside out.
Harper has always had the impression that musicians are dark,
brooding souls. That they spend more time focused on their internal
demons and angsty childhoods than they do on the real world. But
Slate, apart from the brief moments of annoyance when he talks about
his family, seems to be almost universally cheerful. He smiles at the
stewardesses as they disembark, nods to the other passengers as they
head toward the exit, and even compliments a little girl on her My Little
Pony stickers. When she offers him one, he proudly displays it on his
chest.
He also refuses to let Harper carry her own bag. "What kind of
boyfriend would I be if I let you do physical labor? " he asks as they
make their way past the baggage claim—neither of them checked any
luggage—toward the arrivals lounge. The airport is tiny, even by small
town standards, and there are massive mosaics of windmills and tulip
fields on the walls.
"Do Mikayla and Sersha let their boyfriends carry their bags? "
"Mikayla, yes," Slate replies. "Sersha would claw Tommy's eyes out if
he tried to pull a stunt like that. She's really independent." "And
Mikayla isn't?"
"Not at all," Slate says. "The opposite, in fact. I think she's been on her
own for so long, it's nice to let someone else pick up the slack."
Harper nods, wondering if she'll ever get the chance to meet these
women. She thinks they'll get along.
Don't be stupid. You 're an escort. You 're not here to make friends with
his friends. You 're here to trick his family into thinking he's in a

stable relationship, and hopefully, seduce him out of his pants and into
yours.
Harper falls back a little so she can admire Slate's backside in the tight
jeans he's wearing. Slate glances backward, notices her interest, and
wiggles his butt at her. Harper laughs at him.
In the arrivals lounge, which is about the size of a middle-school
classroom, a dozen-or-so people wait. They're small-town people,
clustered together in a large group and making conversation while they
wait for their family members to get off the plane. As the passengers
file out of the baggage claim area, people peel off from the crowd to
hug and kiss them.
Slate pauses in the doorway, his face unreadable. Then, before Harper
can ask, he plasters a grin on his face and saunters over to an older
couple standing at the edge of the crowd. Harper only has to take one
look at them to know that they're his parents.
The woman who's tall and willowy has Slate's cheekbones and deep
brown eyes. Her hair has been carefully dyed to look a natural blonde,
though the shade is completely different to her son's. When she sees
him coming, her entire face lights up like she's never seen anything that
delighted her more.
"Slate!" she says, opening her arms. He drops his bag, releases Harper'
s luggage handle, and pulls the woman into a hug, lifting her off of her
feet and spinning her around.
Harper is surprised to hear her call him by his stage name. Surely the
family would call him by the name he was born with? She' d been
hoping to find out what his real name was, it wouldn't help their
deception if she came out and asked someone. But it seems that even
Slate's family is determined to keep it a secret.
Her eyes travel over Slate and the woman, still hugging, to the man
waiting behind them. When Harper meets his gaze, she immediately
feels as though a bucket of ice water has been poured over her. It's not
that he seems unfriendly. On the contrary. The moment he sees her, he
steps forward with a congenial smile to shake her hand.
"You must be my son's girlfriend," he says. "I'm afraid he's been
keeping a bit mom about you. We don't even know your name."

"Harper Styles, sir," she replies, taking his hand and giving it a firm
shake.
He's not unfriendly by a long shot. But his eyes—an icy blue and so
unlike his son's—seem to observe her like they can read every one of
her secrets. She shudders, but she holds his gaze. There's no such thing
as a real mind reader, she tells herself. He looks her up and down like
he' s cataloging everything he sees, making quick judgments, and filing
them away for later.
"Styles?" he says. "You're English?"
"My family's from Omaha," she replies.
"Oh, a country girl?" he asks. "And what do your parents do?"
If she hadn't been warned by Slate that his family are into knowing
where a person comes from, she would have thought that she was being
interrogated. "My parents run the sports center there, sir."
The man's eyebrows raise in a tiny, impressed lift.
"Dad," Slate says, finally letting go of his mother and settling her
gently on the ground. "Don't scare her off." He comes around to stand
at Harper' s side.
Around them, people are starting to leave. Families collect their
loved-ones and their bags and head for the doors. Outside, the sun
shines. The blonde woman from the plane follows her companion
toward a man in a black suit holding a sign. She and Harper share a
look as she goes. Harper nods to her. The woman nods back. And then,
she's gone.
"I' m just curious," the man replies. "Not like you to bring a girl home,
is all. I would have thought you'd be more interested in bringing one of
your silly friends."
"All my silly friends had to work," Slate tells him. He seems to be
relaxed and cheerful, but Harper can see a faint edge of tension around
his mouth.
"Work, huh?" the man asks. "Ideas of work certainly have changed
from my day. "
Slate's mother's smile has dropped, and she wrings her hands as she
watches the pair of them. Slate just keeps smiling, but it seems to be
hanging by a thread.
"Harper," he says, reaching around to put an arm around her.

Harper leans against his side as though she's done it a hundred times,
and if she reaches around to give his ass a quick grab, well, that's no
one's business but hers and Slate's. "Meet my parents, Martha and
Peter. Mom, Dad... this is Harper."
"She's too pretty for you," says Peter.
"Couldn't agree more, Dad."
"It's nice to meet you, dear," Martha says, coming forward to take
Harper's hands. Harper takes them gratefully. "My goodness, it is good
to see Slate bringing a nice girl home. Did I hear you hail from Omaha?
That's a beautiful country."
"It is," Harper replies with a smile. "But I'm loving Iowa already."
Slate grins at Harper and takes her bag, slinging his backpack over his
shoulder. He slides over to her side and kisses her on the temple.
Harper feels his lips—slightly damp and warm and probably as sweet
as they are full—and she has to keep her face from showing that this is
all new for her. As far as Slate's parents are concerned, they do a lot
more than kiss.
"Let's get home," Slate says. "You can meet Cooper, he's the best dog
in the world. "
"That's a high bar to clear..." replies Harper, "...considering my dog is
the best dog in the world. "
"Lies and hearsay!" Slate says dramatically. He links his free arm with
his mother's, who was watching their exchange with a soft smile on her
lips. Martha takes her son's arm and together, they walk toward the
doors.
Peter offers his arm to Harper, and she takes it without question, though
she wishes she could have stayed close by Slate's side. Her temple still
tingles from where he kissed her. Peter and Harper fall into step behind
Slate and Martha, and the four of them head toward the sunlight
outside.
Showtime, Harper thinks.

Cooper is a delightful, obese Labrador who covers Slate in slobbery
kisses when they arrive. Harper is so busy admiring the house that it
takes her a moment to realize that the car has stopped, much less that
Slate has climbed out of the car and is greeting his family's dog.
"Harper, dear," Martha says, leaning down to look at her through the
window of the backseat. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes, of course," Harper replies. She quickly scrambles to climb out of
the car. "Sorry... your house is beautiful."
"Oh, thank you."
Beautiful doesn't even cover it. Slate's home is a two-storey, white
building straight out of a dream. Looking up at the façade, Harper feels
like she should be wearing a petticoat and taking the stage name Scarlet
instead of Tiffany. The lawn is perfectly manicured and massive,
beautifully green despite the heat, and the driveway is a good
two-hundred feet long and filled in with expensive white gravel.
Slate is on his knees in the driveway, his arms around Cooper's chest,
grinning like a fool and clearly enjoying the dog licking his face.
Peter's nose wrinkles when he sees that, but he doesn't comment as he
passes his son and heads for the house. Martha's eyes go soft.

"Come on, boy... come meet Harper..." Slate pushes himself to his feet
and tugs the dog over to her.
She only has a moment to brace herself before the dog leaps up to put
his paws on her shoulders and snuffle her ear.
"Oh, hi Cooper!" she says, running her hands eagerly through the dog's
soft, golden coat. His wide back has loose skin which moves when she
rubs it, and his snout has sugary white hairs that betray his age, but his
smile is so wide and dopey that he seems like a puppy. "Aren't you
handsome?"
"It's a curse of our family," Slate tells her. He's standing just to the side
as though he'd planned to intervene when the dog jumped on her, but
Harper has always adored dogs and considers the enthusiastic cuddles
to be the highest compliment that one is capable of. "All of the men are
more handsome than anyone has the right to be."
"Oh, you don't have to remind me," Harper tells him with a raised
eyebrow. She buries her nose in Cooper's fur—it smells like lavender.
"Someone's had a bath recently."
"We can't have him smelling like a dog for the wedding," Martha tells
her. "Slate, darling, get the dog off of her before he ruins her clothes."
"I don't mind..." Harper gently guides Cooper down to the ground and
ruffles his head as he pants and looks up at her with his gorgeous,
dopey smile, ".. .you should meet my dog back home. Great Dane."
Slate lets out a low whistle. "Big one?"
"Big enough for my cousins to ride him like a horse, " she says. "His
name is Nibbles. I outgrew him years ago. But he still thinks he's a lap
dog. "
"All the best dogs are lap dogs," Slate says sagely.
He gives Cooper one last head ruffle and pulls Harper into a half-hug,
nestling her against his side and giving her the perfect opportunity to
run her hand down his back and feel the strong, firm muscles there. She
thinks that she might have put more work into his shoulders if she had
him as a client. He's a big guy, but there's always room for more
definition. Not too much bulk, though. Harper hates guys who are too
bulky. Overkill isn't sexy.

"Come in, come in," Martha says, bustling down the driveway toward
the house, apparently oblivious to the fact that Harper is feeling up her
son. "I'll give you a tour and you can wash up for lunch. Have you got
your bags? Slate, darling, pick up the lady's bags."
"Already done, Mom." Slate holds up Harper's bag, his own backpack
slung in his elbow. He's not oblivious to Harper's hand trailing over his
back, but he's being infuriatingly calm about it. "Come, Cooper."
The dog follows eagerly as the three of them head toward the front
door. Slate's hand finds its way down to Harper's butt, and he gives her
a gentle pinch.
"Behave," he mutters with a grin.
"I'm behaving," Harper replies. "A girl can't enjoy her boyfriend's finer
qualities?"
"My back muscles aren't even in the top ten of my finer qualities."
"Prove it."
He smirks at her. The sound of the gravel crunching under their boots
drowns out their voices so his mother can't hear exactly what they're
saying. It makes it all seem... dirtier. More secret. Something infinitely
sexier and more promising than if Harper were just an escort going
through the motions. Considering she actually wants to sleep with
Slate, the fact that she can flirt with him so easily is incredibly exciting.
Over and over again, she is reminded of how much she had not been
expecting this. How delightfully unexpected this man is, and how
infuriating it is that he seems so easy and flirty, and yet so determined
not to give in to their clear chemistry.
Peter left the door open. Cooper canters over the threshold with the
careless energy of a well-trained house pet. Nibbles never used to be
allowed inside the house, but he was apt to knocking over lamps and
tables just by brushing against them.
Thinking of Nibbles makes Harper suddenly homesick.
When I get back to New York, I'll have to Skype Mom and Dad. They'll
show me the dog through the screen. It's better than nothing.
Inside the house, Harper feels her jaw dropping as she gazes around.
Slate drops her bag on the ground in the foyer and reaches over

to teasingly push her chin up and close her lips.
"Wow! " she says. "This place is gorgeous, Martha. Did you do it
yourself?"
"Oh, it' s nothing. just some really good pieces, you know. It' s hard to
make antiques look bad. "
It' s not just the antiques, though. It' s the sense of elegant, moneyed
heritage in the house. The living room on the left of the entryway is
decorated with understated sophistication, the couches and coffee
tables are classy without being overbearing. Money can't buy good
taste, but it can buy everything a person needs to wind up on the front
page of Pinterest. Martha is pretending not to be soaking in Harper's
reaction. So Harper plays it up, slowly turning so that she can see the
full effect of the cream-colored walls, landscapes in antique wooden
frames, and the massive mirror along one side of the hallway that gives
the impression that the space is much bigger than it is. And it has the
dubious benefit of reflecting Harper's dumbfounded expression back at
them. Harper's only twenty-five percent playing it up.
Slate's family home is like something out of a fairy-tale. Peter has
disappeared, probably to get the coffee started. Harper can hear a
machine turning over. Peter hadn't struck her as the kind of guy who
lingers over guests. Especially not with a wife like Martha, who seems
to be instinctively capable of picking up the slack.
Slate puts his hand in the small of Harper's back and kisses her temple.
"She's used to the brownstone in New York," he tells his mother, who's
watching Harper with a flattered expression, while Harper tries to
school her features into something more dignified than shock and awe.
"Poor thing isn't used to seeing a place so done up."
"Well, you k n o w . " Martha says, looking embarrassed but pleased, ".
with the wedding. "
"Are you having it here?" Harper asks.
Martha guides Harper and Slate through the hallway toward the stairs,
which have thick white carpet on them, as she explains that the
wedding will be held in the backyard because it's 'very popular right
now.'
"Grayson's family doesn't have the space... you know... we're

expecting quite a large guest list. "
"Grayson is the groom?" Harper clarifies, wracking her brain for the
information Slate had given her.
"My sister's boy," Martha says. "He's a banker. Good job, very stable.
Slate probably mentioned?"
"Of course." He hadn't. "I hear his fiancee is quite the beauty."
"Slate, tell me you're not fool enough to tell your girlfriend about how
pretty other women are. "
"Harper knows she's gorgeous, Mom."
Martha rolls her eyes at her son and sends Harper a conspiratory,
chagrined wink. "I apologize for my son. I'm sure he's been a trying
boyfriend."
"No, ma'am," Harper replies, reaching up to entangle her fingers in
Slate's. "You raised one wonderful man here."
Martha's smile is almost as dazzling as her son's.
The upstairs is just as classy and elegant as the downstairs. There's an
open area at the top of the stairs which leads down another, spacious
hallway decorated with portraits of men and women with brow bones
like Slate's and eyes like Peter's. Harper makes a note to ask about them
later. Martha leads them past doors, explaining that most of them are
guest rooms. Apparently, most of the guests will be staying in inns
downtown. Only the wedding party will be staying overnight on
Saturday to ensure they can begin getting ready early on Sunday. That
means that Harper will have one night with just Slate and his parents
before she has the rest of his extended family to contend with.
Finally, at the very end of the hallway, Martha stops.
"I haven't touched your room since you last came home, Slate... except
to clean. "
"I know, Mom. "
She looks between Slate and Harper. Her hands are folded over her
belly, and there' s a slightly strained smile as the silence between them
grows just to the edge of awkward. "Well, I' ll be downstairs with your
Dad. You two get yourselves settled and then come down when you' re
ready."
Slate shifts their bags in his hands. "Will do, Mom. "

Martha leaves them there, walking back down the hallway with her
stockinged feet muffled by the creamy white carpet. Slate watches her
go for a moment with a soft smile before turning to open the door.
"Welcome to Casa del Slate," he says, dramatically flinging the door
open in a way which makes Harper snort with laughter.
"You're such a dork."
"I'm delightful."
"The two aren't mutually exclusive."
Slate's bedroom is not what Harper expected. When she enters the
room, she realizes that she'd been expecting something like the
musicians' bedrooms in movies. Stray instruments, black bed sheets,
maybe a ratty poster or two and a record player. Slate' s bedroom looks
an awful lot like Martha had decorated it. The bed sits pressed against
the wall with a mahogany frame and deep burgundy sheets. The walls
are painted the color of wine, and there are more landscapes which
bring in some woody, green color as well. The windows are massive,
the curtains are colored like whipped cream, and the throw rug on the
floor is the same color. There are mahogany cupboards and a
full-length mirror against the opposite wall, and a door which leads to
what Harper assumes is the en-suite.
"Casa del Slate," she repeats. There's a question in her voice.
"Casa del Slate," Slate nods.
Harper watches him carefully so she can see the way he deflates
slightly as he gazes around.
"At least, the Slate who lived here before he moved to Jersey."
"Okay." Harper walks into the room properly, sits on the bed, and runs
a hand through her hair. "Your mom seems nice."
"My mom is an angel," Slate replies. He comes over to join her on the
bed. "You did well just now. She likes you, I can tell."
"Well, that's what I'm here for."
She wishes that she could lean over and run her hand over his chest.
She wishes that she could whisper into his ear that making his parents
like her isn't the only thing she's there for, and then maybe bite his ear
and slide across so that she's throwing a leg over his lap. She would kiss
him then, all tongue and wanting, and he would wrap his

arms around her and hold her close.
But something about his body language holds her back. His shoulders
are slightly hunched and he's looking around the room like he' s trying
to reacquaint himself with the boy who used to sleep here. It makes
Harper wonder what his room looks like now. What the room that he
sleeps in at the brownstone has that this one doesn't.
She moves around to sit on her knees behind him. He cranes his neck to
see her, and she turns his chin so he's looking forward instead. Then she
starts to rub his back.
Slate's reaction is immediate and just what she wanted. He slumps, he
groans, he lets his head fall forward. She kneads his shoulders and
enjoys the way that the firm muscle yields to her fingers.
All those months of massage therapy courses are paying off in
unexpected ways.
"It's just the weekend," she tells him. "We're going to get through
this."
"I know," he mutters. "I shouldn't be worrying about anything.
Sorry."
"Don't be sorry," she replies. She lets herself lean forward just a bit so
that her hair trails along his back, but that's as close as she allows
herself to get. "Family is always stressful." She's never had a problem
with her family, but she knows that she's in the minority.
"Yeah," Slate says, almost scoffing. "It's gonna get... it's gonna get a bit
more intense over the next few days. Dad' ll be an asshole. We have a
deal, but he' ll still be an asshole. " She doesn' t ask what the deal was.
Maybe later. She rubs down his spine and hits the cluster of nerves in
his lower back which makes him take a sharp breath. "Mom' ll
overcompensate for him. Grayson will talk about his pension plan like
it' s the most interesting thing in the world, and everyone I ' m related to
will do their best to pretend that I don't beat drums for a living."
Harper rubs circles in his shoulder blades, forcing them to unclench
and pushing the knots away as they appear. It feels like Slate has been
thinking about this for a while. This is probably not the first time he's
voiced these thoughts, though. In fact, his voice seems almost bored,
like he's speaking facts which have been known for so long that they're
old

news. Like he doesn't want to get his hopes up that things will be
different.
"You're not going in alone," Harper tells him. "Relax. We've got
this."
She keeps rubbing his shoulders and back, waiting for the moment
when his chin starts to lift up and his breathing evens out. The room
smells like laundry detergent, but now that Harper is this close to him
she can smell his cologne properly—chocolate and leather. She lets
herself soak it up and wonders if the room will feel more like Slate' s
once it starts to smell like him.
As Slate's back relaxes, Harper decides that it's time to try to make him
laugh.
She leans forward and puts her chin on his shoulder. "You know, I hear
quickies are a great stress reliever. "
It works. Slate lets his head fall back so that it rests on Harper's other
shoulder and he laughs right from his belly. His neck is right next to her
lips. It would be so easy to kiss him. She's just making up her mind to
do it when he pulls away and holds out a hand.
His whole body straightens and there's a cheerful grin on his face again.
"Come on, gorgeous. We both smell like airplane. Let's get clean and
head downstairs. "
Harper takes his hand and lets him pull her off of the bed and guide her
toward the en-suite.

Slate's parents are remarkably formal over lunch. They serve a
roast—something Harper's own family would never have considered in
hot weather—and eat with the good silverware. Harper has a sneaking
suspicion that she's the reason for the good silverware.
The table is too big. There are eight seats. Martha had mentioned
hosting dinner parties, and Harper hopes that the dinner parties happen
frequently because otherwise, the table would be depressingly large for
a family of three. Two, really, considering Slate doesn't live with his
parents anymore.
Slate looks completely different. Harper had barely recognized him
when he returned from the en-suite. He washed his hair in the shower
leaving it almost fluffy, and he sits at the table now wearing a white,
button-down shirt and slacks that fit him well, but after seeing him in
his jeans and leather jacket feel like he's wearing a costume. He sits in a
posture that makes Harper think he would be slouching if he thought
that he could get away with it. His mother and father are sitting
straight-backed, chewing their tiny mouthfuls carefully and making
polite conversation with Harper.
"So what made you decide to be a personal trainer? " Martha asks after
she's swallowed her mouthful and patted her lips with the napkin.

Slate fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt and runs a distracted hand
through his hair, grimacing a little at the feeling of the shampoo.
Harper nudges his knee with her own and hopes that he takes some
comfort in it.
"When I was younger, I was really chubby," Harper says honestly.
Peter and Martha both pause at that, and Slate's lips quirk up. "I had
Type 2 diabetes and a couple of other health problems. My parents
hired a trainer and he really helped me out, so now I want to help other
people
too."
Martha nods slowly. "That's interesting," she says, which Harper has
come to realize is the statement Martha uses when she doesn't know
what else to say.
"It's inspiring," Peter adds, though he sounds bored when he says it.
"Good for you, improving yourself."
"I can't take all the credit," Harper replies. "Like I said, my trainer
helped me a lot. "
Peter cuts a quick look to Slate. "Maybe you can help my son improve
himself as well. "
Slate smiles. It's not a grimace. Harper knows it must be fake, but it's
such a damn good impersonation of a genuine smile that if she hadn't
known that he wasn't happy about his father's jibes, she would think it
was all a joke. That it's the light-hearted ribbing in which Harper is
used to in her own family.
"You can't improve on perfection," Harper says, elbowing Slate and
giving him a wide smile.
Slate grins back. There's a crease to his eyes which could be genuine or
not. Harper hopes that she' ll be able to learn the difference over the
course of this weekend.
"Now, now..." he says, "...don't give me too much credit, babe."
"I never give too much credit," Harper replies. "But now that I think
about it, you could stand to work a bit more on your upper body. "
"Lies. "
Martha smiles at the pair of them. She keeps looking from Slate to her
husband like she's trying to make a decision about something, but in the
end she seems to decide that it's better to just stay quiet.
Peter purses his lips. "So how did you two meet?" he asks.

Harper nudges Slate's knee again, more obviously this time, and winks
at him. "You tell it, babe. You tell it much better. "
So Slate launches into the story that they'd worked out on the plane.
That he'd met her at the gym, and that she'd wiped the floor with him.
He plays up the attraction at first sight thing, getting really excited and
animated as he explains how he saw her across the room and thought
that he died and went to heaven. Harper feels herself blushing as he
talks. Even if it's all bullshit, she can't help but enjoy the way he
describes her. If she' d been his girlfriend legitimately she would be a
bit embarrassed that he' s getting this excited about explaining her to
his parents. It would make her think that he's buttering them up because
he's hoping that she'll be around for a while.
But she's not going to be around for a while. Just the weekend. Though
maybe when this is over he might still need her services again. Maybe
he'll have other family functions to go to. Maybe he'll need someone to
pretend to be his girlfriend again. It will be something for her to look
forward to in between her other, less chivalrous clients. If she can
persuade Slate to take her to bed, then she'll be able to look forward to it
even more.
"... and then she tells me that if I do another rep, she'll go on a date with
me," Slate continues. "And of course I can't do it because she already
destroyed me. But she agreed to the date anyway. "
"It was pity," says Harper.
"I like to think it was my charm," Slate adds.
Peter rolls his eyes. "I think I agree with the lady," he says. "It's about
time a nice girl took pity on you. Give you something to do besides
play with those drums of yours. "
Slate's smile doesn't waver but his fingers clench a bit tighter on his
fork.
"Oh, Slate. tell your parents about that charity gala," Harper says
quickly, pretending to suddenly remember it. She'd Googled the band
while Slate was putting on his costume and gathered a bunch of facts
just in case she was asked. Turns out, she'll be using them for some
different purposes. "The one you played at last month? Black Lilith..."
she adds, speaking directly to Martha, but knowing that Peter is
listening just as

intently, ". is working with the Dorothy Croft Trust for Young
Musicians. They did a great show for the gala. "
Martha nods encouragingly at her son, who looks at Harper with an
edge of surprise in his eyes.
"A trust for young musicians?" Peter asks. "Shouldn't we be helping
them get a job instead of playing instruments all day? "
"They're not mutually exclusive," Harper replies. She's smiling so
sweetly that she thinks she might be giving herself a cavity. Peter can't
possibly think that she's being annoying or smart-alecky right now.
"Look at your son. a great drummer, and now he' s an entrepreneur
working with charities. Maybe some of the kids that Dorothy Croft
works with will follow in his footsteps?"
Martha nods quickly, sticking her fork in her mouth and chewing
slowly so she won' t be expected to contribute. Peter, after a moment,
follows his wife' s lead and puts something in his mouth, but he nods
along begrudgingly, agreeing with Harper without words.
Slate launches into a story of the night of the gala. He doesn't mention
that Danielle, the woman who stole from the band, had been there that
night. Maybe his parents don't even know about what happened there.
But Slate talks about some of the young musicians he met on the night.
He makes sure to explain that many of them were taking AP classes in
things like science and mathematics and that their intelligence is what
makes them so strong musically. About halfway through the story,
Slate reaches over to squeeze Harper's hand.
Lunch is over quickly, and Harper insists on helping to wash up the
dishes. Peter and Martha protest until Slate intervenes, turning Harper
toward the sparkling kitchen and calling over his shoulder for his
parents to go outside and relax out the backyard, while he and Harper
get the place cleaned up.
The kitchen is state of the art, yet vintage, which Harper thinks
shouldn't surprise her at this point. The place looks like it should be on
the front page of a Home magazine—the perfect mixture of sweet little
country cottage and the best-of-the-best in technology. Sinks, faucets,
and knives are all brand new, but there are mason jars complete with
spices along the wall and a vase full of flowers on the bench. There's an

iPad mounted on the wall and a row of herbs growing out of ceramic
pots on the windowsill.
When the door closes behind them, Slate pulls Harper into a hug.
"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!"
He picks her up and spins her around, and Harper lifts her heels back
and hugs him around the shoulders. She laughs. It's exhilarating to feel
him lift her so easily.
When Slate settles her back down, he pulls back and rests his hands on
her shoulders, beaming at her. "You beautiful, perfect woman. you
nailed it in there. "
"I just told them the truth."
"You think I've never told them the truth before?" he asks. "You're a
miracle worker... I'm so fucking glad I found you." You get what you
pay for.
The thought intrudes into an otherwise lovely moment. Harper shoves
it away—there is a time and place to remind herself that she's an escort,
and it's not when Slate is looking at her like she's the best thing that' s
happened to him all day.
This is the moment to kiss him. Harper leans forward and pouts her
lips, her eyelids half-drooping, and Slate immediately jerks away.
Harper feels like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over her as he
holds her at arm' s length.
"Hold on—"
"Sorry—"
"No, it's not—"
"I know you're not—"
"It's not that I don't..." There's a pause when the two of them seem to
realize what a stupid situation they' ve found themselves in. Slate still
has her by the shoulders with his elbows locked, his hip jutted out a bit
so that there' s no chance that they can touch anywhere below the waist.
His head is pulled back as well, as though he' s trying to put distance
between their lips at the same time that he' s holding her shoulders.
Slate and Harper's eyes meet, and they both snort in unison. "Don't take
me seriously," Harper says. "I just... wanted to push

my luck a little bit, I guess. "
It' s a good mix of self-deprecating and cheerful and goes a bit of a way
toward hiding the shadow of mortification lurking in the back of her
mind. She knows when she thinks of this later she's going to be furious
with herself. Thankfully, looking at Slate's warm, dark chocolate eyes
make the embarrassment a little easier to bear.
He smiles at her. An understanding, commiserating smile. "I'm
obviously a very sexy guy, but you' re going to have to push through it,
babe."
Harper shoves him in the chest, laughing when he fake stumbles back
and rubs his chest like he's been punched.
"Jeez, Harper... control your strength. You're a personal trainer not
Lady Hulk. "
They turn as one and make their way to the kitchen sink, where a pile of
dishes is waiting for them. Harper goes immediately for the towel to
dry. Slate smirks at her and reaches for the dish soap.
"Was that true, by the way? That you were a chubby little princess?"
"I was a chubby little princess," Harper tells him, nodding solemnly as
he washes the first plate and hands it to her for drying. "A very pretty,
very chubby, princess. "
"I'm sure you were adorable."
"I was," Harper says. They stand side-by-side at the kitchen sink,
letting the air of domesticity soak them. "If it weren't for the fact that I
was looking down the barrel of an early death, I would have stayed that
way all my life. "
"Well, in that case, I'm glad you lost the weight," he says. "Maybe you
can help me improve myself."
"Give you something to do besides playing your instruments all
day?"
Cooper starts barking in the backyard. Harper's missed the sound of a
solitary dog barking. The dogs in Manhattan tend to drown each other
out and howl like monsters. Too many dogs in one place. But in the
country it's a lot easier to hear the tone of a bark, and enjoy the sound
without wondering if you're going to be hearing it for hours.

He snorts and dips the bowl he's washing in clean water before handing
it to her. "Exactly," he replies. He bumps her hips with his. It' s
unbearably sweet.
They fall into silence as they finish washing the dishes, dry them, and
then Slate shows her where to put them.
"Rosa must be off today," he mutters as he puts away the last of the
glasses.
"Rosa?"
"The help. " His nose wrinkles. "She' s a nice lady. Probably deserves a
better job than cleaning up after rich white people. " "You 're a rich
white people," Harper says.
"I' m a rich white people," he repeats, nodding along with her and
taking over the terrible grammar without hesitating. "But I clean my
own damn dishes. Or I throw away the pizza box like a boss."
Harper laughs at him. "You know sodium's bad for you, right?"
Slate gives her a pitying look. "Sodium isn't even in the top ten of the
worst shit I do to my body. "
Harper sighs and gives his biceps a longing look. "We should take
pictures now so you have something to remember your beautiful body
after it' s gone to hell. "
"I'll set up a tripod later... we can do those weird naked black and white
art shots. "
The door to the kitchen opens and both Harper and Slate turn to see
Martha standing framed in the doorway. She smiles fondly at them
both. "Grayson and Kayla are here," she says.
Slate straightens up a bit, his shoulders rising as though he wishes that
his head could retreat like a tortoise in its shell. "That's great, Mom."
"They're excited to see you, darling. Come and say hello."
"Just a sec," he replies. His mother disappears and Slate sighs,
dramatically throwing his head back like he's in a movie. "Goddamn,
this is gonna suck. "
Harper reaches over and straightens his collar. "We'll get through this,"
she reminds him.
"We'll get through this," he agrees. He reaches for her and his hand

falters about an inch away from her shoulder. He sighs again, and this
time it's not dramatic. It feels more real. "I'm glad you're here with me."
She feels a smile spreading over her lips. She's about to say that it's
what she's being paid for, but she doesn't want to ruin the moment. "So
am I," she says instead.

Grayson wears almost the same clothes as Slate does, but they actually
seem to suit him.
"Here's the rockstar!" he says, marching forward and pulling Slate' s
hand into a deeply uncomfortable-looking handshake. The sleeves of
his button-up shirt are rolled down and secure around his wrists, and his
hair is styled in a well-oiled quaff that seems designed to give the
impression that he didn't do anything to it. "It's been forever."
"Too long," Slate agrees. He's smiling but it looks more like a grimace.
Sunlight flows through the lace curtains in the living room. Harper
hangs back next to Martha, watching the reunion unfolding in front of
them. Grayson looks like a younger, slimmer version of Slate—less
muscle, less hair, less wild—though their faces are so similar that they
could have been brothers instead of cousins. When he smiles Harper is
reminded of those apes on the Discovery Channel who have learned to
mimic humans but don't understand what any of the movements they've
learned mean. He smiles like he's trying to convince himself that he's
happy. Or maybe that's what Harper thinks because she's seen Slate's
cheery, unguarded smile, and now that she knows what that looks like
anything else feels like a cheap imitation.

Standing behind Grayson is a slim redhead wearing a dress just on the
edge of too small. Her shoulders are slouched, but she perks up when
she sees Slate.
"Kayla," Slate says, stepping past his cousin and kissing the woman on
the cheek. Harper thinks she catches a tiny movement from Kayla,
turning her head as though she intends to catch his lips with hers, but
Slate moves too fast. "It's good to see you."
"It's great to see you, Slate," she replies, smiling radiantly at him.
Harper raises an eyebrow and smothers a smile when she glances over
at Grayson. He seems to have no idea that his fiancee is eye-fucking
Slate—he's more interested in shaking hands with Peter. It's that same
formal, stiff handshake that makes Harper think that she's sitting in on a
business meeting. But Peter reaches over to clap Grayson on the
shoulder and give him a warm smile. Much warmer than anything
Harper had seen him give his son since she met the man.
"How's work?" Slate asks a very general question, but the look on
Kayla's face would make someone think that he was asking about her
darkest secrets and desires.
"Oh, it's nothing interesting. Nothing like your work, you know. I'm so
glad you could take time away from being a rockstar! It's so good to see
you. "
"You know I wouldn't miss your wedding, Kayla."
There's the tiniest emphasis on the word 'wedding.' Just enough so that
a keen observer would notice. Kayla's smile hangs onto her cheeks
despite her eyes drooping. They flicker over to Grayson, then stare
meaningfully at Slate's face, chest, and crotch.
"It wouldn't be the same without you," she says, her voice dropping
into a low purr like she's in a soap opera and this is her big scene with
the forbidden love of her life.
Harper hastily turns her snort of laughter into a cough. That has the
unfortunate side-effect of drawing Grayson's attention to her.
"Slate," Grayson says, reacting to Harper like she's an adorable puppy
that Slate brought home. "I thought you were kidding when you ticked
plus one. "
"I never kid about bringing dates to weddings," Slate says easily.

He steps away from Kayla and comes around to stand at Harper's side.
"Grayson. Kayla. Meet my girlfriend... Harper."
Harper feels his arm curl around her waist and doesn't need to pretend
to be happy about it. Martha, who was standing with Harper while Slate
was being flirted at by his future cousin-in-law, perked up when Slate
made that comment. Harper is cheered by the thought that Martha is
already in her corner. Peter doesn't seem to have even noticed that
anything was weird about the situation.
"Harper, huh?" Grayson asks, bestowing one of his formal handshakes
on Harper. His palm is sweating, and Harper is unsure of whether it's
from the heat or whether it's just his general state of being. "Nice to
meet you. Where's your family from?"
Harper gives him the spiel—that she's from Omaha, and her family is
probably English—and he looks surprised that she's not sure about it.
Like there's nothing in the world that should interest a person more than
where their last name came from.
"Martha, do you think you could get us some coffee? " Grayson asks as
he takes a seat in one of the couches.
Slate frowns at him. It's the first time that he's shown anything other
than bland cheer since his cousin showed up at the house. "Mom, you
relax... I'll get the coffee."
"Oh, no. Slate you have to stay and fill us in on what's happening
in LA. "
"I live in New York."
"Hey, Grayson," Harper says loudly, drawing the attention of everyone
in the room. "Why don't you tell me about your pension plans? Slate's
been talking them up since I met him."
Slate shoots Harper a grateful look as Grayson's eyes light up
comically. Peter and Grayson settle in on two sides of one big couch
while Harper settles herself in between them. The couch is hard and
uncomfortable. Harper crosses her hands in her lap and allows herself
to be inundated immediately with Grayson's ten-year plan while Slate
disappears into the kitchen. Martha and Kayla each take a seat, though
Martha had made an aborted movement as though she'd meant to
follow Grayson's instructions anyway.

Kayla keeps looking Harper up and down. Harper can feel the other
woman's eyes on her while Grayson regales her—and the room at
large—about interest rates and whatever else makes a pension plan
important and interesting. Harper stops listening almost immediately,
plastering on the mildly interested face that she uses in lectures at
college.
The room smells of Kayla's perfume. Peter keeps nodding along to
Grayson's hideously boring spiel, a look of pride in his eyes that Harper
hadn' t known to expect. Slate had mentioned that his cousin was
boring, but he never mentioned that his father was so amped about it as
well. The longer that Harper sits between them, basking in the
combined weight of their mutual admiration, the more she feels terrible
for Slate having to see his father—who is so openly disapproving of
him—faun over Grayson.
"Grayson is planning a development meeting in a few weeks," Peter
tells Harper, nudging her as though she should be impressed. "That's
great," says Harper.
Kayla looks bored. Harper can' t blame her. She keeps looking
hopefully at the door to the kitchen, clearly wishing that Slate will
return. Harper can't blame her, again. When she had been confronted
with Slate in all his well-sculpted glory, Harper had nearly had a
malfunction, and she's been openly flirting ever since. She can't exactly
judge another woman for doing the same thing. The willful ignorance
of her fiancé just makes it all funnier for Harper. Martha watches
Grayson and Peter talking each other up with a forced smile.
"Just need to take some time for the honeymoon." Grayson winks at
Kayla and Harper feels embarrassed on Kayla's behalf.
"Where are you going?"
"Disneyland."
Harper doesn't say that she thinks Mickey Mouse might be a little less
than romantic. She couldn't imagine that a guy who can wax poetic
about quarterly reports would be capable of anything more.
"So are you looking forward to the wedding tomorrow?" Harper asks,
taking advantage of a brief pause in the conversation to give Kayla
something to distract her.

Kayla looks over and flicks her hair over her shoulder at the same time
in a move which makes Harper both envious and impressed. In the
sunlight still streaming through the window, Harper can see delicate
freckles sprinkled over the woman's nose.
"Of course," Kayla replies. Her voice is forced through her throat like
she's trying to put as much effort as possible into the words. "I can't
wait! Have you seen the backyard? It's everything I ever dreamed of."
"The backyard?" Harper asks.
"That's where the wedding will be," Slate's voice cuts through the
conversation and everyone turns to the door to see him standing with a
tray covered in coffee supplies and a wide grin. He seems to have taken
the time in the kitchen to recuperate some of his vibrant energy.
"Harper and I only just got in, I haven't had the chance to give her the
tour yet."
He sets the tray down on the table, waves off his mother's attempts to
help, and makes coffee for everyone. Milk for his mother, black for his
father and Grayson, and two sugars for Kayla. When he wavers over
Harper's mug, Harper nearly finds herself telling him how she takes it
before she remembers that they've been 'dating' for a month and he
should know how she takes her coffee.
She discretely catches his eye and mimes tipping her hand on an
invisible cream jug. Slate pours her some milk. His fingers skate over
the sugar bowl, Harper's head twitches in the negative, and he casually
reaches over the bowl of sugar to the spoons. He mixes her coffee and
hands it over to her.
"Thanks, babe," she says, giving him a wink. Apparently, they've
settled on 'babe' for each other's pet names.
Slate dips down to kiss her cheek. Harper lets herself smile at him. She
lets herself look at him adoringly because she's his girlfriend and she
has that right. Kayla sips her coffee loudly while Grayson guffaws next
to Harper.
"Never thought I'd see you so sappy, Cuz," he says, and then he pauses
for laughter. Martha and Harper oblige him with some awkward
chuckles. "Maybe we should leave the decorations up in case you guys
need them?"
If Harper had really been Slate's girlfriend and they'd only been

dating for a month, she'd be horrified right about now.
"Don't scare Harper off," Slate tells Grayson. He takes his own
coffee—milk and three sugars, which makes Harper wince—and sits
down on Martha's armrest, slinging an arm over his mother's shoulders
and pulling her close in a half-hug. "I'm hoping to keep her around for a
little while longer before she comes to her senses and leaves me for a
powerlifter."
"Never," Harper says. She sips her own coffee and stifles a wince when
it burns her tongue. "I prefer the yoga instructors. They spend less time
in the sauna. "
Slate crosses an ankle of his knee while his father snorts derisively on
Harper's other side.
"I'm surprised you've stayed as long as you have," he tells Harper.
"Haven't you gotten bored watching him beat his drums all day?"
"He breaks up the drumming sessions with meeting fans and giving to
charity," Harper says without batting an eye. "I'm never bored."
Martha gently guides the conversation toward the wedding and
Grayson immediately dives into the various ways he's saved money for
the weekend. Then Harper is ushered outside so she can see the
backyard in all of its glory.
"Oh. My. God." Harper can't say anything else as she takes in the sight
of Slate's family backyard dressed up ready for the wedding.
There's a massive, rectangular pool sunk into the emerald grass and a
ring of old, healthy-looking oaks and completely unnecessary palm
trees that are strung up with unlit fairy lights. They'll probably look
gorgeous when they' re lit up and twinkling for the reception dinner.
Across the yard, past the intimate ring of tables with shining white table
cloths and black wrought-iron chairs with matching white cushions on
the seats, is an archway dressed with white flowers.
"This looks like a dream," Harper tells Kayla.
The other woman has a soft smile on her face as she looks around. She
graces Harper with that smile, and then Slate and then her fiancé. "I
can't wait," she says. Her eyes glide meaningfully over to Slate as she
speaks.
Harper makes a round of the garden with Grayson and Kayla,

listening politely as the pair of them explain how much everything cost
and where they bought it, while Martha and Peter observe from the
back porch. Cooper runs around them with his tail wagging, but
whenever he comes near Kayla her nose wrinkles and she dances out of
his way. Harper pauses for a moment next to the pool. Slate sidles up
next to her and slides his arm around her waist.
"Remember when we went to that concert and you said the fireworks
looked like fairy lights?" he asks.
"Yeah, and you said that there's no such thing as fairies."
"I know, I didn't mean to trample on your whimsy," Slate replies easily.
"But later tonight we'll turn the lights on. You'll get a kick out of it, I
just know it. "
Harper leans over to rest her body weight against his side, thinking
once again that they're so easy together. They work so naturally that
they can make up a backstory without even trying or thinking much
about it, adding pieces to each other's stories and weaving the web of
their lives together. It's as easy as taking a breath and letting it out
again. It's as easy as falling.
Speaking of falling. Harper eyes the pool and then looks at Slate's
white shirt.
"Do you have your phone in your pocket? " Harper asks. Slate pats his
pants. "No, why?"
Harper shoves him hard in the back and Slate only has the chance to let
out a loud yelp of surprise before he's falling into the pool. At the last
second, he twists and grabs Harper's arm. With a shriek, Harper
tumbles in with him.
They both submerge with a loud splash. Harper feels the cool water
immediately envelop her body, chilling her skin, sinking into her jeans
and shirt with little effort. Slate's hand on her wrist a warm reminder of
the world above. She holds her breath and takes a moment to enjoy the
weightlessness, her eyes tightly closed in case the pool is chlorinated,
before Slate's hand coaxes her back up.
Slate and Harper break back through the surface of the water. Harper
gasps for air and she knows she's got a huge grin on her face—and it
only gets wider when she sees Slate, wearing an equally

wide grin. His white T-shirt soaked and lovingly caressing every
tattooed muscle on his torso. He's as well-toned as she'd hoped. His
pecs and abs bulge attractively as he gasps for air as well.
"You sneaky little shit," he says, without a hint of annoyance.
Martha and Peter are both watching from the back porch, looking
concerned but apparently recognizing that the situation is intentional.
Grayson and Kayla are watching from the side of the pool—Grayson
looks annoyed that his spiel was interrupted by the shenanigans, while
Kayla gazes openly at Slate's wet shirt.
"At least you had the pleasure of bringing me with you."
Slate steps right into Harper's space, wraps his warm arms around her,
and kisses her forehead and dunks them back under.

The next morning, Harper wakes up in a bundle of sheets which smell
like leather and chocolate, her face buried in Slate's chest.
He'd offered to sleep on the floor, but Harper had shot that idea down in
flames.
"Don't be ridiculous, we're adults we can share a bed."
He'd given her a sly look. "Promise not to molest me in my sleep?"
Harper would have been lying if she'd said she hadn't considered it. But
there's a difference between thinking about it and doing it. She'd
thought about how she would feel if she'd made it clear that she didn't
want to sleep with someone, only to have them try something while she
was sleeping. The thought made her a bit ill.
"I swear," she'd said, completely serious, "I won't molest you until you
ask me to."
He laughed at that. She's starting to fall in love with that laugh.
But there's still a part of her that stings at the thought that Slate is not
willing to sleep with her. She's never been so interested in a man
before. She's never wanted to throw herself at a man like this. The open
way she flirts, the way she's made it clear over and over that she would
be down for anything Slate wanted, and to have nothing but a negative
reaction? It's a blow to her self-esteem.

When she wakes up, Harper takes a moment to enjoy the warmth of his
body. They'd curled together while they'd slept, and Harper would feel
guilty about that if she couldn't feel Slate's massive arm curled
possessively around her waist, holding her against his chest. They're
fully clothed—sweatpants and T-shirts. Harper hadn't brought pajamas
because she hadn't thought that she'd need them, but Slate had
graciously given her some of his clothes. Grayson and Kayla had
stayed for dinner the night before, and pretending to care about
Grayson' s stories had exhausted Harper to the point where she' d
practically collapsed into bed when she'd gotten the chance.
Harper cranes her neck a bit to watch Slate sleep. His brown eyelashes
look delicate and sweet caressing his cheekbones, and his lips are
pouted as though he's dreaming of something annoying. His chest rises
and falls gently beneath her head.
Pushing herself carefully out of his arms, Harper slips out of the
blankets and trudges over to the shower.
"Harper?" a tired voice calls from the bed.
Harper turns to see Slate rubbing his eyes, looking adorable with his
hair a mess and his lips pouted, though his sexy tattooed biceps are on
display in the short sleeves of his T-shirt.
"Morning," she says.
"Is it?" He looks at the clock and sighs. "Today's the wedding, isn't it?"
She nods. "I'm gonna take a shower." She can't help but add, "You want
to join me?"
Slate sighs with exasperation. "You're really testing my resolve here,
Harper," he says. "At least give me a few hours to wake up before
hitting me with that kind of temptation."
He stays where he is, though, so obviously she isn't as tempting as he
says she is. She tries not to show how much that stings.
"It's an offer, not an obligation," Harper says. She blows him a kiss.
"See you in a bit. "
She steps into the en-suite and closes the door behind her. It is just as
vintage/high-tech as the rest of the house—the décor is old-school
country cottage, with ceramic frogs on the window and a decoupage

doily on the toilet lid. But the shower is one of those dual-headed
masterpieces that make Harper glad that she became an escort just so
that she could experience them.
Almost as good as sex, she thinks when she strips herself bare, turns on
the shower, and steps under the spray. Since there's not a lot of sex
happening this trip, I'll have to enjoy this.
Harper doesn't want to take too long. She quickly washes her hair and
scrubs her body with the chocolate shower gel on the wall. It smells
like Slate and she takes a moment to bask in the scent and pretend that
he' s there with her, enveloping her, breathing her in with the same
interest.
She has a feeling Martha is going to be stuck with a lot of the
organization for this event, and she wants to help the poor woman out if
she can. Peter isn't necessarily a bad husband, but he seems to have a
fairly traditional idea of what a wife should do. Harper is unbearably
grateful that Slate doesn't seem to have inherited the same traditional
traits.
When she'd agreed to take this job, she hadn't thought that she would
like her client. She hadn't thought that she would laugh so freely with
him—they had still been giggling about the pool incident when they'd
climbed into bed the night before—or flirt so easily with him. She
hadn' t thought that she would be excited to wake up next to him. She
most certainly hadn't thought she would feel so protective of him.
Every sly comment from Slate's father was met with a gentle but
immediate rebuttal from Harper. She'd stayed at Slate's side all
evening, intervening whenever someone made him look even the
slightest bit down or unhappy, distracting his cousin whenever the
other man slipped into the micro-aggressions that seemed to come so
naturally to him.
It wasn't just Slate, though. She'd made herself useful to Martha,
drawing the woman into conversations and coaxing smiles out of her.
She'd even made an effort to get to know Kayla. Kayla, it turned out,
was a massage therapist. She met Grayson years ago when she was
hired by his company. She'd spent most of the evening trying
desperately to flirt with Slate—maybe she's hoping that Slate will give
her an alternative to Grayson, or at least oblige her with a sexy fling
before they

officially tie the knot. Whenever Kayla had said something particularly
daring—her oblivious fiancé spending more time chatting with Peter
than talking to his future wife—Harper and Slate would make eye
contact and have to look away from each other to keep from laughing.
Poor Kayla. Harper would be equally as aggressive flirting with Slate if
she were staring down the barrel of a lifetime as Grayson's wife.
Harper finally steps out of the shower, dries off, and stares critically
into the mirror.
What the fuck, Slate. I have a good body.
Her toned stomach shows off her strong core, her arms are thin but
firm, and her butt and thighs are plump with muscle and clear of
cellulite. Her breasts are full and a comfortable B cup. She looks good.
She feels sexy. She'd heard how good she looked from Angelica during
her interview. Angelica had been quite open about how easily Harper
would be able to get clients with a body like hers.
So why the hell doesn't Slate want her?
He'd seemed happy enough to flirt with her at the airport until he'd
learned that he was paying for her services. He's kissed her on the
forehead and cheek, but is that just because he's pretending to be her
boyfriend? This job would have been so much easier if she didn't feel
that connection with him. If she didn't feel so at ease in his company
and so delighted with how well they seem to fit together in
conversation, then this wouldn't be nearly as frustrating.
A part of her just wants to grab him and kiss him. But he pulled away
yesterday, and last night she'd promised that she wouldn't touch him.
Not without his permission.
So maybe she should try to coax him into touching her? It couldn' t
hurt.
Harper slings her wet, newly clean hair over her shoulder and before
she can change her mind, she walks out of the en-suite without a stitch
of clothing on.
Slate is sitting on the edge of the bed, his T-shirt stretched enticingly
over his chest and abs. Harper vividly remembers how gorgeous he
looks in a wet button-up. When he looks up, his eyes widen

slightly.
"Wow," he breathes.
Harper feels a glow of accomplishment when she sees the way he looks
her up and down. Her own eyes zero in on his groin, and she hopes that
the slight bulge she sees there has something to do with the fact that
she's standing naked in front of him. It might just be morning wood.
But a girl can dream.
"See something you like?" she asks, stepping into the bedroom,
walking across the rug and stopping at the end of the bed. The morning
air is a bit cool and she feels her nipples perking up. Slate stares openly
at them and Harper takes a deep breath so her chest rises slightly.
Slate licks his lips. "Yes," he says.
"You finally gonna do something about it?"
He seems to be chewing his tongue. "No."
Harper's shoulders fall. "You suck," she says, crossing her arms over
her chest.
She feels like such a dick. Here she is, throwing herself at a man, and
he' s just not interested.
"Harper—"
"No, I get it, you're not..." She decides not to finish the sentence. "Good
thing I became a whore, because I sure am acting like one, huh?"
"Don't say that," he whispers. "Don't ever talk about yourself that way,
Harper. He stands up then, takes a step toward her, then decides against
it and takes a step away again, so that the backs of his legs hits the
mattress. "Do you have any idea how hard it is not to touch you right
now?"
"It's not like I'm going to slap you if you do," Harper says.
Slate sighs, putting his hands on top of his head and looks away. "I'm
paying you," he says. "You're essentially my employee. I don't sleep
with women who work for me."
"You... but Sersha and Mikayla—"
"What Tommy and Logan do is their business," Slate says. "But I'm not
comfortable with it. I'm not going to sleep with you as long as I sign
your checks. "
Harper can see him wavering. She sees the way his fingers twitch

as though he wants to reach out and touch, the way that his body sways
like he wants to step forward. Even though she knows it's a terrible
thing, she steps closer. There's a couple of feet of rug between them.
"That would make sense if you were paying me to write your songs or
keep your calendar," she says, "but I'm an escort, Slate."
Slate huffs out a sigh. "Don't you come any closer, Harper."
"Oh, for God's sake. What are you gonna do? Punish me?"
That's daring. If Slate were anyone else, she would have cringed at the
cliché expression, but his eyes go dark and Harper shivers at the
thought of him bending her over his knee.
"No," he says, "that's not my style." His voice lowers into a harsh,
breathy growl that goes straight into Harper's blood stream. He doesn't
move, but Harper feels as though he's crowding into her space, and his
breath is so slow and even that she feels like he's hypnotizing her. "I
would hold your hands behind your back while I kissed you because I
don' t trust you to behave yourself. " Harper immediately imagines the
scene and her heart leaps at the thought of it. "I would kiss you so long
that your lips would go numb, then lay you down on the bed and kiss
every inch of your body. Every inch. There wouldn't be a part of your
body that doesn't know what my lips feel like."
Harper feels herself starting to sway toward him, but the sight of his
eyes holds her well outside of his reach. She can only imagine the scene
in her mind.
"When I'm done with that, I'll let you undress me. But if you get too
handsy I'll have to tie you down. Because you're not going to feel me
inside of you until you've come at least twice, hard enough to forget
your own name, so hard that you can hardly move. "
His pupils are blown out wide and Harper can feel her breath coming in
harsh gasps.
"And how long would that take?" she asks. Her voice is breathy, and
she would be embarrassed about it if the situation were different.
"Oh... hours," Slate says, his tone almost dismissive, yet wistful like he
imagines the scene in the same detail she imagines it. "And then, when
I'm done, I'll make you come again because I want you to forget
everything but me and us together." He licks his lips again. "I want you

to be feeling me for days afterward. I want you to taste me in the back
of your mouth, I want you to think of me when you take long showers."
She's certainly going to be doing that now. Slate takes a step forward so
that Harper is within arm's length, and everything in her wants him to
reach out and take her. To hold her close and fulfill every promise that
he's just made.
His hand comes up and Harper holds her breath. But he doesn't touch
her. His hand skims the air in front of her chest, an inch away from her
skin. She can feel the heat of his body even though he still won' t touch
her.
"But I won't do any of that," he says. Harper wants to groan and scream
in frustration. "I want you, but I won't touch you. No matter how
gorgeous you are when you're naked and panting."
She hadn't realized that her breath was coming so harshly, but now that
he's brought her attention to it she can't ignore the sound of it filling the
air between them.
"Imagine how I'd look underneath you."
"Don't think I haven't," he says. His eyes fall on her lips, and she can
practically feel the kiss that they haven't shared yet. Instead, he reaches
down and takes her hand. He kisses the back of it and Harper thinks that
she might spontaneously combust. "You're beautiful. And sexy as hell.
And you can handle my family. Goddam, you 're something else
Harper Styles. "
"You're not so bad yourself, Slate... seriously, what the fuck is your
name?"
He laughs. It's a low, husky laugh. Harper finds herself looking down
and is delighted to see the bulge in his pants, proving that he' s been just
as affected by this conversation as she has been.
"You're not gonna pry that out of me, babe," he says. "Now, I have to
take a shower. Promise you'll be dressed when I come out?"
Harper wants to scream with frustration. But she nods instead. She
watches him go to the en-suite, admiring his ass—perfect even in
sweats—and wonders how she'll be able to survive the next few days
with him.
And how she'll survive without him when they return to New

York.

Harper is still vibrating with unchecked sexual frustration by the time
the bride and groom have exchanged their vows and the reception has
begun. She's wearing a simple, elegant blue dress with thin straps,
designed to be form-fitting but classy. She'd bought it when Angelica
told her she was going to a wedding to impress family. If she'd been
hired to make an ex-girlfriend jealous, she would have gone for
something a lot sexier. As it is, she knows she's supposed to be
schmoozing grandmothers and cousins, so the dress is more demure
than provocative.
After her conversation with Slate that morning, a part of her is glad that
she went with something more modest. The last thing she needs is for
Slate to give her another 'talking to.'
He held her hand through the ceremony. He's wearing a stiff suit that
looks deliciously amazing but makes him squirm noticeably with
discomfort. The pool is full of floating white rose petals that make
Harper want to dive back in and drag Slate in with her, but she knows
that she won' t be allowed to pull that trick twice. The altar is done up
like it' s from a magazine, the trees look perfect, even the weather is
cooperating. Instead of being stinking hot, the air is comfortably warm
and none of the bridesmaids in their shimmering light pink dresses are

showing the slightest hint of sweat. Kayla looks gorgeous in a backless
lace gown and her hair up in graceful curls, but Slate keeps looking at
Harper like she's the most beautiful thing in the world. It makes her
want to blush all the way to the roots of her dark hair.
Grayson looks like a pompous tool, preening at the altar, gazing around
the garden and making eye contact with every one of the guests to make
sure they can see how beautiful his new wife is. He spends so much
time making sure that everyone else can see how gorgeous Kayla is that
he hardly takes the time to appreciate her himself. Meanwhile, Slate's
parents are in the front row with Slate's aunt and uncle, and Kayla' s
family. Slate and Harper are in the fifth. Harper is disgusted on Slate's
behalf, but Slate just tells her gently not to worry about it, that he
wouldn't want to be up front anyway. Martha and Peter both look proud
as the wedding goes on, though Harper does notice Martha glancing
over her shoulder at her son a couple of times during the vows. She has
a look in her eyes like she's wishing that Slate were with her. Or, maybe
more likely, that she was with him.
Poor Cooper has to stay in the house for most of the day. Rosa, the
lovely middle-aged woman who cleans the house, takes him out
periodically so he can do his business before going back inside.
By the time the reception has begun, the sun is setting and the fairy
lights are lit in the trees. Slate was right—they look gorgeous.
"This looks like something out of a movie," she tells Slate when she
sees the way he's backlit by the lights, standing beneath the white tent
which covers the reception area. People are milling around, getting
ready for the food, and exchanging funny stories about the bride and
groom. Or as funny as they can get when they are dealing with
someone like Grayson.
"Yeah, it does," Slate replies. He's looking around the reception with a
soft frown. "One of those old movies where the moneyed folks pretend
to be having fun while they one-up each other over whose weekend trip
to the Grand Canyon was the most fun. "
There's a slight twang to his accent when he says 'moneyed folks.'
Harper is delighted with it. She's been hoping to hear some kind of
accent come out of his lips, but so far he's been staunchly hiding his

roots. But now, around all his family, listening to the clear sound of
Iowa all around him, he's starting to lose the façade.
It had been a boost to her ego to hear that he wants her as much as she
wants him. It gave Harper a sudden, amazing flash of confidence when
she saw the way his eyes had lingered over her body, his darkened
pupils, the flush in his cheeks. Thinking back to it, she can't help but let
a soft sigh escape her lips. It makes her feel better to know that she's not
the only one wanting here. That she's not the only one who desperately
wants to be closer.
And it's infuriating that Slate seems to have gotten it into his head that
the reason they can't consummate the heat between them is because
he's paying her. As though it isn't literally her job to have sex with him.
Harper has enough self-control and restraint not to try and push the
issue—knowing as she does that she would be horrified if a man
ignored any boundaries that she put up. But dear Lord is it frustrating.
"Or a fairy-tale," she continues, letting her eyes linger over the shirt
stretched across his well-formed chest for a fraction of a second longer
than she should. "Look around... it's all white and lit up. I could see this
setting in a Disney movie."
"Right before the big confession scene between the two leads? " he
asks, leaning over and waggling his eyebrows at her.
"Followed by a good waltz."
He glances over to the dance floor, but it's full of people chatting and
there's no music playing. "Later."
Peter and Martha are making the rounds with the parents of the bride
and groom. They' re even more popular than the bride and groom
themselves. Martha is still glancing over at Slate, but whenever Peter' s
eyes move away from the people he's shaking hands with, it's usually to
look over at Grayson with a softly proud look in his gaze.
Slate holds out his elbow and Harper wraps her fingers around the
starchy, unrelenting material without a second thought, enjoying the
way his muscles flex when she touches them. He guides her over to the
newlyweds, stepping around people, nodding to those who wave to
him.
Everybody calls him Slate. Family, friends, people who have known
him his entire life. The more she hears them calling out to him,

the more desperately curious about it she becomes.
None of them try to initiate conversation, though. They acknowledge
Slate, and then they turn away. Harper's heart breaks a little bit more
every time she sees it, but Slate doesn't seem to mind. In fact, there's an
edge of relief to his gaze whenever he sees someone in the crowd turn
away from him.
Kayla and Grayson are in the middle of the dancefloor. Kayla clutches
Grayson's arm, chatting to one of her bridesmaids with her fourth glass
of champagne in her fingers. She's just as enamored with the
decorations as Harper is, gazing around with shining eyes. Like her
husband, she's more concerned with the room around her than she is
with the person at her side. Her eyes light up when she sees Slate
coming toward her, dimming only slightly when she takes in Harper on
the man' s arm.
"Congratulations," Slate says jauntily when he and Harper finally get
through the crowd to stand in front of Kayla and Grayson. "You look
beautiful, Kayla. "
Kayla simpers at him.
"Doesn't she?" Grayson replies, leaning over to rib his cousin in the
side. Like they're sharing a joke. "And your girl looks pretty good
herself."
"Harper doesn't need us to tell her she's beautiful." Something flashes
in Slate's eyes when he says it.
"Have you eaten anything, Kayla?" Harper asks. Kayla looks surprised
at the question. "I've been a bridesmaid a couple of times. I know the
bride hardly ever gets the chance to eat. "
The bridesmaid next to Kayla, a pretty brunette with eyes like a doe,
looks guilty. Kayla eyes some of the passing waiters with finger food
on silver trays.
"Penny, would you be a dear?"
"Sure thing, Kay," she says. Then she disappears.
Kayla shoots Harper a grateful look. "Thanks for reminding me. It' s
been a big day. "
"A great day," Grayson adds boisterously.
"A long day," Kayla says.

"I'm just looking forward to the wedding night," says Grayson, winking
at Slate. Harper wonders if it's possible for a man to be any more of a
cliché.
Slate smiles thinly in response. "I can only imagine," he replies.
Kayla leans over so her chest is right up in Slate's line of vision. "I'm so
glad you could be here for this, Slate. You'll save me a dance for
later?"
"Of course," he says. "Right after your first dance with your new
husband. Also, I promised Harper I'd give her a waltz. But after that?"
Kayla nods, the disappointment clear. Slate winks at Harper, who
blows him a kiss and shoves her grin down. She wants to lean over and
kiss him on the cheek but the man is too tall, and besides she doesn' t
want to push her luck. But she does want to push her luck. But she
doesn't. The different emotions warring in her mind make her feel like
she's got whiplash. She gives it a moment of thought before leaning
into Slate's side and is rewarded by the feeling of his arm wrapping
around her waist.
He wants me too. He just won't let himself have me.
Kayla's eyes zero in on the hand around Harper's waist, and Harper
doesn't let herself get petty about that. She knows that Kayla is staring
down the barrel of an awful marriage. She can't begrudge the woman
who wants to feast her eyes on a man like Slate. Though, honestly,
Harper thinks that Slate would look far better in his leather jacket and
jeans.
Someone clinks their glass and everyone turns to see Peter in the corner
with an empty champagne glass in his hand and a knife banging against
it. Slate's muscles flex under Harper's fingers.
"Sorry to interrupt everyone," he shouts. His cheeks are flushed and he
has a sparkling look in his eyes as he gazes fondly just to the left of
Slate and Harper—at Grayson and Kayla. "I know the toasts are
coming soon, but I wanted to get in early before everyone starts singing
Grayson and Kayla's praises."
There is a smattering of applause. Grayson looks pretty pleased with
himself. Kayla rolls her eyes and Harper is probably the only one who
sees it. Harper gives the woman a nod and Kayla, after a beat,

returns it.
"Grayson is my nephew..." Peter continues, "...and I couldn't be
prouder of him. He's grown into a fine young man and he's been lucky
enough to attract a beautiful wife. I know he' s going to keep making
me prouder."
Harper feels Slate tense up next to her, but when she looks over she
sees that he' s smiling. His eyes are crinkled at the corners and he looks
for all the world like he's having the time of his life. If it weren't for the
tense muscles beneath her fingertips, Harper wouldn' t even know that
Peter' s words were affecting him. Martha is at Peter' s side. She' s
watching Slate as closely as Harper is.
Someone shouts, "Kiss," and Grayson and Kayla engage in what is
probably the most awkward lip-lock that Harper has ever witnessed.
When they pull apart the crowd hoots and hollers.
Someone shouts for a kiss again. Harper frowns and looks around,
trying to figure out who they're shouting for, but all she can see is
people pointing at Grayson and Kayla. Or slightly to the right of them.
At Slate and Harper.
Grayson still has his arm around Kayla, but he's got this weird smirking
grimace on his face that makes Harper wonder if he's trying to be
encouraging.
"Come on, Slate," he shouts over the calls from the crowd. "Give the
girl a kiss. She's the first one you've ever brought home. Let us have a
little fun."
Slate's arm is even tenser. He leans across Harper as though he means
to protect her from the view of everyone still watching them. Harper
can feel the eyes of everyone on them. Martha looks amused, Peter
looks deflated as though someone has stepped on his moment. Harper
can't even tell who started the shouting, but now everyone has joined
in. Grayson has a point, after all, Harper is the first girl that Slate has
ever brought home. She's been getting curious looks all night, though
mostly she' s stayed close to Slate and away from the various relatives
who are trying to pretend that he's not there.
She pulls him closer and leans up to whisper in his ear, "Come on,
babe," she says, feeling a rush of heat go through her because she
knows

she'll probably never get the opportunity to be close to him like this
again. "Don't be shy. It doesn't suit you."
He looks down at her and gives her a grin, bearing his teeth. Then he
leans over and wraps both of his arms around her waist, hauling her up
for a kiss.

Harper throws her arms around his neck, letting Slate lift her off of her
feet with the enthusiasm of his kiss.
A dim thought in the back of her mind tells her that she should have
expected it to be like this. Slate kisses like he does everything
else—like he's having the time of his life. There's a smile on his lips
and she can feel the way they curl up at the corners. He tilts his head
just so and draws her tongue out of her mouth and into his, sucking
gently, causing her to curl her toes and be grateful that he had the
presence of mind to pick her up because her legs would have given out
from under her by now.
Not one to be outdone, Harper makes sure to kiss him back as hard as
she can. To pour all of the desire she's felt for him since the moment she
met him into that kiss. It's an exhilarating, intoxicating moment and
Harper knows without even giving it much thought that this kiss has
ruined her. It will never be like this with another. She will never be this
attracted to someone else. She sinks her teeth gently into Slate's bottom
lip and feels a growl in his chest, which is pressed up hard against hers.
The howls from the crowd bring Harper back to the present. It's a big
response from a group of people who had been content to ignore Slate
until then. Harper and Slate reluctantly part, only to see the men

and women in their audience shouting, waving their hands, and
applauding loudly. Harper is definitely blushing, both from desire and
embarrassment. And when she looks at Slate she sees the sheepish grin
on his lips, which are still pink from their kiss. His pupils are blown-out
again, and she can see the curls in his suit jacket from where she' d
gripped the starched material too tightly.
Oh fuck, she thinks as she fondly flattens the material. I shouldn 't have
enjoyed that so much.
But she did, and there's no going back now. All she can do is tuck
herself under Slate's arm and wave shyly at his gathered relatives. She
can see his mother in the crowd, still looking amused but with a much
more thoughtful turn to her gaze. Peter's got his eyebrow raised as
though he's surprised but not unpleasantly so. Harper realizes that
Slate' s cologne has invaded her senses, and now all she can smell is
chocolate and leather.
It' s only when the crowd stops applauding and the people begin going
back to their conversations that Harper realizes they may have upstaged
the bride and groom. She turns to see the pair of them still watching
Slate and Harper. Kayla's got a look in her eye like she's trying really
hard to stay calm and her smile is hanging by a thread. Grayson looks
like he wants to fist-bump Slate and luckily chooses to resist that
impulse.
"That was quite a kiss, man," he says. "You'd think you two had never
done that before. "
"It's always like the first time," Slate says, his arm never wavering from
Harper's side. "It's what makes her so special."
This time, Harper does kiss his cheek. She has to get on her tip-toes to
do it, and she only manages to graze his jaw, but it's something. She's
allowed to now, she reasons. She just kissed him in the middle of a
crowded room, and she can still feel the kiss from her lips to her
fingertips.
Slate says the goodbyes and Harper is barely listening. Then he's
steering her away to a private corner next to one of the trees on the
outside edge of the tent.
When he looks at her, Harper shivers. There's heat in that look and

longing as well. He looks her up and down like he's seeing her for the
first time.
"That was quite a fucking kiss," he says. His voice is low and hot like
melted caramel. "Wasn't planning on doing that."
"I wouldn't have done it," she says, as earnestly as she can manage
while still trembling with want. His head is ducked down and it would
be so easy for her to lean forward and claim his lips again. "But
everyone was shouting—"
"I know."
"Are you... you're not angry, are you?"
He smiles. It's soft and calm and Harper feels herself relax. "Of course
not. "
"I know that you don't—" "I'm not angry, I promise."
"Okay. That's good. I don't want you to be," she says. Then a thought
occurs to her and she leans forward again. His eyelids flutter and his
nostrils flare, is he smelling her perfume? She hopes that he is. It' s her
favorite. A light vanilla to match his chocolate. "Did you. enjoy
it?"
He grins at her with a raised eyebrow. "Are you asking for a review of
your performance?"
"No! No. I'm just... curious," she says. She's blushing, goddamit. She
had wanted so badly to be cool about this, but apparently the ease with
which they flirt with each other does not extend to asking him for his
honest opinion of their kiss. "I enjoyed it," she adds boldly. "But I knew
I would. "
His eyebrow all-but disappears into his fringe. "You knew?"
"Of course. Look at you. No one can be that hot and not be a good
kisser."
He just keeps grinning, like what she's saying is the most amusing thing
he's heard all week. Then he leans forward so he can speak directly into
her ear, his lips brushing the shell of it and making her draw a sharp
breath. "I fucking loved it. "
Harper's fingers twitch with the need to reach out and touch him. But
nobody is shouting for them to kiss. So she doesn't feel like she can.

"Well, you just let me know if you want a repeat performance, " she
tells him. "Really. Literally. any time. I' m up for it. You just say the
word."
And now she's babbling, but it's worth it for the fond look in his
gaze.
The sight of him there, haloed by the fairy lights in the tree above them
does strange things to Harper's heart. Even out of his element, wearing
that suit that he clearly despises, and surrounded by people who offer
waves but otherwise ignore him, he's still beautiful.
I can help with that, she thinks. Not the out of his element part, or the
suit part. But maybe the other part.
She reaches out and grabs his hand.
"Come on," she says as his expression turns confused. "We're going to
schmooze the shit out of this wedding."
And that' s exactly what Harper does. Dragging a bemused Slate behind
her, Harper proceeds to introduce herself—or get Slate to introduce
her—to every one of his relatives. It takes some time. She starts by the
bar, where his maternal grandmother is enjoying a strong scotch and
talking the bartender's ear off about her late husband's colon cancer.
She transfers the discussion to Harper, who manages to steer the
conversation to Slate's charity work and the story he'd made up about
how they'd met. Slate just stands next to her, looking increasingly
flattered in that shrugging, half-embarrassed way of his. And when
Harper is satisfied that the old woman is proud of her grandson—or at
least looking at him with more interest—she moves on to the next
relative.
It goes on like that for most of the evening. Harper pulls Slate along,
meeting family members who had snubbed him, and smiling politely
while she listens to their stories before steering the conversation to how
wonderful Slate is. Since Slate's not the one talking himself up, it seems
more genuine, and if Harper seems a bit over the top about it most of
the people in the room will put it down to her being hopelessly in love.
They'd all seen that kiss, after all.
"Slate is so great with kids. Did you know his band actually goes to
high schools to help with music classes? It's usually a surprise so the

press doesn't swarm the place..."
She'd read the article on the plane, saw the photos of him with the
young drummers, and heard him talk about it with sparkling, excited
eyes.
"One of the writers for the Hamilton musical... you know the one, it
won all those awards... said that the lyrics to Black LilitKs songs are
near-genius. When a Pulitzer Prize winner tells you you' re g o o d . "
Harper read that little tidbit on Twitter as she was getting ready for the
wedding.
"The charity they work with has raised millions. It' s changed so many
l i v e s . "
"Oh, I love yoga. Did you know, I tried to get Slate to come to yoga
with me, but his band is planning a world tour right now, and he
couldn't really take the time..."
"I'd love to help you with the crossword. Slate, you're a musician, what'
s a four letter word for a percussion instrument? "
By the time dinner has started, Harper all but collapses in her seat with
a flush of triumph. She's spoken to half the room and she's already
eyeing off the other half. Slate is at her side, leaning over to speak to an
uncle who had apparently been unaware that Slate's band was
nominated for a Grammy. They're talking about all of the previous
Grammy winners who have died horrible deaths—a morbid topic—but
Slate seems to be really into it and his uncle has an almost encyclopedic
knowledge of the subject. It had apparently never come up before.
Probably because the uncle had hardly ever spoken to him before.
Dinner is a delicious lamb stew with fluffy white bread. Harper eats
hers quickly, listening in on Slate' s conversation with half an ear as she
gazes around the room.
I need a cigarette, she thinks.
Instead, she taps Slate on the elbow and mimes a drinking motion. You
want a drink?
He sighs and nods, still half-listening to his uncle. Harper wonders if
she's imagining the look of gratitude in his eyes, or if her mind is
exaggerating it. Either way, she pushes herself to her feet and realizes
belatedly that she doesn't know Slate's drink order. She can't ask. She

decides to just bite the bullet and get the man a Red Bull.
The bar is pushed off to the side of the room. Since most people are still
eating, there's only a couple of red-faced men standing around
clutching scotch and sodas. That' s one thing Harper was surprised
about—all the drinks are free. Not just the champagne and soda. But
then again, with Peter and Martha footing the bill why wouldn't they
be? They seem like the kind of people to go all out.
"Red Bull?" she asks the bartender when she makes her way over. The
man nods. "Can I get one of those and a water, please?"
He gets to work. Harper's eyes start to glaze over as she watches him.
When she feels a hand on her elbow, she turns to see Martha standing
behind her in her elegant cream dress.
"Hi, Martha, did you want a drink?"
"Soda water?"
The bartender nods and starts pouring that one too. He's a no-nonsense
man, and after half an evening of schmoozing, Harper can appreciate
someone who doesn't fuck around or talk unnecessarily.
"How are you enjoying the wedding?" Harper asks as Martha sidles up
to join her on the bar.
"Oh, it's lovely. Peter is really happy with it."
Harper waits a beat, expecting Martha to continue. But she doesn't.
"And. are you happy with it?"
"It's a big success."
That's not really an answer, but Harper realizes it's probably the most
she's going to get out of the woman, so she nods. "Absolutely," she
replies.
Martha surveys the room and sighs. She looks older under the soft
light. When her eyes land on Slate and his uncle chatting over at the
fifth table, she smiles. "Do you know, I don't think I've seen Slate enjoy
himself so much at a party before. "
"Really?"
" H m m m . " She gives Harper an appraising look. "I saw you, walking
around. Making sure people speak to him. "
For some reason, the fact that she's been found out makes Harper
blush. "I. uh—"

"I'm glad," Martha continues, looking at Harper like they're sharing a
secret. "You might have noticed that my son doesn't get along with his
family as well as I would like."
"Then w h y . " Harper stops herself. She wants to ask why Martha isn't
the one taking her son around the room. Why Martha isn't the one
initiating conversation, and then segueing into a story of Slate's, giving
him the chance to shine.
Martha seems to read the question in her eyes anyway. She sighs again
and it's softer but more pained. She leans over so she's speaking almost
right into Harper's ear.
"Has my son told you his real name?" she asks.
Harper frowns at her. "Not yet," she replies. "But I'll get it out of him
eventually. "
"You mustn't push," Martha says. Her eyes drift back over to where
Slate is sitting with his uncle. "There was. well, Slate has made some
mistakes. And so has his father. And so have I. I think I've made more
mistakes than anyone in this family. When Slate was a teenager, he and
his father had a bit of an argument, and when he started calling himself
'Slate' at first his father refused to indulge him. None of the family
indulged him, but then he refused to speak to anyone unless they called
him Slate. "
Harper raises her eyebrows. She'd had no idea. If she'd known, she
might have changed her tactics a little bit—both when it came to
ingratiating Slate with his family, and when it came to finding out what
his name is. But when she looks over at the table where he's still sitting,
waiting for his drink, she sees that he's smiling. So the tactics she'd
used were successful no matter what.
"He just refused to talk to you?"
Martha nods. "He didn't speak a word to his father or me until we called
him Slate. It took his father nearly ten months to accept it. "
"And. how long did it take you?" Harper asks.
His mother sighs again. She seems to do a lot of that. "I would have
accepted it a lot sooner, but Peter was determined." she pauses then
glances over at her husband. Peter is on the other side of the garden
clapping Grayson on the back and looking at him like he hung the
moon.

Harper hasn't seen the man speak to Slate all day. "It's difficult, you
know? Loving two men who are so stubborn."
Harper doesn't know how to respond to that. She knows how she would
like to respond, but she's not being paid to antagonize Slate's mother.
She's being paid to impress her.
"What made Slate want to change his name in the first place? " she asks
instead.
Martha smiles. It's a soft, almost fond smile. "I'm sure he'll trust you
with that soon enough," she says. "He already adores you."
Harper feels a blush creeping up her cheek. "He's only known me a. a
month. "
People are starting to turn toward the main table, where the bride and
groom have finally made their way to sit down with the bridal party.
Martha notices and sighs once more. She reaches over and gives
Harper's hand a squeeze.
"A mother knows, dear," she says. "My son adores you. Be good to
him, won't you? He deserves it."
Harper feels a long, slow lump rising in her throat. "I'll be good to him,"
she assures her.
Martha inclines her head and gives Harper's hand one more squeeze
before taking her drink and disappearing into the crowd, aiming toward
the main table. Harper hadn' t even realized that the drinks were waiting
at her elbow.
She turns to the bartender, but he' s moved on. Taking the drinks, she
turns back to the crowd. Slate is still sitting at their table with his uncle
and they' re both grinning as they talk. Martha had been so happy to see
that. Harper wonders what kinds of family gatherings Slate has had to
endure in the past, and what this wedding would have been like if she
hadn't been here to force the interactions between the family members.
Slate looks over his shoulder and makes eye contact with Harper, his
smile still in place. Harper returns the smile, though her mind reminds
her almost immediately of what Martha had said, "My son adores you.
By good to him, won't you??'
But he's only known me for a day, she'd wanted to say.

Letting out a sigh of her own, Harper takes the drinks over to her
date.

Angelica: How is it going?
Harper stares at the text from Angelica. Her boss—madam? Harper
still isn't sure what to call the woman.
People are finishing the last of the wedding cake and getting up to
dance, but Harper is sitting this one out. 'Jump Around' by House of
Pain is playing, and she bops her head along with the music as it plays.
The first dance between the bride and groom had been just as awkward
and wholly lacking in chemistry as the rest of the evening. Though
Harper had seen Peter tearing up when Grayson had thrown Kayla into
an ill-timed dip that the woman had only just managed to recover from.
Now, everyone has the chance to get up and make fools of themselves.
Slate is dancing with his mother, spinning her around like they're in a
waltz despite the upbeat music. He promised the next dance to Harper.
Angelica had been hesitant to hire Harper. She remembers that quite
well. She remembers the woman looking her up and down through
flawless fake eyelashes, turning her head just slightly so Harper could
get the full effect of the perfect wings of her eyeliner, sharp enough to
cut a man.
"You think you'll enjoy this kind of work?" she'd asked, her voice

a smoky mist with an edge that told anyone listening that she was more
formidable than she let on.
Harper remembers shrugging. "It's just sex, right?"
Angelica hadn't frowned. She'd looked almost amused. "There's no
such thing as just sex, Harper. For some men, it's a release. For some,
it's comfort. For you, well... that's something you'll have to figure out
for yourself. "
But Harper had been determined to make it through that interview.
She'd needed the money, goddammit, as well as the freedom to
continue her studies on the side, and no nine to five job at a gym or
even—God help her—a fast food joint could give that to her.
"I'm sure that I'll enjoy it," she'd said firmly. Or I'll learn to, was left
unfinished.
Angelica had hired her despite her clear misgivings. But Harper had
always gotten the feeling that she was waiting for her to come to her
senses. As though there were an expiration date to Harper's interest in
prostitution, which was half-true—since there had never really been
much of an interest in the first place.
When Harper had heard that she'd been assigned to a weekend-long
job, she' d assumed Angelica was testing her. Now she' s had some time
to reflect, Harper wonders if the woman had actually been trying to
give her an easier time of it. Instead of spending an hour—maybe
less—letting a man paw at her, Harper had been given the task of
helping a man bridge the gap between himself and his family. Angelica
had also been sure to choose a very attractive man for her first job. She
probably hadn't known that Slate would be so particular about sleeping
with people he's paying.
Harper: Very well. The client seems happy.
Harper texts back. She'd written Slate but then deleted it, because she
thought Angelica wouldn't like the sound of that.
Angelica: He used a condom?

Angelica texts back almost immediately.
Harper nearly groans aloud. Angelica is a stickler for safe sex—one of
the many reasons that Harper felt comfortable applying for the job in
the first place.
Harper: No sex. The client only wanted me to help him make a good
impression.
Angelica: No sex at all? Harper: He insisted.
Angelica doesn't respond for a moment, and Harper takes the
opportunity to gaze out at the dance floor. Slate is twirling his mother
around, smiling at her like she's a princess. The bride and groom are
sitting at the head table with their heads turned away from each other,
talking to members of the bridal party.
Harper's phone dings with Angelica's reply.
Angelica: The customer is always right. A brief pause, then another
text comes.
Angelica: Unless he wants blood play. Always say no to blood
play.
Harper is concerned that Angelica feels like she needs to specify that
particular sex act.
Beside her, Slate's phone starts vibrating and the tune to Mr. Big's 'To
Be With You.' Harper half-recognizes it from the airport when Slate
had answered a call—Tommy, she remembers, the band's bassist and
lyricist. She watches as the call rings out.
The music winds down and Slate walks with his hand in his mother's
back to their table. Harper turns in her seat to greet the pair.
"You're quite a dancer, Martha," she says.
Martha has pink cheeks and a pleased expression on her face. "Thank
you, Harper. It's lovely to be out on a dance floor every once in

a while."
"Are you going to drag Peter out later?"
"Oh no, he doesn't like to dance." She shrugs and waves her hand as
though she can wave the thought away.
"You coming to dance, babe?" Slate asks, bending at the hip so he can
speak to her as the music starts up again.
It's a slow song. The plucking of acoustic guitar strings is a pleasant
change from the techno. Harper nods, barely containing the eagerness,
as she pushes herself to her feet and leaves her phone on the table
behind her. Nobody's going to steal it here—this is Pella, not
Manhattan.
She and Slate leave Martha behind, walking hand-in-hand toward the
dance floor. There are a handful of couples. Older married men and
women, one father with his young daughter, and Harper and Slate. The
bride and groom make no move to join the dancers, and Harper sees
Martha joining her husband at the main table.
Slate' s hand snakes around Harper' s waist and she forgets everything
that' s happening around her.
"You dance?" he asks.
She shakes her head. "Never learned. "
Slate hooks her arms around his neck and she goes unquestioningly. He
guides her into a very simple dance. There' s no real pattern to his steps.
Instead, they seem to be moving with the gentle rhythm of the music.
Harper recognizes the song ' Lights Down Low' by MAX, and she
decides that it's perfect for their first dance. Especially, when Slate is
looking down at her with his strong arms on her body and his chocolate
eyes blazing into hers. His scent fills her up like she' s a starving
woman and Slate is a feast.
"You're kind of a hit at this wedding," he says. They're a decent
distance from the rest of the couples but he still keeps his voice low.
"It's what I'm here for," she replies. It's not just the fear that someone
will overhear that keeps her from saying, 'that's what I'm paid
for.'
Slate's smile slips by a fraction. "Yeah," he says. Then his smile returns
in full-force. "But I couldn't have asked for a better date. You've

been so great, Harper. You have no idea how much I appreciate it."
She never asked Angelica if escorts get tipped. She thinks that they
probably should be.
"Well it's easy to talk you up," she says. She moves forward slightly to
press their chests together, hoping he doesn't notice. "Can you imagine
if I'd been here with Grayson?"
He grins. "Are you kidding? His ten-year plan is motivational
gold."
They snicker together, then quickly check over their shoulders to make
sure that no one can hear them shit-talking the groom. A father and
daughter pair are dancing nearby, but the father is just swaying with the
girl in his arms, her legs wrapped around his torso and her head on his
shoulder. It takes Harper a moment to realize that the girl is asleep.
"My mom has a picture of me and my dad like that," Harper says,
nodding her head toward the pair. Slate looks over at them and smiles
softly. The man is a second cousin, which makes the girl a... third
cousin? Second cousin once removed? He would know, he' s had
family trees drilled into him the way other kids get multiplication
tables. "Dancing. I can' t remember if it was at a wedding, though. They
don' t know I'm here. They think I'm still in Manhattan."
"How come?"
Harper gives him a long look. "Oh, hey Mom! Yeah. I'm just flying to
Pella because I'm being paid to escort and most likely fuck a stranger.
Tell Aunty Jo I said hi." She shrugs. "Not exactly the sort of
conversation a girl wants to have with her folks. "
She looks back over at the father and daughter. The daughter has
beautiful, curly red hair. It reminds Harper of one of the other girls who
works for Black Orchid Escorts and the thought makes her so sick to
her stomach that she has to turn away again.
Slate is frowning down at her. "They don't know about your job?" he
asks.
"I'm not proud of it, Slate," she says. Now she's wishing that she never
brought it up. Why couldn't she just keep her mouth shut and enjoy this
dance with him? She might never get the chance to be this close to Slate
again. But her mouth betrays her by continuing, "I went to

Manhattan to get a degree, and they barely accepted that. It took them
months to stop thinking I was going to get stabbed every time I walked
out of the house. Me winding up as a sex worker is kind of their worst
nightmare."
She trails off and glances around again. Luckily, no one seems to be
paying them any attention. Slate has drifted them over to the edge of
the dancefloor, closer to the speakers, and their conversation is
drowned out even more by the noise. He's still frowning.
"I guess I can understand that," he says. "But... you know there's no
shame in it, right?"
"Of course there's no shame in it," Harper replies. "None at all. But. I
wanted something different for myself, I guess. I know Mom and Dad
wanted something different, too. If they knew I was here, they would
be on a plane to drag me back to Omaha like that. " She clicks her
fingers behind his head.
Slate sighs. "Yeah, I can definitely understand that," he says. Harper
doesn't understand what he means at first until his eyes drift over to the
main table where his parents are sitting.
Harper follows his gaze. Martha is picking at her cake while Peter leans
over to talk to Grayson.
"Did they try to drag you home? " she asks. "When you became a
rockstar?"
"Nah," he replies. "By the time they realized it was too late. Besides, it
serves them right for banishing me to Jersey in the first place."
Harper wants to ask. Her curiosity peaked the day that they met when
he'd refused to tell her his name. But she remembers what Martha said
about Slate—that he would trust her when he was ready.
This conversation has gotten too heavy anyway. The song is almost
over and she's hardly had the chance to enjoy the dance at all.
"Well, I'm glad they didn't drag you back," she says. "Then you
wouldn't have gotten so famous, and we wouldn't have met."
He smiles down at her. "Yeah. That would have sucked."
Harper leans her head into the crook of Slate's neck, just under his chin.
His arms come around her without apparently even pausing to think

about it. The song might nearly be over, and they'll be returning to
Manhattan tomorrow afternoon, but tonight, in this moment, she is
Slate's girlfriend. The woman he'd shared a passionate kiss with to the
delight of his family. The woman who has successfully made a lot of
them sit up and take notice of him. In this moment, she can enjoy the
way he feels against her and the way he smells.
In this moment, she can be everything she's pretending to be. A
girlfriend, instead of an actress. A personal trainer instead of a
prostitute.

It' s almost midnight by the time the party starts to wind down. The
older people have already gone, but the bride and groom and most of
the bridal party remain. Slate's parents called it a night at around 10:00
p.m., but Peter had cheerfully told Grayson that he can keep the music
going as long as he wants.
Harper thinks that Kayla is probably delaying the wedding night for as
long as possible. If Harper were in her place, she would too. Harper
doesn't know how it happened, but when the clock strikes midnight she
finds herself next to Kayla at the main table while Slate, Grayson, and
the rest of the men in the bridal party have disappeared—probably to
do some kind of macho, manly tradition. Some of the bridesmaids have
disappeared as well. Harper heard some suspicious moaning from one
of the bathrooms when she went into the house earlier.
At least someone is getting laid tonight, she thinks.
Kayla has stopped the champagne and has moved onto vodka and
cranberry juice. Her mascara is still perfect, and Harper is impressed
with that.
"Did I mention I love your dress?" Harper asks. The DJ is taking a
break so there's plenty of silence to fill.

"Thank you," Kayla says, slightly louder than she needs to. "I like
yours, too. I can never pull off that color."
"I find it hard to imagine that someone that looks like you has trouble
pulling off anything. "
Kayla swats Harper's arm and takes another swig of her drink. "You're
great. You're lucky you got a guy like Slate. He's great, too."
"Yeah, he is," Harper replies. "How long have you known him?"
"Aw, we went to school together. Elementary school. He went to high
school in Jersey after that thing happened."
Harper cocks her head and takes a sip of her own drink—pineapple
juice and spicy rum. "What thing?" she asks.
One of Kayla's bridesmaids returns to the table with her dress slightly
in disarray and a suspicious red mark on her neck. She looks
well-fucked, and Harper feels a shot of jealousy when she sees the
woman. There are no men around with a swagger in their step, but
when Harper gazes around the room she sees one of the women from
the groom's side of the wedding fixing her hair in the reflection of a
metal vase. She's flushed, she's got similar red marks all over her neck
as well, and a sly smile on her lips when she glances toward the main
table.
"That thing. Shania, you remember sixth grade, when Slate did the
thing?" Kayla asks the woman who just returned.
She looks surprised to be addressed. "Yeah, sure. That shit was
hilarious."
"What exactly happened?" Harper asks. She tries not to seem too
curious.
"There was, like, a big ceremony at school... I can't remember what it
was for. Shania, what was it for?" "Some sports thing?"
"Yeah, probably," Kayla says. She takes another drink. "Anyways,
Slate snuck a drum kit into the back of the auditorium, and about
halfway through Principal Parker's speech, he starts playing some drum
solo. What was it?"
"Moby Dick," Shania tells her.
Kayla snorts with amusement, nearly spilling a mouthful of vodka
down her front. It would have been catastrophic if she'd dribbled

cranberry juice over her front, but apparently, she' s hyper-aware of her
looks even in her inebriated state, catching the liquid with her napkin
before it makes it past her chin. "That's the best name for a song I have
ever heard," she says.
Harper finds herself smiling along with her. "I've never heard the
song."
"It's actually pretty cool. The drum solo is, like, really hard and Slate
totally nailed it. We all thought Slate had ADD because he could never
stop bashing away at shit. It was a pain in the ass in math class. "
"Wow," Harper says. "I can imagine."
"But he's like, not ADD," Shania adds.
"Yeah, no... he just likes making noise, I think." Kayla sighs wistfully.
"It did amazing things to his arms, though. I should tell Grayson to take
up drumming. "
Harper jumps when the music starts up again. The DJ has returned,
filling the room with more music, and most of the women flood the
dancefloor as girly anthems start to play. The DJ clearly knows her
audience. With half the men gone, it is now safe to play Spice Girls
without being cussed out.
"You know, if you want Grayson to build forearm muscle, you could
get him to wear wrist weights at work," Harper tells Kayla.
"Seriously? That would work?"
"As long as he does it religiously."
Kayla looks thoughtful. "Oh, he'll do it religiously. If I have to work
out my wrists giving him handjobs, then he can work out his arms
while he's typing his fucking reports."
Harper had started laughing at the mention of 'handjobs,' and by the
time Kayla has finished speaking all three women are snickering
together.
"Does Slate like handjobs?" Kayla asks longingly once they've calmed
down.
Harper wishes she had some real-world experience of Slate' s sexual
preferences so she can answer honestly. She understands that the poor
woman probably wants some kind of vicarious experience.
"Actually, Slate's more of a... doer. Less of a receiver," Harper

says. She realizes as soon as the words are out that it might sound like
bragging, but really the only thing she knows about Slate's preferences
is what he'd threatened her with when she'd walked into their shared
bedroom naked.
Not that she'd spent most of the day thinking about it. Not that she'd
memorized those words to play back to herself when she's lonely and
horny later on.
Kayla looks delighted. "No way!"
"Yeah... actually, the drumming comes in handy there. He's very good
at repetitive movement. And his hands don't get tired."
Kayla sighs, gazing into the middle distance and resting her chin on her
hand, clearly imagining it. Shania looks less interested, but she's busy
watching that woman with the sly smile dancing alone near the bar.
"Is he into bondage?" Kayla asks. "He's always seemed like a bondage
guy. "
Harper is a little bit glad that Kayla has no idea what Slate prefers in the
bedroom. Because that means that there had never been a fling between
them, not even when Slate came home for the school holidays when
they were teenagers. Kayla seemed like the kind of woman who would
chase the man that she wants. Slate's reaction to her had planted the
tiniest seed in Harper's mind that there had been something between
them, and that maybe Slate had been deliberately distancing himself
from her. But it turns out, he was just distancing himself from her
because she's marrying his cousin and her open flirting was
inappropriate.
At least Harper isn' t the only woman who wants Slate but can' t have
him.
"He only ties me up when I can't behave myself," Harper tells her,
remembering what Slate had told her that morning while she'd been
stripped naked and desperate to crawl into his lap. "Like when I try to
get him off before he's finished with me."
Kayla sighs again. She looks over at the empty chair where her husband
should be sitting.
"Grayson prefers missionary," she says.
Harper's heart goes out to her. "You know, I bet he'd be willing to

go Fifty Shades on you if you make him think that he's emulating
Christian Grey. He's a hell of a business man."
Kayla actually looks thoughtful at that. "Hey, maybe you're right. I'll
give it a try."
"Good luck with it. " A song starts playing, and Harper recognizes the
tune. But when the lyrics are supposed to start up, they don' t. "Hey.
does your DJ have karaoke tracks?" Harper asks.
"I think so? Honestly, I don' t even know. Peter hired him. Maybe he
should have married Grayson. "
"That guy needs to find his chill," Shania says sagely. "Yeah, I noticed
that," Harper says. Harper hasn' t had nearly enough drinks to be drunk,
but she' s at the point where she wants to be having fun, and this
conversation is quickly becoming depressing. And the talk about Slate'
s sex style was just plain frustrating. She bops her head a little in time
with the music, before a thought strikes her. "You wanna sing?" she
asks.
Kayla frowns. "Why?"
"I don' t know. Because it might be funny?" Because at this point all
Kayla will have to remember her wedding is the disappointing sex
she'll be having with Grayson later on. And that makes Harper sad.
Kayla thinks about it, then she shrugs. "I'll sing if you sing with
me."
"Sure."
And that' s how Harper finds herself standing on the DJ' s stage,
demanding a microphone with the bride at her side, getting ready to
sing. She' s not even close to drunk enough to blame this on the alcohol.
She can only pray that she seems drunk so the rest of the people in the
room write it off as a sad mistake. Or a great memory.
Kayla has her arm slung around Harper's shoulders when the music
starts to play 'Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover' by Sophie B. Hawkins
like they've known each other their whole lives.
Kayla and Harper aren't so much singing as they are shrieking into the
microphone to the delight of the women in the audience. Shania is
grinding on the woman with the sly smile, which Harper approves of

because this is just the right song to be grinding on someone to.
Harper has a huge grin on her face. She can feel it in her cheeks, and
she can see Kayla with an equally wide grin on her lips as well.
When Harper looks out to the dancefloor, she catches sight of a swarm
of men coming into the tent. The groomsmen and Slate. Grayson is
wearing a crown for some reason and looks a bit flushed, but delighted,
and he's standing at the front of the swarm with his hands on his hips.
He's watching Harper and Kayla with bemused interest.
But it's Slate that draws Harper's attention.
He's watching the pair of women on the stage with a wide, excited grin,
like he has half a mind to climb onto the stage and join them. Harper
nudges Kayla and points. Kayla's face lights up and the two of them
point in Slate's direction. Luckily, Grayson is standing near Slate so
Kayla looks like she's pointing at him, instead.
Harper and Kayla belt out the rest of the song with the exclamation
marks practically written on their faces and Slate's grin just grows
wider with every verse, until finally the two women are on the last
verses and they've got every person in the room swaying along with the
music.
When they finish the song, the crowd applauds. Kayla does a massive
bow. She's still got her arm around Harper's shoulders, so Harper goes
with her. Slate whistles so loud that it makes everyone laugh.
Then Kayla demands the men get up and serenade the women. Grayson
is shoved forward, but he immediately waves his hands in surrender,
turning bright red.
"No, no, I'm no singer. Slate, you're the rockstar, you sing something. "
He says it like it' s something derogatory. But the women are delighted,
especially Kayla, who immediately rushes forward and shoves her
microphone into his hands, copping a feel of his beautiful forearms as
she does.
Slate takes the stage with all of the poise of a well-seasoned performer,
but then Harper slides in between him and the DJ' s computer before he
has the chance to choose a song.
"Don' t worry, babe," she says, patting his cheek and feeling the

tiniest scrape of stubble. She can only imagine what that would feel like
on the inside of her thighs. "I'll pick something you'll like."
Slate grins at her, holding his microphone in a way which would be
obscene if her mind weren't as pure as the driven snow. "I trust you,
babe."
When she picks the song and returns to the dancefloor with a straight
face, Slate takes a moment to actually look at the screen. He bursts out
laughing.
"Okay, so this song goes out to my gorgeous girlfriend, Harper," he
says, speaking into the mic and giving the whole room a wink. "But I
highly encourage the groom to take the bride for a spin while I'm
singing this. In fact, everyone grab a partner. One in a chair. one in
front. Let' s give the women the show they deserve! "
Earlier in the evening, these people might have ignored the suggestion.
But Harper put effort in at the beginning, and it's paying off now as the
men and women pair off. Shania keeps her hands firmly on the woman
with the sly smile as the scraping of chairs fills the air. People are
pulled onto the dance floor and deposited on chairs. Harper gets her
own chair and no partner, but she's quite happy to observe in this case.
Even Grayson is willing to lead Kayla into a chair, though she clearly
has one eye on Slate as Kayla sits gracefully down and arranges her
dress.
Slate waits until everyone is seated before belting out the opening
lyrics to the chosen song.
My mind is telling me no!
But my body! My body is telling me yes!
A cheer goes through the crowd as the women lean back and the men
start to give the, frankly, most ridiculous lap dances Harper has ever
seen. It's like they've all seen Magic Mike too many times and they're
delighted for the opportunity to use some of the moves. Grayson is
really getting into it and it makes Harper want to laugh out loud, but the
look of

faint horror on Kayla's face keeps her from doing it.
Instead, Harper focuses on Slate, who's grinding his hips on stage in
time with the beat. His voice is rough and deep, smooth enough for
someone who clearly doesn't sing on a regular basis, but the rawness of
it just makes the song more sensual. His hand twitches with the beat as
well, as though he's imagining how to play the drums along with the
music. Harper is entranced by the movement of his hands.
The best part, though, is how into it, he's getting. Harper knows that he
can be sexy, but she'd never imagined he could be such a fucking dork.
He's got his eyes closed and his face screwed up with desperate
emotion, and when he opens his eyes he looks straight at Harper and
points aggressively in her direction. When there's a lull in the song he
sends her an obnoxious wink that makes her snort with humor and
cover her eyes in second-hand embarrassment.
Which only spurs him on. Slate moves off of the stage toward her with
a clear plan in mind.
I don't see nothing wrong with a little bump and grind.
And then he's thrusting toward her and it makes Harper want to hide
her face because he is ridiculous. She knows that he can be sexy, and
while the other men and Shania are trying their best lap dance moves,
Slate seems to be doing his best to make Harper embarrassed for him.
Even Kayla doesn't seem to be aroused by the sight of it. She looks as
amused as Harper is.
Slate keeps dancing and the shit-eating grin on his face tells Harper that
he knows exactly how he looks. During a pause in the singing, he flips
his hair like a stripper and turns to bend over in front of her. His perfect
ass isn't enough to make up for the fact that he manages to pop his hip
and look like he's wearing high heels at the same time.
Harper feels a tap on her shoulder. She turns to see Kayla holding out a
handful of singles. She doesn't even want to know where Kayla got
those, but she takes them gratefully.
When Slate turns back around, Harper's arm shoots out to grab him by
the belt buckle and draw him closer. He goes with a laugh on his lips.
Harper gazes up at him at just the right height to be looking down the
barrel of a blow job, and the positioning doesn't seem to be lost on him

when he raises an eyebrow at her. Harper enjoys the look on his face for
a moment before sliding a finger into the top of his pants, making
enough room to stuff the dollar bills into the space between his shirt
and his pants. There's no skin-to-skin contact, but her fingers still burn
when she drops her hands.
Slate waggles his eyebrows at her, then wiggles his hips so that the
money shakes, and Harper throws her head back to laugh.

Slate and Harper leave after the bride and groom. "Gonna take the
missus home," Grayson shouts with an arm slung around his tipsy
bride. He gives the other guys a massive wink, though if Harper is
reading the situation correctly Kayla is probably going to be banishing
Grayson to another room so she can get some sleep. They're spending
the evening at some fancy hotel in town before heading off on the
honeymoon.
Slate has his own arm around Harper when they bid their goodbyes to
the couple, and the rest of the people who'd remained until the very end
of the reception. He'd disappeared into the bathroom earlier and come
out sniffling like he' d caught a cold, but he' s still got a cheerful smile
on his face as he gazes amiably around at all the family members
Harper had spent the night sweet-talking.
When Grayson and Kayla leave and the rest of the crowd starts to
vanish, Slate leans over and whispers in her ear, "Let' s go home, babe.
"
She feels his lips brush against the shell of her ear and shivers a little. It
started to get chilly earlier in the evening, but that's not what this is
about.
"Lead the way," she replies.
Slate waves goodbye to a couple of cousins—the groomsmen,

Harper remembers. She glances around for Shania, but the bridesmaid
has vanished.
Together, Slate and Harper make their way into the main house. Slate
closes and locks the back door behind him, almost comically concerned
about it making a clicking noise when it closes, before gesturing for
Harper to lead the way to his bedroom.
Cooper meets them in the kitchen, tail wagging, delighted for the
company. Slate gives him a hug before letting him out into the
backyard. Now that everyone has left, and most of the food has been
taken away, he can go around and piss on the tables in peace.
Harper leads the way to the bedroom, making sure to sway her butt a bit
because she can feel his eyes on her. She doesn't know why she can feel
the anticipation beginning to build in her blood, but there's a tension
between them and the way that Slate's eyes have lingered over her all
evening makes her wonder if he's planning to break his rule about
sleeping with employees. She desperately hopes that's the case.
Slate sniffs a bit as they make their way down the hall. Harper fumbles
for the doorknob, and he sniffs again, and that noise tells her that he's a
lot closer than she'd initially thought. Close enough that his breath
moves the tiny hairs at the back of her neck. Close enough that she's
practically wrapped up inside of his cologne.
"Let's get you out of that tux before it suffocates you," she whispers.
Even though his parents sleep on the other side of the house, she's
trying really hard not to wake them.
He makes a noncommittal sound and follows her into the room. When
she closes the door, she feels a sudden weight pressing against her back
and she's shoved hard against the wood. Her wrists are caught by
Slate's muscular fingers, held up and pressed into the door, and his
whole body plasters against hers so she can feel every inch of him.
"Harper," he says, speaking into her ear again. She gasps, all thought of
forming words leaving her in an instant. She'd hoped—good Lord had
she hoped—but the reality is better than she'd imagined already. The
feeling of his stubble against the back of her neck, the goosebumps
rising on her arms as his fingers slide down,

down, down. She has to press her forehead hard against the door,
feeling the slight pain from the pressure, to double-check that she hasn't
slipped into a dream.
She pushes her hips back, grinding, wanting to feel more of him, and is
rewarded when he runs his hot tongue over the skin between her ear
and jaw, before blowing cool air on it. She moans before remembering
that they're sharing a house with his parents and bites her lip instead.
Hands trailing down her sides, toward her thighs, pulling just a little
like he wants to hitch her skirt. What she wouldn't have given to have
gone for slutty instead of practical. He could have had her skirt up by
now and be focused on more important things. But the skirt is too long
and he's too impatient. Leaning purposefully into her back, a low growl
in his throat, Slate pushes at Harper's hips, getting her lower, his thighs
moving so that he can bracket her in. She can feel his erection pressing
against her and she wants to push herself away from the door, turn
around, and wrap her legs around him properly. But his weight keeps
her pinned.
"Fuck, I want you," he mutters in her ear.
"You can have me," she says. She's bitten her lip so hard that she
almost draws blood.
He sinks his teeth into the tender spot beneath her ear, right on the pulse
point, and she bucks backward as lightning bolts of desire shoot
through her, gathering in her groin. There's no voice to the moan she
releases, it's just a rush of air through the wide O that her lips are
making. She thinks she could come just like this, just from feeling him
behind her.
Something vibrates in his pocket and she pushes back into that. And
then the sound of Mr. Big cuts through the air. And then Slate is gone,
as suddenly as he'd appeared. Harper's back is cold. She can imagine
what she looks like. Whenever she gets turned on, her chest flushes and
her cheeks turn red. She needs to take a moment to compose herself
before turning around.
Goddam it, Mr Big!
Slate has taken several steps back. An obvious erection tents the

front of his pants, but he doesn't seem too happy about it. He rubs his
hands over his eyes, sniffs, and shakes his head like a dog. When he
looks at Harper, she sees his pupils still blown out wide and a pink
flush to his cheeks which probably matches hers.
"I should get that," he says, his voice as rough and raw as when he was
singing. Harper is too distracted with the sound of his voice to really
appreciate what he's saying.
When she understands, she hates the words.
"Don't," she says, but he's already reaching for his pocket, where his
phone is.
Slate pulls out the phone and shoots Harper an apologetic look before
schooling his expression.
"Tommy, man, it's past your bedtime."
His voice sounds almost bored and Harper feels like she's been thrown
into the pool again, but there's no playful Slate to join her. Just the rush
of falling and the cold water enveloping her. She takes a step forward,
reaching hesitantly for Slate and probably looking almost pathetic as
she does it. But he takes a step back. Out of her reach. He holds the
phone to his ear and turns away completely so he can't even look at her,
nodding to whatever it is that Tommy is telling him.
Harper slides her feet out of her heels as quickly as she can. She walks
across the room, not bothering to sway her butt anymore, and locks
herself in the en-suite.
Under the harsh, bright lights in the bathroom, Harper rests her weight
on the sink and stares into the mirror.
"Get your fucking shit together," she tells her reflection.
In the bedroom, the soothing sound of Slate's raw voice drifts through
the hardwood door between them. Suddenly, Harper is horrified to feel
a lump rising in her throat.
"Really?" she asks, glaring accusingly at the girl in the mirror. "You're
gonna cry because a boy doesn't want you? You're gonna be that girl
right now?"
But it hurts in a way she never thought it would. To want a man and to
know that he wants her, but he just won't let anything happen between
them. He had an obvious boner when he'd pulled away. He'd

said that he wants her.
Maybe it' s me, she thinks as she reaches up to pull her hair out of the
bun on the top of her head. She pulls a little harsher than necessary.
Maybe he just wants me a little bit. Enough to be able to pull away if he
has to.
Because if he really wanted her, would he be able to pull away? She
doesn't think she could pull away from him if she had him up against a
door. If he'd been grinding into Harper as shamelessly as Harper had
been grinding into him then the whole thing would have been over in a
few minutes. She would have torn that over-starched shirt off of his
beautiful body, shoved him on the bed, and probably broken his zipper
in her haste to get his pants off. She would have had him inside of her
within seconds if he'd behaved the way that she did when he had her
against the wall.
But Slate had pulled away. So maybe it's just a surface interest. Or
maybe she's not as hot as he'd thought she was. Maybe up close, or after
an evening in her company, he'd decided that she wasn't worth it.
Harper runs her brush hastily, painfully, through her hair, pulling
aggressively at the tangles that have somehow formed. Then she pulls
out the makeup wipes from her washroom bag and rubs one all over her
face. Her done-up, more toned face disappears into the white cloth,
leaving her fresher but less defined. Maybe even less pretty. She never
thought that she was less pretty without makeup, just less refined. But
maybe she was wrong.
"Oh my God, you are not rethinking your self-worth right now," she
growls to herself as she quickly cleanses her face and rubs in some
moisturizer.
Really, it's his loss, she tells herself. Slate paid for a fuck and all he's
getting is blue balls. Who's the real winner here?
Harper pulls her dress off of her shoulders. Her pajamas are still in the
bathroom from her shower that morning. She snorts at the sight of
herself in the mirror—she'd bought sexy lingerie especially for this
weekend. Her toned, tanned abs look fantastic in the lacy red bra and
panties. And what's Slate doing? Nursing an erection and talking to his
bandmate in the other room.

Harper pulls her pajamas on over the lingerie and ties her hair back into
a ponytail. When she's satisfied that she looks like she gives zero fucks,
she leaves the bathroom.
Slate's sitting on the bed, his shirt unbuttoned and untucked, running a
hand through his hair. He' s rolled up his sleeves to display his
gorgeous tattooed arms. There' s a thoughtful frown on his face and the
phone is still pressed to his ear. When he sees Harper, he perks up a bit.
His eyes soften and his lips turn up in a smile. It' s as if their little
rendezvous at the door never even happened.
"Hey, Tommy, I ' m putting you on speaker. Repeat everything you just
said. "
He switches the phone over to speaker and holds it up, offering it to
Harper. Harper crosses the room and joins him on the bed, carefully
putting a few inches between them so that she isn't touching him.
"Yeah, hi... Harper," a man's voice says through the phone. It's lighter
than Slate' s, more boyish, but rough like he might smoke sometimes.
"And you're Tommy?" Harper replies.
"That's me," Tommy says. "So, we've got a bit of a problem here. Our
company hired a personal trainer for us so we can get fit for our next
tour, but she started hitting on Logan and Mikayla nearly clawed her
eyes out. It was kind of funny, actually. But terrifying..." he trails off,
his voice awed. "So, so terrifying."
"Bring it around to the point, big guy," Slate says fondly.
Tommy clears his throat. "So the personal trainer was fired. Seems we
need a new one. Slate was just telling me that you're training to be a
personal trainer. Would you be interested?"
Harper's eyebrows rise up and she knows that she looks dumbfounded.
She can tell from the amused look on Slate's face.
"Me?" she asks, unsure. She looks at Slate again, as if to confirm that
she's heard correctly. "Seriously? I'm not qualified, I'm only learning."
"That' s okay," Slate says quickly. He slides a leg up onto the bed and
turns so that he' s facing her properly, and eagerly waves his hand with
the phone still in it. "You can use it as, like, an internship or

something. Your university will probably give you credit for it."
"Why would you even want an unqualified personal trainer when there
are probably hundreds who would give their right arms to work with
you?"
Slate gives her a wry look. "They're all more interested in working with
Black Lilith than they are in working with us," he says. "And I know
you don't care about that. Besides, why wouldn't we want you?"
Harper finds herself focusing on the 'we' in that statement.
Tommy chuckles lazily through the phone. "Slate has a habit of
collecting people," he tells Harper.
"Who's that?" a tired woman's voice calls through the phone. She
sounds Irish and Harper wonders for a moment if Tommy is even in
New York, before she remembers what Slate had told her about
Tommy's Irish girlfriend, a lyricist named Sersha.
"It's Slate and Harper," Tommy tells Sersha, as if she should know who
Harper is.
"Oh, tell them I said hi."
"Did I wake you?"
"A little bit."
"I'll go downstairs, hold on." There's shuffling as bedsheets are pulled
aside. Harper listens to the exchange but she's only half-interested.
She's still reeling from the offer.
Is Slate seriously offering her a job?
As a personal trainer to one of the biggest up-and-coming bands in the
country?
But he seems to be. He's still watching her with an earnest, hopeful
expression, and it's so vastly different from the lust he'd looked at her
with only minutes earlier, that Harper wonders if this is even the same
man.
"What does he mean. you collect people?" Harper asks.
Slate shakes his head, abashed. "It's just because of what happened
with Mikayla. I could tell she was unhappy. No one with a college
degree and her drive is happy as an intern. So I got her the PA job with
Black Lilith. "

"And... you can tell I'm unhappy," Harper says slowly. "So you're
offering me a job, too?"
Slate looks suddenly, deadly serious. "You said you wanted different
for yourself," he reminds her. "I get that, I do. There's no shame in what
you' re doing now, but if you have the chance to do something different
then why not? And if I can help you, then why shouldn't I?"
Harper chews on her lip. His eyes flicker to it, briefly, before shifting
away just as quickly.
"So instead of being paid to fuck you, I'll be paid to help you build
muscle?" Harper questions.
A faint blush creeps over Slate's cheeks, and a short bark of laughter
from the phone reminds Harper that Tommy is still on speaker.
"I like her, Slate," Tommy says.
"Yeah, me too," Slate replies, still looking at Harper. "And yes, you
would be paid. This is not one of those internship-slave programs
where you can't eat or hold a job on the side. With this, you'll be able to
live in Manhattan without taking another job. "
She hears the unspoken words, 'if she takes this offer, she'll be able to
quit prostitution. '
Harper looks at the phone instead of into his eyes. Her first thought is, if
he hires her as his band's personal trainer, then he definitely won't
sleep with her. If sex is off the table now even though it's already part of
her job description, then it'll be even harder for her once sex is no
longer a part of what she's supposed to be doing.
Then she reminds herself that Slate has made his feelings about sex
with Harper clear. He doesn't want her. No matter what she does, no
matter how sexy she tries to be, he doesn't want her.
That's actually a freeing thought. It gives her the strength to look him in
the eye and say, "If you can convince your bosses to take someone
underqualified and inexperienced, then I'm in."
Tommy whoops on the phone and Slate grins at her so wide that Harper
can't help grinning back. Their excitement is infectious.
It could all fall apart. She shouldn't let herself get too excited yet. Their
bosses may decide that the idea of a girl still getting her degree

teaching some of their prized musicians how to stay fit is crazy, and not
go for it. And then all this excitement will be for nothing. But right
now, sitting next to Slate on the bed, she can allow herself to imagine
what it would be like to hand in her resignation to Angelica. To work in
the field she loves without worrying about money.
To work beside Slate every day. To just spend time with him, because
she knows that he'll never sleep with her, but he's still the funniest,
sweetest guy she could imagine. They get along so well, especially
when there's no one else around, and there's no pressure to pretend that
they' ve been dating for weeks. To go to work every day and just hang
out with him.
That would be close to heaven.

It doesn't fall apart. On Sunday afternoon, Slate and Harper say a
tearful farewell to Slate's parents. His father seems sad to see his son
go, and isn't that a refreshing change from the day they met? On
Thursday, Bass Note Productions contacts Harper with a contract—one
year of part-time work on a salary that almost matches what she's
getting paid at the brothel. On Friday, Harper hands in her notice to
Angelica.
"I' m happy for you, beautiful," Angelica says, pulling a drag from her
cigar and running a finger down her perfect jacket lapel. Her office
looks like it was pulled out of a film noir and nothing like what Harper
had expected a Madam's office to look like. But Angelica always
surprises her. "I think you' ll do a lot better in a gym than you would
have here. Not that you wouldn't have been a good little earner, but any
idiot could see that your heart wasn't in it."
Harper's grin is wide enough to split in two when she thanks Angelica
for the opportunity.
On Monday, she's in the gym at Bass Note headquarters. It's small, and
clearly designed for the executives to use in their downtime, but
apparently Black Lilith had been banned from gyms all over Manhattan
because their fans kept showing up and freaking out the other
customers. And they couldn't put a gym in the house where they lived
because, as

Slate had put it, "There's only one room big enough and that's the
basement. We keep our PlayStation down there. "
Harper stretches her back and gazes around the room. It's only 8:30,
well past the time she would have liked to start working with a client,
but when she'd suggested a 5:00 a.m. start, Slate had literally laughed
in her face.
Even though it' s a late start, and the room is small, Harper is starting to
feel excitement building in a way that she'd never thought she would
experience. This is her first job as a personal trainer. She's doing it.
She'd called her mom on Thursday night and cried when she'd told her
the news. She's been working for this for so long, and now it's finally
arrived.
It' s exhilarating.
She decides to do a couple of reps with the barbells. They' re clean and
hardly used, which reinforces Harper' s belief that the gym was
originally intended for executives. Executives who are married to their
desks and order their assistants to bring them coffee, so they don't have
to make the trip between the office and the break room.
Harper stares into the mirror as she brings the barbells up and down,
pumping her arms. Her toned stomach is bare and she wears a yellow
crop top and black running pants, her hair is tied up in a ponytail. The
instructors at her parents' gym always used to bear their midriff when
they worked—if they were men, they would forgo the shirt
altogether—because it reminds the client that they know what they're
doing. That they're not asking the client to do anything that they
wouldn't do themselves. That they're fit and they know how to stay that
way. Depending on how well she likes Black Lilith, Harper may
eventually decide to cover up.
And yes, when she'd been getting ready that morning her thoughts had
drifted to whether or not Slate would like her outfit. She couldn't help
it, she's only human. But then she reminded herself that Slate had
pushed her away when she'd been completely naked. He certainly
wasn't going to lose his cool over a belly button.
The door opens behind her. Harper sees it in the mirror. When she turns
she sees a curvy brunette woman in a fitted pantsuit, carrying a

travel mug and dragging a grown man by the collar. Harper knows
from her internet stalking that this is Mikayla and Logan.
"Hi!" Harper says, putting down the bells and wiping them off with a
towel before crossing the room and shaking Mikayla's hand. "I'm
Harper Styles. "
"Mikayla Strong," she replies. She releases Logan's collar and he pulls
away, rubbing his neck. "Pleasure to meet you. "
Harper takes a moment to observe Logan. His shirt is rumpled and
some of the buttons are in the wrong holes. His eyes are bloodshot and
he's got a long, slow expression like he's just woken up. His hair is a
bird' s nest and his arm, which is covered in colorful tattoos, falls flat at
his side when he's done fixing his collar. He grimaces and sticks his
own hand out.
"Logan," he says gruffly. "Morning."
"Good morning to you, too," Harper says. "I hope you're not planning
to train in your jeans? "
"Ah..." He looks down at his pants as though he's surprised at what he's
wearing. Then he shoots a cautious look at Mikayla. "No?"
She rolls her eyes at him. "Here," she says, shoving a bag into his chest.
Harper hadn't even noticed it. Along with the travel mug, Mikayla also
has a phone, a purse, and a set of keys in her hands. Harper would have
dropped something by now, but Mikayla makes juggling all those
things effortless. "Go get changed. "
He kisses her cheek. "Thanks, love you! "
"Love you, too," she replies. She waits until he leaves the space,
heading for the change room which is really more of a bathroom.
"Not a morning person, is he? " Harper asks, gesturing for Mikayla to
join her in one of the seats in the opposite corner of the room.
"No, but I'm working on it," Mikayla replies. She walks briskly over to
the seats and sits herself down on the wobbly plastic, smiling at Harper
when she joins her. "One thing you should know about the boys...
they're always late."
"Maybe I should change the call time to 5:00 a.m. after all," Harper
says.
She snorts elegantly. "Then they won't show up at all."

Mikayla doesn't give any indication that she knows where Harper and
Slate met, or what Harper's previous job was, but it occurs to Harper
that there's no way she could not know. Slate would have explained
where he'd found her. Harper remembers when Slate had answered the
call from Tommy at the airport before their flight when he'd said that
they're not calling Harper 'Tiffany' anymore. So obviously the band, at
least, knows that Harper was a whore before she was a personal trainer.
And Mikayla carries herself with the air of someone who knows
everything.
Before Harper can ask or even hint, the door is banging open and Slate
is sweeping into the room. Unlike his bandmate, Slate looks dressed to
work. He's wearing a black sleeveless top and gray slacks with a pair of
well-worn running shoes, a gym bag slung over his shoulder, and his
hair even looks freshly washed. Though nothing like the limp and
lifeless mass that had been on his head when he 'd been home with his
parents. He pauses, looks around, and his face lights up when he sees
Harper. Only to fall when he sees Mikayla.
"Don't tell me Logan beat me here?" he asks.
"By seconds," Mikayla confirms.
He huffs, annoyed. "Before you came along, I was the responsible
one."
"Tommy was the responsible one." "I don't see Tommy here." "I do."
Mikayla points and Slate swivels around to see a young man stepping
into the room with a sheepish yawn on his lips. "Did I miss anything?"
Harper immediately recognizes Tommy's voice. He looks just like his
pictures—flannel shirt and floppy hair, a sweet and self-conscious grin.
He's wearing sweat pants, which is something that Harper is willing to
accept on the first session. She' ll definitely be telling him to upgrade
for the next session, though.
She pushes herself to her feet and walks over to shake his hand.
"Harper Styles. "
Tommy takes her hand and grins warmly. "Nice to meet you,

Harper," he says.
"I beat you here, Tommy," Slate says.
"Yes, you did," Tommy replies, in the tone of voice you'd expect from
someone talking to a three-year-old. "Do you want a cookie?" "I
demand a cookie!"
Tommy sticks his hand in his pocket and pulls out a cookie. Neither
Slate nor Mikayla looks surprised at this, but when Slate reaches out to
take it Harper slaps his hand away.
"After training," she says, sternly. "If you're good." Tommy leaves the
cookie with Mikayla for safe keeping, grinning at Harper as he does.
Slate pouts for a full minute until Harper sticks him on a treadmill to
warm up, which amuses Tommy until he's forced, grumbling, to take
the treadmill beside Slate. Mikayla waves the cookie gleefully in front
of them and Harper can't wipe the smile off her face as she watches the
three of them interact. It's how she's always imagined siblings would
interact.
As Logan returns from the bathroom wearing sweats and a bemused
expression, another man tumbles into the room in a flurry of motion.
This can only be Dash, Harper thinks. He's a young guy too, probably
younger than Tommy. He's bigger than Logan, all bulky muscle, and
he's wearing a T-shirt that reads, Neville would have done it in four
books. His own sweatpants look like he probably slept in them. He
pulls Harper into a hug when he sees her and, after a brief moment of
concern and confusion, Harper returns the hug with enthusiasm.
"You probably won't like me as much by the end of the morning,"
Harper tells him when she pulls away.
"Run, Dash... save yourself," Tommy says from the treadmill. "Okay,"
Harper says, clapping her hands and drawing the attention of all four
men. Slate turns off the treadmill and Harper quirks an eyebrow at him.
"Did I say you could stop? " she asks. Slate is smiling as he groans and
starts the treadmill up. "A couple of things. One. proper training gear."
She looks at Mikayla, who nods and makes a note on her phone.
"Two... I thought it might be a good idea to have a group session on
Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and then individual sessions on
Tuesdays and Thursdays. "

"What about weekends?" Logan asks, looking slightly worried.
"Weekends are for sleeping," Harper says.
Slate and Tommy high-five on the treadmill. Tommy has already
worked up a sweat and he's breathing a little harsher than Harper would
like for someone who's been jogging for half a minute. Slate looks
perfect. But what else did she expect?
"Bass Note gave me a brief that you guys need to get fit for your tour?
Well, fitness will be a part of this, but I'll also be working through
whichever areas that you and I agree need attention."
She turns her attention to Dash, who's checking his phone with a
thoughtful frown. When she clears her throat, he looks up with a jolt
and quickly stuffs it in his pocket.
"Sorry," he says, sheepishly.
"Why don't you and Logan do some burpees to get started?" she
says.
Both Dash and Logan share a blank look while Slate lets out a bark of
laughter.
"Burpees?" Harper says. "You know. you drop down, do a pushup, then
jump up into the air, then do it again. "
"Yeah, yeah, I know what a burpee is," Dash says with some bravado.
"But, you know, just in case Logan doesn't know, you might want to
demonstrate. "
Harper sighs at him. She makes her disappointment in him visible. But
the gravity that she's trying to inject into the situation is lost when she
starts laughing at his charming smile.
"Slate, come here and demonstrate a burpee."
"Yes, ma'am," Slate replies cheerfully.
"Tommy, turn down the treadmill... think power walk."
"Fuck! Thank you!"
Slate moves into the center of the room. On the way, he brushes against
Harper's side. She doesn't know whether it's on purpose or not, but her
skin tingles when he touches it.
That could be dangerous, she thinks as Slate executes a perfect burpee,
leaving Dash and Logan with horrified expressions on their faces. But
she reminds herself, for what seems like the millionth time,

that Slate is signing her checks and therefore not interested in sleeping
with her.
She watches him go back down and up again, his shirt riding up his
torso.
But a girl can still dream.

The men of Black Lilith soon learn that there are two versions of
Harper—trainer Harper and normal Harper.
Trainer Harper can get kind of scary. She'll be the first to admit that.
Harper tends to channel Jillian Michaels from the Biggest Loser when
she's working with a client, pushing them as hard as they'll go,
maintaining an iron discipline. She knows that some clients don't
respond to that, but she can' t help it. Fitness and staying healthy are
really important to her, so when she' s working with clients she wants
them to understand how important it should be.
She has to ban Dash's phone from the gym. He's constantly reaching for
it, even when he's on the treadmill, and staring at the screen whenever
she's giving instructions. At first, she thinks that's normal, but in the
group sessions the other band members keep asking him who he' s
texting and making fun of him for it, while he ignores them and hides
the screen so that they can't see. After the first couple of one-on-one
sessions with Dash, Harper bans the phone completely.
"You can use it again when you can do fifty suicide runs, " she tells
him.
He hasn' t managed it yet, but he made it to twenty on Friday, so she
gave him a five-minute phone break as a reward.

Tommy is surprisingly unfit considering his lean toned physique.
When she'd asked him what kind of exercise he does, he'd gone bright
red while Slate had snickered and muttered something about 'going
beast mode.' Whatever the hell that means. Harper puts him on
mid-intensity cardio and arm workouts in the hopes that they can
steadily build up his stamina. When she mentions that is her goal, Slate
starts all-out cackling and tells her that he's sure Sersha will appreciate
that.
Mikayla makes sure that Logan shows up on time every morning, but
the man is only ever half-awake. He goes through all of the exercises
Harper gives him without complaint. Well, without vocal complaint.
He does look kind of scared whenever she gives them a new exercise.
She introduced the weight sled and rope to the guys on Wednesday, and
Logan had looked like he'd swallowed something heavy and salty. But
he finished the reps she gave him. The only time he complains is when
Mikayla leaves the gym to take a phone call.
"Don't leave me, you're a witness," he'll shout at her retreating back, his
forehead dripping with sweat and his knees trembling with whatever
new hell Harper is putting him through. "I could die! Mik, don't leave
me"
"Ten more reps," Harper tells him. Mikayla just waves at him over her
shoulder and sticks out her tongue.
Slate is delighted with the new regime. Trainer Harper seems to delight
him as well. He grins from the beginning of each session to the end, and
Harper makes it her mission to work him so hard that he doesn't have
the strength to smile. She puts him through his paces whenever she has
him in her gym, telling herself over and over again that the sight of him
sweaty and breathless is not her primary motivation for being so hard
on him. That she's helping him get fit for the tour and not for any other
reason.
Slate's already so fit and well-muscled that Harper quickly decides to
develop her program for maintaining his beautiful body. She adds some
extra arm workouts to keep his forearms toned—for drumming, she
tells herself—but apart from that, Slate's exercise ethic is pretty damn
good. Some mornings she just has to sit back and watch while he
pushes himself to the edge of what he can do.

When he does, she's there to help push him just that little bit further.
The men of Black Lilith don't meet normal Harper properly until about
two weeks after their first sessions when Harper is invited to a tour
meeting at Bass Note headquarters. Black Lilith's next tour will be in
Europe, and Harper soon learns that she'll be expected to go with them.
To Europe. Harper will be traveling Europe as the band's personal
trainer.
Her mom squeals with her when she tells her over the phone.
On Monday morning, two weeks after Harper met the band, she
finishes the group training session and then takes a quick shower before
meeting the band upstairs in one of the meeting rooms.
"Hide," Tommy shouts when she comes in.
He and Logan dive under the table. Slate starts laughing at them, while
Dash's reaction is a bit late because he's tapping at his phone again.
"Ha, ha, very funny guys," Harper says, but she grins because she gets
why they' re being this way. For the two weeks, every time they' ve
seen her she's made them do something terribly difficult.
Slate immediately gets up and pulls a chair out for Harper next to
Mikayla. On Mikayla's other side is a woman with wild blonde hair and
a green turtleneck who waves cheerfully at Harper when she sits down.
"You must be Sersha," Harper states.
The woman nods while they shake hands. She seems to have a
permanent smile on her lips, like she's constantly bubbling over with
cheer.
Bass Note executives start trickling into the room, but not before
Harper and the guys have the chance to have an actual conversation. It'
s the sort of thing that she hasn't had the time for since she started
working with them, and the longer that they talk the more she likes
them. She can understand why a guy like Slate, who is universally
cheerful but really vulnerable to people criticizing him or dismissing
him, adores them.
"Look at this puppy," Tommy says, climbing out from under the table
and showing Harper a picture of a Corgi puppy on his phone. "Do you
not think this is the cutest puppy?"

Harper thinks that's a little out of left field, but she glances over at Slate
and he just shrugs. Apparently, she's expected to go with it. "It's the
cutest puppy," she agrees.
"For fuck's sake, Tommy, we are not getting a dog," Logan says. He's
left his own chair to stand behind Mikayla, rubbing her neck lazily
while she's bent over her iPad and the way that everyone in the room is
ignoring that fact makes Harper think that this is a pretty normal thing
for them to do.
"Dash is on my side. Dash, tell him you're on my side."
"I'm on your side." Dash doesn't take his eyes off of his phone as he
says it.
"And Slate... no. I don't care how cute your dog is." "Hey, I'm not
biased Harper, tell him how cute Cooper is." "Cooper is pretty cute."
Tommy makes a frustrated noise. "Cooper's not here to sit on my lap
while I' m reading, is he?"
"You wouldn't want him to," Harper tells him. "He's pretty big."
"A Corgi is tiny," Tommy says. "Tiny and easy to clean up after. I'll
walk him, too."
He sounds like a kid trying to convince his parents. But Logan has put
his foot down, apparently.
"We tour too much, Tommy," he says.
"But they have the cutest butts," Tommy whispers.
Tommy visibly deflates. Without looking, Dash reaches over to pat his
bandmate on the back in sympathy. Harper suddenly feels a soft
stabbing in her heart. She doesn't like the sight of Tommy deflated. It's
a completely different sight to when he's completely wiped out from
training.
"You could always volunteer at a shelter," she offers. "They always
need dog walkers there, don't they? I bet they'd even let you play with
them. "
In an instant, Tommy's face lights up. He turns to Logan with a
pleading look that nearly makes Harper laugh out loud.
Logan seems to give it some thought, though he never pauses in
massaging Mikayla's back. "I don't see why not," he says. "But we

might have to make the shelter sign something so that they don't sell the
story to E or someone. And we'd need to keep the paparazzi from
snooping."
"Or you could just get one for your mam, " Sersha says, her Irish accent
stronger and cleaner when she isn't half asleep and speaking through a
phone. She's leaning on the table with her elfin chin resting on her
hand. "And then we can visit it. "
Tommy seems to think about that for a moment, before shaking his
head. "Nah, Mom's a cat person."
"And Geoff?"
"Geoff's an Xbox person."
Harper figures 'Geoff is a member of Tommy's family. Maybe when
she knows them better, she'll ask.
Harper is still coming to terms with what a big deal these men are.
She'd seen the pap shots in the magazines, she'd read about their steady
rise to fame while she'd researched for her role as Slate's girlfriend. But
actually meeting the band had been so different than what she'd thought
meeting celebrities would be like that she's actually having a really
hard time reconciling the two images—the world-famous band, and the
guys she trains. The world-famous band has screaming hordes of
women following them around, they do cover shoots for Rolling Stone
and put on charity concerts, always suave and charming. The guys she
trains are about as suave as a disabled giraffe by the time she's put them
through their paces.
But then the board meeting starts and Harper doesn't have time to dwell
on the incongruity of it all. Logan finally has to abandon his massage so
he can sit on Slate's other side. The Bass Note execs have a long list of
European cities that they want the guys to tour. Harper isn't called on to
make comments, though toward the end of the meeting one of the
execs—an older guy with graying hair—asks her if there's anything
special she would like to be included on the bus so she can keep
training the band.
"I can probably work around having no equipment," she tells him.
"Will the hotels have gyms?"
"Most will. Let's make a note to specify that when we're booking."

He nods to Mikayla, who makes a note on her iPad.
At the end of the meeting, when they're all filing out of the room,
Harper turns to Slate and gasps.
"Slate... you're bleeding."
Under his nostril is a thick ooze of blood, creeping slowly toward his
lip. Slate frowns when he hears her words, wipes at his nose with his
thumb, and then gives her a sheepish grin.
"Oh, shit. Sorry about that."
Mikayla hands him a tissue. The rest of the band doesn't seem
particularly concerned that their drummer is bleeding, though Logan is
frowning disapprovingly. He leans across to speak to Slate without the
execs hearing, though most of them have left the room, a few linger at
the door talking business.
"I told you not to get high before the meeting."
"I didn't. I got high last night."
"Slate, getting a nosebleed in front of the execs is not okay." "All right,
all right, I get it. Sorry man."
Harper turns away from the conversation, her mind busy working over
the words. Slate gets high? She wouldn't have, but it does makes sense
now that she thinks about it. He's a musician, after all. Musicians aren' t
exactly known for living healthy, drug-free lifestyles. She remembers
what he'd told her at his parent's house—that sodium wasn 't even in the
top ten of worst things he did to his body.
What kind of drugs cause nosebleeds, she wonders. She has to wrack
her brain. She's only dabbled with drugs before, so her knowledge is
limited. Cocaine, probably. Yes, cocaine would probably be it. It's
supposed to make people work faster, keep their minds sharper. Maybe
musicians need the boost. Or maybe it's just something Slate does.
None of the other band members have bloody noses.
Then a sudden, horrible thought occurs to her. Slate had been sniffing a
lot the night of the wedding. Right before he'd pushed her against the
wall and ground against her. She hadn' t even thought about it, but now
that she remembers she has to wonder, did he get high that night? Did
he only come on to her because he'd been high on coke?
There's a sour look on her face and she knows it. When Slate

makes eye contact with her, he seems to hesitate.
"How about we all go for lunch?" he asks, aiming for a cheerful tone.
The blood is gone from his nose, but there's a red tissue in his hand.
Looking at it makes Harper pissed.
"I've got plans," she says. His shoulders sink and he glances down at
the tissue, following her gaze, before looking back up at her. "But. you
guys have fun."
"I'll walk you to your car," Slate offers, standing up.
"It's broad daylight, Slate. I'm fine."
And with that, Harper smiles at the rest of the band, waves to Mikayla
and Sersha, and leaves the room.

On Sunday, Harper gets a text from Slate. Slate: Can u meet me at the
studio? 2:30?
Harper is surprised. Usually, the band doesn't even leave their
brownstone on Sundays. She's only known them for a little while, but
she's gotten the impression from Mikayla that Saturday is generally
party night, and that the band likes to stay in on Sundays to sleep off the
hangover. Harper wonders how many of those hangovers were about
drugs as well as alcohol.
It's none of my business, she tells herself. Though herself is having a
hard time listening. She'd tried to focus on her school work—she's still
studying, because she intends to get her degree no matter how lucky
she's gotten—but her eyes would just slide in and out of focus and
eventually she'd shut the laptop and nearly thrown it out the window.
She'd asked Mikayla, discreetly, if Slate has a drug problem. Mikayla
had assured her that he doesn't.
"It's not really a problem. It's just recreational," Mikayla had said,
talking on the phone to Harper while probably doing a billion other
things at the same time. "Usually, he only does it when he's meeting...

well, it's usually after a show, when he brings a girl home."
Harper had to pretend that the choking noise she'd made was because
she'd swallowed her tea the wrong way.
"So... he's not an addict?" Harper has asked.
Mikayla had sighed. "No, just a pain in the ass. Does it affect his
training?"
Harper had needed to run off a spiel about stimulants messing with the
metabolism until she was sure that Mikayla wasn't listening anymore,
then said a hasty goodbye and hung up.
She doesn' t want to admit why she was so disappointed to learn that
Slate takes drugs. It' s partly her trainer' s pride—no trainer wants to
hear that their star client isn't taking care of themselves. But in her heart
of hearts, she knows the truth because he might have been high when
he' d hit on her. He might be taking girls into his bed every night,
getting high and fucking them, and then going to train with Harper the
next morning. She'd told herself over and over again that Slate didn't
want her, that she wasn't special. And now here was the proof.
She stares at her phone, wondering what to do. Finally, she texts
back.
Me: C U there.
But she goes early. Because she doesn't want him to have the upper
hand. Meeting at the studio means meeting on his turf, which feels
oddly like a battle metaphor though she's sure that he doesn't know why
she's been giving him the cold shoulder. Or maybe he does know, and
he wants to meet at the studio to remind her of their relationship—that
he's a drummer with a world of fans at his beck and call, and she's just
one woman who's been hired to keep him fit.
She arrives at the studio at 2:10. She's wearing a red, short-sleeved shirt
with a lace vest and her hair pinned up on the back of her head. She
likes this outfit because it shows off her toned arms, implies a toned
body, and draws attention to her long neck and collarbones. She wants
to look good.
On her way into the studio, a security guard scans her pass.

Mikayla had made her sign a waiver promising not to go to the press
about the band before Harper was allowed to have it. "Just a
precaution," Mikayla had said.
After a few days, Harper had understood why. Between paparazzi and
fans, there are only a few places where the band can be free to act like
themselves—the studio and her gym being among them.
Walking down the corridor toward Black Lilith's studio room, Harper
can hear the faint sound of heavy drumming and loud, rhythmic guitar.
Most of the time, these rooms are sound proofed, but there's always a
little bit of music to be heard in the halls, right outside of the doors.
Harper recognizes the song instantly. It's Led Zeppelin's 'Moby Dick.'
She'd looked it up after Kayla had told her about Slate's stunt in sixth
grade.
Cautiously, Harper opens the door to the studio, relieved to find that it'
s unlocked. Inside, the lights are dimmed, and the room smells of
chocolate and leather. She steps in and closes the door behind her,
peering into the glass which separates the mixing board from the room
with the instruments.
Slate is in there. Alone. The guitar that Harper had heard is playing
through the speakers and it only takes her a moment to realize that
there's an iPod jacked into one of the boards. Slate has removed his
leather jacket and he's wearing a simple white wife-beater that shows
off his perfect shoulders and the tattoos which drape his skin lovingly.
He's got his head ducked down and his eyes closed, bashing away at the
drums with a blissed-out expression that makes Harper want to back
out of the room again. This feels private. Harper feels like she's
intruding on somebody's prayers.
Then the guitar from the speakers fades. This is the part of the song
that's all about the drum solo. Harper had been impressed when she'd
watched the YouTube video, but it's nothing to seeing it up close. The
way Slate strikes the snares like a snake, the way he seems to move
fluidly from beat to beat like he's swimming through the tune, the way
the muscles in his forearms tighten like ropes as he works.
He seems to be doing a hundred things at once. Hitting the drums,

beating the big one with his foot, tapping the cymbals, steadily building
up and up, getting faster and faster, yet all the while he moves like this
is as easy as breathing. Like he doesn't even need to think.
Harper puts a hand on her chest. She's half-convinced that her heart will
start beating in time with his playing.
She watches, transfixed, as Slate blazes through the song. He moves
through loud and soft, fast and slow, aggressive and loving, and it's the
most incredible piece of music she's ever heard. She'd liked Black
Lilith's songs. She'd liked the original version of 'Moby Dick' from Led
Zeppelin. But there's something about seeing Slate's expression as he
plays this song that makes Harper think that she' s been missing
something.
This is what music should be. Watching a beautiful man lose himself to
what he's playing, and allowing yourself to be swept along for the ride.
Finally, the guitar and bass return. After nearly fifteen minutes of
Slate's arms working and working, sweat dripping off his forehead, but
he never once loses the expression of pure, excited joy on his face. As
he plays the last few beats, throwing his whole body into them, he
throws his head back and Harper needs to grab the seat in front of her
for support. His long neck strains, his dark eyes are finally open, and
his lips are parted in a gasp of pleasure and exhaustion. His cheeks
flushed with the effort of playing.
That was way too erotic, Harper thinks as the music comes to a stop
and Slate lowers his sticks. As he does, their eyes meet through the
glass.
It takes Slate a moment to understand what he's seeing. In his defense,
he probably hadn' t expected to see her here so early. But it' s now 2:25.
She said she'd meet him at 2:30.
He pushes himself to his feet. His hands move sluggishly, weakly, like
he's drained much of his energy into the song. Harper can only imagine,
it's high-intensity work, well above what she would usually ask of her
clients. In the back of her mind, which is admittedly a bit hazy because
she's still replaying the sight of Slate finishing that song, she makes a
note to herself to expand that part of his program. If this is the

kind of music Slate likes to play in his downtime, then Harper' s
training program will need to accommodate that.
Slate grabs a towel off of the stool he' d been sitting on and absently
wipes his face. His eyes never leave hers. It takes a moment for Harper
to understand the look he' s giving her.
Nervous. Hopeful. Concerned.
"Hey," he calls through the glass. Then he moves around the drum kit
to step through the door, and Harper gets to see how sweaty his shirt
really is, how tight his jeans are, and she has to remind herself that she'
s not happy with him right now. "You came. "
The iPod plays the next song. She recognizes it from one of her friend's
playlists—'Better Strangers' by Royal Blood. She actually likes that
one. Slate reaches over to turn off the iPod, plunging them both into
silence.
"I said I would," Harper replies. Then, because her mouth is traitorous,
she says, "That was incredible. "
He shrugs, though there's a hint of pride in the way his mouth turns up
at the corners. "I love that song." Then he looks at her properly and the
smile drops from his lips. "Mik tells me you spoke to her."
So that's it. Harper's here to be raked over the coals for not minding her
business.
"You're my client... I just wanted to know if the drug use could be
getting in the way of your training," she says, going for the gentle,
pleading tone of an employee being reprimanded.
Slate picks up on it immediately and frowns. "Harper. you know that
you're not here because you're in trouble, right?"
She hadn't known that. "Ah. I... yes?"
"Harper," Slate says, coming toward her so she can see the damp sweat
in his hair and the wetness pooling in his collarbone. "I'm not angry. I
just wanted to make sure that you're not, you know... angry at
me?"
Harper can feel the confused frown blossoming on her face.
"You?"
"Well, yeah. I get that you're a lot more... pure than I am," he says. "I
guess I figured you'd disapprove of it or something."

"I' m not gonna lie. I do. " He flinches gently, and Harper smothers the
concern building up in her chest when she sees it. "It answers a lot of
questions I had, though." "Questions?"
"You got high at the wedding, didn' t you?" she asks. "That' s why
you... why you were so affectionately aggressive afterward."
His gentle guilt switches to full-blown horror. It's enough for him to
look away from her, down at his shoes, and she never thought that she'd
see him looking so hurt and guilty, but it confirms everything she' d
thought. He' s not looking at her because she' d hit the nail on the head.
It aches to have it confirmed for her like that.
When he looks at her again, he's biting his lip. "Harper... fuck I'm so
sorry. "
"You get high with groupies, you get high with whores. It's all the
same—"
"Stop talking about yourself that way. Fuck," he shouts. Harper feels
her body instinctively flinching away and she forces herself to hold her
ground. His expression is so difficult to read, it's a mixture of guilt and
sadness and anger. But Harper's not sure which of those are directed at
her.
This is the moment when she should be graceful. To let him off the
hook and smile in a chagrined way. Maybe apologize for making him
lose his temper. She remembers the wedding and the reception dinner,
as she'd morphed her manners seamlessly to fit whichever conversation
she was having. She's always been so damn good at being who people
want her to be, or who they need her to be.
Right now, she wants to be herself. She wants Slate to know her
because apparently he's confused about what she thinks is acceptable.
She takes a step forward, getting right up into his face. "Don't you ever
raise your voice to me again, Slate. Understand? There might be some
women who'll let a man talk to them like that, but I'm not one of them."
He instantly drops the anger. "I'm sorry." He seems to mean it. His
hand jerks out and touches her elbow, and when she pulls away he
looks even more upset. "You're not... you deserved better than that. I'm

sorry."
"When did I deserve better?" she asks. "Just now, or that night?" "Both.
Every day. Every night." His eyes flicker down to her lips and there's
unmistakable longing in that gaze. Suddenly, before Harper can even
think, Slate's hands are on her hips. He's moving quickly, with an
urgency that's almost startling, slamming her up against the mixing
board and lifting her so that her thighs are wrapped around his hips,
holding her in place. Harper gasps and instantly feels a hot burn of
arousal flood her veins while he pushes her into position, grinding into
her, burying his face into her hair and licking up her neck. She moans
and wraps her arms around his neck. Her hips jerk like they have a
mind of their own.
Slate groans at the feeling. Harper's body is screaming yes, yes, yes, as
Slate buries a hand in her hair and pulls, just enough to make it
interesting. He bites down at the sensitive flesh just under her ear and
Harper's body bucks against him. She never wants this moment to end.
It's such a sudden, graceless movement. Full of passion but taking her
by surprise. It isn't until Slate starts grinding into her in short, perfect
circles, that Harper remembers that they're in a public studio. And that
she's still mad at him. "Mmm... stop."
He stops, pulls back and she can see a sliver of chocolate in his
eyes—the pupils have almost blown out the irises entirely—and a pink
tinge to his lips as he bites down on them, while searching her face.
"You have no idea how much I regret that night." She winces. "Ouch,"
she says.
"No... Harper, not like that. I regret getting high and leading you on. It
wasn't right. I'm glad that Tommy called, or I would have kept going
and then our first time would have been because of the drugs and not
because we both wanted it. " He shrugs and looks away again. "I don' t
even know why I felt the need to get high anyway. It was the easiest
night I've ever had with my family."
Harper is still reeling from the 'first time' comment. As if he would
have liked there to be multiple times. As if he wanted it to be perfect.
He's watching her cautiously, waiting for her to respond, but there are
so

many things to say and she doesn't know where to start. Finally, he lets
her go. He looks reluctant but determined. She immediately wants to
draw him back again, but the stubborn part of her, the part that always
keeps her working out long after she's reached her limit, lets him move
away. Because this is important, she thinks. Talking it out like this,
instead of burying their feelings in a haze of lust. There's an ache
between her legs when he moves away and it takes every ounce of
self-control she has not to try and reach out for him. Instead, she stands
up and straightens her shirt.
"Slate," she says, leaning forward and feeling a surge of strengthening
fire when he doesn't immediately pull away. "Slate, do you still want
me?"
"So much," he says, breathlessly and immediately. He hadn't even
paused to think about it. His gorgeous forearms twitch as though they
want to reach out and touch, and there is an obvious bulge in his pants.
"But I'm still your client. It's wrong."
Harper shakes her head at him, still so disappointed. "There's
chivalrous, and then there's self-flagellation," she tells him. "Who
exactly are you protecting here?"
He' s frowning, staring into her eyes with his own deep, dark chocolate
ones. He smells of sweat, but it doesn' t overwhelm his cologne. If
anything, it makes it muskier. Heavier. More sensual.
"I don't know anymore," he says. "I'm usually good at this, you know."
"Getting a woman?"
"Romance," says Slate. "I mean... I can tell when my friends like
someone. I always tell them they should go for it. But I can't tell
myself. I don't know why."
Harper thinks she knows why. But she's not going to say it. She's not
going to say that she thinks having parents who tell him that he doesn't
deserve his success might have messed up his ability to recognize his
own worth. Or maybe we 're all much better at telling other people
what they need than we are at understanding what we need. But she
isn't going to say it. It's not her place to say it. Before Harper can speak,
the door slams open and Dash tumbles

inside. Dash seems to be perpetually tumbling. He's a whirlwind of
energy and movement, never still except when he' s frowning at his
phone. The slogan T-shirt he' s wearing takes her a moment to
recognize—the Big Bang Theory, one of Sheldon's quotes. If anything
could have killed the mood entirely, and rid the room of all trace of
sexual tension, it would have been that.
"Good morning," he says cheerfully. His phone is in his pocket for
once. He looks between Harper and Slate and a slow recognition comes
across his face. "I'm interrupting something." "Yes," Slate says firmly.
"You are." "I was just about to leave," Harper tells him. But Dash is
frowning. "How about I go and give you guys the chance to finish this
conversation? "
Harper turns her back on Slate and gives Dash a smile. He's a
sweetheart, even if he never pays attention during their training
sessions.
"Slate has some things to think about," she tells him. "And he's not
going to think about them while I'm here. But thanks, Dash. I
appreciate
it."
And as she leaves the studio—not looking back, because she's a strong
woman and she can walk away from Slate's godlike physique without
looking back—she hears Dash' s voice say, "Dude, let me call for pizza.
You can tell me all about it. "

"Who takes impromptu trips to Vegas?" "We do."
Sersha has her hand hooked through Harper's elbow, with Mikayla on
her other arm, and an almost manic grin on her face. The three women
are trailing behind the men of Black Lilith and their security, Logan
carrying his and Mikayla's bag while Tommy has Sersha's backpack
slung over his shoulder. Slate had avoided Harper's gaze when they'd
arrived at the airport, but Dash had taken her carry-on despite her vocal
protests.
Harper had been dreading Monday morning. She'd spent most of
Sunday planning a training session that wouldn't require her to spend
too much time on Slate, thanking her past self over and over for
planning group sessions on Mondays. She was still feeling tender from
the conversation they'd had at the studio, as though she'd been beaten
with a mallet and the bruises hadn't healed yet.
But then Mikayla and Sersha had shown up at her door at 6:00 a.m.
with plane tickets and instructions to pack a bag.
"Sometimes we like to do stupid shit," Sersha says as she guides a
still-stunned Harper through check in. "Just go with it, Love."
"But I'm not in the band," Harper says.

Mikayla gives her a raised eyebrow. "You're part of the gang now,
Harper. You're coming."
Harper feels a strong surge of affection for the woman at those words,
but it still feels a bit weird to be watching Slate's shoulders from behind
after basically daring him to ask her out less than twenty-four hours
earlier. He hasn't said a word to her this morning. He gave her a wink
when Black Lilith picked her up from her apartment, but it had been
empty.
She's pretty sure that random trips to Vegas weren't in her job
description.
But it's exciting as well. It's the sort of thing that she never would have
considered when she was growing up in Omaha. Waking up in the
morning and jumping on a plane with less than an hour's notice. It's
remarkable, really, how many times she's been put on a plane on short
notice since she came into Slate's life.
The band heads for the first class lounge. Slate glances over his
shoulder and his eyes meet Harper's, and they both look away at the
same time. Harper knows that she's blushing. The last time she was in
this lounge, watching Slate order a Red Bull, wondering what it would
be like to spend the night with him. Several weeks later, and she still
has no idea.
I always tell them they should go for it. But I can't tell myself.
Harper wants to think that it's her. If it's her, then at least there might be
something that she can fix. Something she can change. She's always
been so good at being what people need. But it's not her problem—it' s
Slate' s. Something inside of him is keeping him from giving into what
could be happening between them. And that' s not something she can
help him with. She can only be there when he figures it out.
But how long will that take?
They' re only in the lounge for a few minutes—long enough to order a
couple of drinks from the same bartender, who looks like she' s having
a heart attack when she serves the band—before a sudden swarm of
people show up. They' re mostly young women. Teenagers and women
in their twenties holding smartphones and scraps of paper,

offering pens and lipstick to the band for them to sign with. "Slate!
Slate! Will you sign my boobs?" "Can I get a selfie, Dash? I'm such a
huge fan."
"Marry me."
The other passengers in the lounge look on—first with curiosity, then
with horror. Most of them leave within minutes of the fans arriving.
Harper is pushed roughly aside by one woman who's trying to fight her
way to get to Tommy. Sersha pulls Harper out of the way as the noise
of the women shouting starts to build around them, while Mikayla is
angrily talking into her phone.
"Where the fuck is security. We're being swarmed by fans right now.
Yes, I know you stopped the paparazzi at the entrance, but there are still
dozens of women here and we've got no support."
The guys seem to be taking it well. They have smiles on their faces,
though Logan takes control pretty quickly and makes the women form
a line and draws the band into a corner so that they're not in danger of
trampling other passengers. Some women ask Slate to pick them up,
and Harper turns away so that she doesn't have to watch them climb on
his back while their friends take the picture.
"This is so insane," she mutters to Sersha, who's still standing next to
her.
"I know," Sersha replies. Her arms are crossed over her chest and she's
still got that constant smile on her face, but it's strained. "Sometimes I
forget how famous these boys are getting."
"Are you going to be a total hipster and say that you knew them before
they were cool?"
Sersha snorts. "Not even close. Black Lilith got that Grammy nom a
few weeks after I got the job. It's just weird, I guess. I've seen Dash cry
over Star Trek."
Dash is currently being draped by women and giving the cameras
they're holding a smoldering look.
Security finally arrives. The fans are moved on and Black Liliths flight
is called. Harper, Mikayla and Sersha lead the way to the gate and
climb into their seats. Harper had never even been within spitting
distance of first class before she came to Manhattan. Now she's flown

first class three times in a month. Dash takes the seat next to her. Slate
sits across the aisle from him. Sersha and Tommy already have their
heads bowed over a notebook, arguing adorably over some metaphor
that Tommy thinks should be worded differently, while Mikayla and
Logan have their fingers entwined over the armrest between them.
As they do their pre-flight checks, some of the flight attendants give
Slate considering looks. He's taken off his leather jacket and his
muscular arms are on display. Once the plane is in the air, one of them
gathers the courage to approach him, swaying her hips a little so that
the skin-tight outfit she's wearing shows off her curves. She steps up to
his seat and leans over so that he gets the full view of her cleavage.
"Can I get you anything else, sir?" she asks.
She says sir in a husky voice that makes Harper wonder if she'd
practiced it a couple of times to get the tone right before she came over.
Slate looks up and gives her a smile. "No thanks, I'm fine."
It's not exactly impolite. But it's not warm, either. It's a careful, neutral
statement that betrays nothing, and his eyes are on her face for a whole
two seconds before he's turning away, pulling the in-flight magazine
out of the pouch in front of him and flipping to the first article. Dash
gives him a strange look as the flight attendant hesitates, clearly unsure
of what to do now.
Finally, the woman leaves. When the seatbelt sign comes on, Slate
unbuckles his belt and walks to the bathroom, wobbling a little when
the plane hits some turbulence. Harper watches him go, paying
particular attention to the flight attendant who'd taken an interest in
him, but as far as she can tell Slate doesn't acknowledge her.
When Slate is out of ear-shot, Dash swivels around to look at Harper.
"Okay, here's the deal. That's literally the first time I've seen Slate not
hit on a sexy woman. Flirting is like breathing for him."
"Mmm?" Harper says. She's not sure what she's expected to say to
that.
"He hit on both Mikayla and Sersha when he met them. Fuck he even
hit on Tommy when he met him."
Harper snorts, trying to lighten the mood. "Who wouldn't?"

Dash gives her a wry smile but it doesn't last long. He goes straight
back to serious in the blink of an eye, and Harper is left to wonder how
she didn't know this side of him. Usually, personal trainers get to the
serious side of a client within a few sessions. Until now, Dash has only
ever shown her tired, distracted, and amused.
"You know he's crazy about you."
Harper snorts. "Sometimes it's hard to believe it."
"Yeah, I know," Dash says. He cranes his head around to make sure
that Slate is still in the bathroom. Then he leans over to speak quickly,
clearly worried that Slate will return and cut off their conversation
before he's had the chance to say what he wants to say. "Slate's kind of
appointed himself the band love guru. He got Tommy and Sersha
together, he got Logan and Mikayla together. Hell, he helped me lose
my virginity. He's spent half his life building up this image of the cool
bad boy rockstar who likes to party and fuck, and doesn' t take life
seriously. "
Harper is nodding along. She'd known that Slate got the other band
members their girlfriends, though the way he'd told the story makes her
think he might have exaggerated some parts of it. And the idea that he's
still trying to work his shit out was something she'd figured out on her
own.
"Why are you telling me this?" Harper asks.
Dash gives her a sad look. "Like I said, Slate's put a lot of energy into
helping the people he loves find someone special. So maybe I think it's
about time someone returned the favor."
"But... you're single?"
"Logan's my brother. Mikayla's his soulmate. They would never have
gotten their shit together without Slate. "
Harper realizes that she's felt this way before. When she sees puppies
and kittens and kids who share their ice-cream.
"If Slate's still working out his feelings and what he wants, there's not a
lot I can do about it," Harper says.
"I know," Dash says, quickly glancing over his shoulder again. He
spins around fast and leans over to speak right into her ear. "Look, I'm
working on it, okay? Just don't give up on him. Hang in there. I
promise,

he' s worth it. "
And then he pulls away and presses his back to his seat, whipping his
phone out his pocket and pretending to scroll through as Slate returns
and plunks himself into his seat again. Harper is left to turn her eyes to
the back of the chair in front of her. She glances at her watch and sighs.
Still a few hours to Vegas.
That's a lot of time to think.

Harper seriously needs a smoke before she kills someone.
It doesn't help that people are smoking all around her. It doesn't help
that there's literally an ashtray in the center of the table she's sitting at,
the dark room and pulsing music bending and softening with cigarette
smoke, as people inhale and exhale while they listen and move their
heads. It doesn't help that Slate is sitting so close that she can feel every
dip and curve of his muscled arms as he moves a bottle up to his lips.
"Night clubs suck," Tommy shouts from beside Slate.
The club they've found themselves at is 'celeb-friendly,' meaning that
they keep the paparazzi out and no one is allowed to go into fangirl
mode while they're here. There are still women eyeing off Slate and the
rest of the band. Harper can't tell if they're actually famous themselves
or if they got in because they know someone. Harper sure as hell isn't
famous. She's just attached herself to Black Lilith like a very confused
parasite.
Logan and Mikayla are on the dance floor, grinding slowly to the music
with their eyes closed and their bodies entwined. Dash is dancing like a
complete dork in the center of the floor, a pretty dark-haired woman
with ebony skin laughing at him as he goes. Tommy and Slate are
guarding the table, with Sersha and Harper at their sides. Harper

refuses to think about how this is similar to a double-date.
Slate looks good. He's left his leather jacket at home, opting for a blazer
with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms and jeans that should
be illegal. His hair is falling in his face in a way that makes Harper
scrunch her fingers into a fist so she isn't tempted to reach over and
brush it out of his eyes.
"You're right," Sersha shouts back at Tommy, patting him consolingly
on the thigh.
Slate' s tapping his feet in time with the music. Harper actually hates
clubs—but thinks dancing is great cardio. She' d tried her best not to
notice that Slate had opted for a low-calorie beer instead of his usual
Red Bull. It doesn't mean anything. Nothing at all.
"Hi."
Harper and Slate turn. The woman behind them hadn' t shouted loud
enough for Tommy and Sersha to hear her.
She's gorgeous, though Harper thinks it's mostly makeup. Her face has
that too-perfect quality that can only be achieved with rigorous
contouring, which is something that Harper's never been able to master.
Even though Harper had heard the woman speak, she clearly hadn't
been meant to. She has eyes only for Slate.
"You're Slate, right? The drummer from Black Lilith?"
"On my better days," Slate shouts back, leaning on the table with his
elbow and giving the woman his attention. His legs are turned toward
Harper. "Can I help you?"
"You wanna get out of here?" she asks, giving him a significant
look.
So much for beating around the bush, Harper thinks. She looks over at
Tommy and Sersha, who still haven't noticed the intruder. It does look
like a double-date. In fact, there's no reason for this woman to think that
Slate isn't here with Harper. She'd just come over and presented herself
to Slate as if Harper didn't exist, as if even if Harper and Slate were
there together it would be no impediment for her.
Harper has to admire her nerve, even as she wants the earth to open up
and swallow her whole.
She hadn't dressed sexy. She didn't want to. She's wearing ballet

flats with jeans and a nice top, just like what Sersha is wearing.
Mikayla had gone a little fancier. But it isn't until Harper gets a good
look at the woman hitting on Slate, dressed in a skirt and top that looks
like it was sewn onto her body, that she feels underdressed. Even
frumpy.
Sliding out of her seat, Harper heads toward the bar so she doesn't have
to hear Slate's response. Then, halfway to the bar, she decides that she's
tired.
Pulling out her phone, she sends a quick text to Sersha and Mikayla to
let them know that she's heading back to the hotel. They've been
wonderful, really making an effort to make Harper feel like part of the
Black Lilith family, but it's hard to feel that way when they have
romantic connections to the band and she doesn't.
She takes one last look at Slate, through the dark and the noise and the
cigarette smoke. He's still talking to the woman. He doesn't even seem
to have noticed that Harper had left.
"I will not feel sorry for myself," she says firmly, safe in the knowledge
that no one is close enough to hear her talking to no one. "I refuse to
feel sorry for myself."
She heads outside, past the crowded line of people waiting to be let into
the club, and hails a cab.
The band got a suite at Red Rock Casino, which had horrified Harper
when she first laid eyes on it. The curved cream building practically
drips with decadence, and the suites that Mikayla had arranged are
bigger than Harper's family home twice over. But the gym is something
to take Harper's breath away. So when the cabbie drops her off in front
of the hotel she goes straight there, saying a friendly hello to the
Concierge as she passes because she doesn't want to be one of those
assholes who never acknowledges the help. She's not dressed for the
gym, but she's less interested in a proper work-out and more interested
in forgetting her problems.
Downstairs, the gym is fully mirrored and deserted. Most of the hotel
guests are probably either at the slot machines or hitting up the
nightclubs like Black Lilith did within moments of their arrival. For a
trip that's supposed to help them unwind, they're certainly not doing
much relaxing.

Harper climbs onto an elliptical, sets it to maximum resistance, and
starts working. Her jeans immediately feel tight and restrictive on her
thighs, but she pushes through. She hadn't even bothered to stretch.
What is wrong with her?
She keeps an eye on the clock. She evens out her breathing so she's
taking breaths in five-second intervals. At the ten minute mark, she
feels a hand on her shoulder.
"Shit Slate... I didn't even hear you come in. Jesus."
He shouldn't have been able to sneak up on her, but she'd been so
focused on the timer that she hadn't even noticed his reflection in the
mirror.
"Everything all right?" he asks, frowning at her. "You left without
saying goodbye. "
Harper climbs off the elliptical. She hadn't even had the chance to break
into a sweat. In fact, only working for ten minutes has had the opposite
effect on what she'd intended. She's all wound up now, with a tidal
wave of pent-up energy in her chest and arms, waiting in vain to be
released.
"I was tired," she says. "How did you know where I was?" "The
Concierge."
Fuck it, from now on I'm going to be an asshole, she thinks.
She steps around Slate, ever conscious of the way he smells like he' s
bathed in chocolate. The memory of their kiss from the wedding hits
her in that instant—unwanted, unwelcome. A reminder of the way he'd
held her close and buried himself in her mouth. It makes her want to
whimper and press herself close.
"I was worried," he says, following her to the elevator that will take
them back to the room. She slides in as the elevator doors close and
she's trapped in there with his scent.
Does he know what that does to her? Probably not.
"Harper... are you okay?"
"I'm fine. More than fine. I'm great."
"You look a little strung out." He frowns even harder and reaches out to
grab her chin and pull it up so that he can see into her eyes. "Your
pupils are dilated. Did someone slip you something? "

His immediate concern is touching, and for a moment Harper has to ask
herself if that is, in fact, what happened. Is she under the influence right
now?
"I didn't even drink anything," she says. She pushes his hand away.
She's not under the influence of any drugs. Just Slate. "Pupils dilate for
other reasons, you know."
Slate's eyes flutter closed and he looks chagrined as he turns back to the
elevator doors. Harper feels the familiar swoop of the elevators rising,
taking them up to Black Lilith's suites.
Mikayla rented out an entire floor for them. Because Black Lilith is
such a big deal now that apparently they need the privacy. There are
also a couple of security guards waiting outside of the elevator when
Harper and Slate arrive and the doors open. Slate gives them both a nod
as they pass on their way to the suite that Harper shares with Slate and
Dash—the only two single men.
"I know I'm being an idiot," Slate says when the door is closed and
they're alone.
The suite is all white and gold and it makes him look even better in his
casual blazer and jeans. Harper wonders if the sweat from her brief
workout has ruined her makeup before she remembers that she'd barely
been wearing any. And even if it had, she still wouldn't have been able
to compete with the woman who'd been chatting up Slate when she'd
left the club.
"Why are you even here?" Harper asks. "That woman you were talking
to seemed like she'd be much better company than me."
"That... Harper, I turned her down," Slate says. He takes off his blazer
and Harper wants to slap him in his beautiful face. It was hard enough
to pay attention to what he was saying when he wasn't showing off the
size of his shoulders and the perfect curve of his abs beneath a plain
white shirt. "Then I turned around and you were gone. Don't tell me
you left because you were jealous?"
"Why would I be jealous? There's nothing to be jealous of. You've
made it abundantly clear that you don't want me. And that
woman—whatever her name was—seemed to be offering. Honestly, it'
s no contest. " But it' s not true. They' ve already established that he
wants

her. It feels good to lash out when she's still wound-up from the
interrupted workout.
"Harper." Slate lets out a frustrated noise and runs a hand through his
hair.
Harper decides she can't take it anymore. She's done taking it. She
doesn't want to feel this way, to be wondering what his feelings are and
wondering what she can do to make him forget his so-called chivalry
and accept the way that he feels.
"Slate, don't you fucking move."
She surges forward, grabs his face and presses her lips against his.
When he gasps she takes the chance and plunges her tongue in his
mouth. Within a moment, he's got his arms around her and he's lifting
her off of her feet as he kisses her back groaning with full-force.
Finally.
Harper feels his kiss right down the middle of her spine. This is exactly
what she needed. Not a half-hearted workout still dressed in jeans, but a
kiss from the man who has been giving her nothing but sleepless nights
and erotic dreams for weeks. This is what she's been needing since the
moment they met.
Slate pulls back suddenly, and Harper lets out a frustrated growl.
"Oh, come on," she says.
"Not here," he whispers.
He's still holding her up, and when he looks at her and she looks down
at him she can see the pure want in his gaze, the way his pupils have
blown out to make his eyes almost demonically black. His hands grip
her so tightly that she can already feel the delicious pain that promises
bruises.
He carries her to her room. Slate tosses her on the bed, and immediately
climbs on top of her to draw her into another searing kiss.
Harper groans, raising her hips to press against him, and when she feels
his erection through his jeans she reaches down to cup him, earning a
short, hitched groan.
"If you leave me hanging this time," she mutters into the kiss. "I'll
cut it off. "
Slate grins. She can feel it in the way his lips move against hers. He

reaches down to grab her hands, slamming them up so that they're on
either side of her head.
He pulls back to look at her. To really look. Harper feels suddenly
exposed under his gaze, but she meets it firmly with one of her own.
"You're fucking gorgeous. And terrifying."
Slate presses her into the bed. For a man who'd carried her into the
bedroom and thrown her onto the bed, he doesn't seem to be in any
hurry. On the contrary. He seems happy to be grinding his hips
languidly against hers while he kisses her. Exploring her mouth as
though he's never kissed anyone before, as though this is all new to
him, and as though there's nowhere in the world he would rather be
than right here, right now, on top of her.
Harper loses herself into the kiss. She'd been impatient to begin with,
but this feels so much more important than getting off. This feels
intimate in ways that sex never could. The more he kisses her, the more
she feels herself warming up, almost melting into the gentle caress of
his fingers around hers.
A sudden, inexplicable thought occurs to her. She can't help but laugh.
"What's funny?" Slate asks, licking up her neck playfully. He's got a
lazy grin on his face that makes Harper want to melt.
"Kissing's more intimate than sex," Harper tells him, laying her head
back and relaxing her body, feeling utterly safe in his arms.
"Something Vivian Ward told Edward Lewis."
"Who?"
"From Pretty Woman."
"Never seen it." He dips his head down to kiss her again, short and
sweet. "Is it desperately important that I understand this?"
"Not right now, but it's my favorite movie and reminds me of us right
now," she says trying not to moan from his magical tongue. She tilts
her chin so he can go back to kissing her, which he does with gusto.
It's an incredible feeling, one she'd never thought she'd enjoy. Being
boxed in by a man had always given her the creeps. That's why she
usually insisted on being on top for sex. Men were usually happy to
oblige. Laying beneath Slate, she doesn't feel trapped or unnecessarily

pinned down. She feels like as though some great, wild animal has
draped himself over her, as though Slate is protecting her from the
world while he ravishes her. She thinks she could spend the rest of her
life pressing her lips against his, feeling his gentle but firm fingers
entwined with hers, and the soft, steady rhythm of the bulge in his pants
pressing her intimately.
But there's no way that they can keep this up forever. Harper's already
left Slate with blue balls once—his fault, she reminds herself—and
Slate's beginning to kiss his way slowly down her neck, leaving her
gasping mouth open and bereft when he's no longer attached to her lips.
She wonders if he makes the other women he takes to bed feel this
good, then dismisses the thought. She's got more important things to
worry about.
Craning her neck, Harper watches as Slate slowly pulls her shirt up and
over her head, before pressing kisses between her breasts. Her chest is
flushed. He pulls her up just enough to unhook her bra with expert
efficiency, before paying special attention to each nipple while he
undoes her fly.
He's still woefully overdressed.
"Get this off," she says, pulling uselessly at his shirt.
But he pulls away. "Not yet," he says, pressing a kiss to the underside
of her breast while his finger traces the top of her panties. "Let me take
care of you first, babe."
Harper lets her head fall back on the pillow. Babe. He used their pet
name.
"God I just want you now," she says. It's a whimper, which is
something she'll deny until the day she dies.
"You can have me," he replies easily. "In a minute."
Throwing her own words back at her. The prick. She swats him on the
head and he laughs at her. He sounds almost giddy as he runs his hands
over her taut stomach, just light enough to make her shiver. Harper
feels goosebumps rise on her skin as he quickly dips down to pull her
jeans and panties completely off, leaving her entirely naked while he's
fully dressed.

He sits back on his knees, towering over her with an intense look in his
eyes. He takes it all in and Harper raises her hands so they're on either
side of her head, where he'd put them before, before pulling a leg up to
run her foot along his thigh, exposing herself even more.
Slate swallows, but there's still a massive grin on his face. He dips
down to kiss her lips again. Even with her entire body on display, he's
still more interested in kissing her. There's more passion now. It's less
about exploration and more about intention. But it's still a kiss.
You can have me. In a minute.
Sixty seconds can't pass quickly enough.

Hands settle on her hips and Harper has to resist squirming. Slate's lips
are brushing under her belly button and she wills him lower, but even
without the feeling of his lips where she wants them she's still feeling
the slow burn of pleasure taking over her.
Slate kisses his way down her thigh, completely skipping her groin.
Harper doesn't have the heart to be annoyed with it because he's slowly
working down to her knees and calves, massaging the whole way. This
man clearly has some experience with massage, because he runs his
fingers down her muscles with practiced ease. He works out kinks she
never even knew she had.
She's so glad she didn't stretch before that little workout. It makes this
even more enjoyable.
He sits back on his knees at the bottom of the bed and puts her foot on
his thigh, rubbing the arch and clearly enjoying the way that she curves
her back in response.
"You don't mind foot massages, do you?" he asks, cocking his head at
her.
"No," she moans. She's breathless with this.
When he's finished both of her feet, and rubbed his way up her legs
again until they feel loose and pliant, he finally settles between her
knees

and runs his hands up her thighs to spread her legs.
She's soaking wet. He stares at her for a moment, before dipping his
head down to kiss the inside of her thigh and press a finger to her
entrance, spreading the wetness around.
"I'm so fucking glad you were my first."
It takes Harper a second to realize she said that out loud. Slate's breath
catches in his chest, and he stares down at her with eyes so dark she can
hardly tell they're meant to be chocolate. He opens his mouth like he
wants to say something, then decides against it.
He surges forward and kisses her into the pillow, one hand pressing
into her and one finger inside. His thumb brushing her clit in a way that
she would have thought was teasing if she weren't sure that he's just
distracted with kissing her.
Then he pulls away, dips back down so he's on his knees between her
legs, and fastens himself to her clit.
Harper briefly forgets how to breathe.
Slate sucks her clit into his mouth, thrusting two curling fingers inside
of her, and Harper's never felt so much passion tempered with mellow
desire. It's a strange feeling, to want him so badly but be happy for him
to take his time. He slowly licks her clit, obviously knowing that the
pleasure is slowly building in her then Slate pushes another finger
inside of her, searching, and Harper's hips buck when a sudden flash of
burning pleasure courses through her lower belly.
He found her G-spot. Of course he did.
"Holy shit," Harper moans. Slate doesn't stop licking and stroking her,
but she can feel the stretching of his lips against her crotch and knows
that he's smiling.
He keeps thrusting his fingers, sucking and licking her slowly, and
Harper's orgasm takes her by surprise. It's usually something she has to
build up to. When she's with a man, she usually has to give him
instructions. She wasn't expecting to cum so quickly because she
wasn't in a frenzy. She wasn't gasping and squirming and screaming for
more. Slate brings her to orgasm as easily as he plays drums—with
passion, intensity, and by moving over her body like he's swimming
through water.

Slate pulls away from her clit, but he keeps moving his fingers inside of
her, pumping, extending her orgasm. Harper wonders if he thinks she's
sexy like this. Because she doesn't feel sexy. She feels like an
overcooked noodle, all limp and hot, but there's a stirring in her lower
belly which tells her she's still got a lot of passion in her yet.
And Slate's still fully-clothed for fuck's sake. She refuses to end this
night until he is naked and inside of her.
She rides out the last waves of her orgasm and Slate crawls over her to
kiss her again. She can taste herself on his tongue.
"You look good when you're falling apart," he whispers against her
lips.
"I wish I could say 'you too,'" she replies, her voice weak and spent.
"But you've got me at a disadvantage."
Slate moves his head down to the crook of her neck, breathing in her
scent and running the tip of his nose against the sensitive skin there.
"I've got condoms in my bag," she says, pushing at his chest. "Get one,
and then get back over here."
"Yes, ma'am," Slate says cheekily.
He walks over to the bag in the corner. Harper lounges on the bed and
watches his ass move in those jeans.
She keeps condoms in her purse all the time, but the last time she
needed them was over a year ago. At the escort agency, she'd been told
that she could write them off as a business expense, but since the
agency had so many condoms in stock that they could furnish a small
country with birth control, she'd never thought that she would need to.
Slate kneels down and rummages through her purse. He pulls out a
golden packet and reads the expiration date. For some reason, Harper
finds it unbelievably hot.
"Come here," she says, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching out
for him.
Slate pushes a hand through his hair and gives her a warm look. He
looks her up and down fondly before obediently joining her at the bed,
stopping in front of her when she holds her hand up. He hands her the
condom. She puts it on the bedspread beside her and reaches up to
unbuckle his belt. He's right at eye level. She feels his hand running

through her hair and she looks up to see him watching her, his hand
keeping her hair out of the way so he can see her properly. "Shirt off,"
she says.
She regrets it because it means that he takes his hand out of her hair.
But then his shirt is thrown into the corner and his hand is back in her
hair, and she has the pleasure of being face-to-face with his perfectly
sculpted abs. She's seen men with beautiful bodies before. It's an
occupational hazard. But this man is something special. She can't
decide if it's because he's perfectly proportioned, or because his skin
glows with health, or because the voice in her head is just saying
finally, finally, finally on repeat. His tattoos look gorgeous, but she's
distracted from them when she eventually gets his pants off and sees
his cock properly for the first time.
"That's good for my ego," Slate says cheekily when he sees her slightly
dumbfounded look.
Harper shoots him a look. "I bet. " He laughs.
His cock is circumcised, long and thick at the end, with a gentle
sprinkling of thick hair at the base. Harper goes to taste and Slate' s
fingers tighten in her hair, keeping her from him.
"Hold on," he says. She looks up at his face and there' s an expression
there that she can't read. "Lay down,"
She does as he asks. He quickly scrambles out of his jeans, with maybe
less finesse than he'd been hoping for because his cuffs get caught on
his boots and he nearly falls on his ass. It' s Harper' s turn to laugh,
which she does, throwing her head back and resting on her elbows
while Slate chuckles at himself. He takes his boots and socks off, drops
the jeans in a pile, and pulls the condom on. It' s a shame to see that
beautiful skin covered, but it' s worth it to know that soon the night is
taking a turn.
Harper reaches for him and he crawls over to kiss her again. He kisses
like he'll never get tired of it. Like he's happy to spend the rest of the
night doing it.
Does he kiss everyone like this?
Once again, Harper pushes the thought from her mind. She doesn't

want this ruined by the intrusive memories of his groupies, of the girl
who'd flirted with him at the club. Tonight, she's the woman that Slate
has chosen, and she's going to enjoy every minute of it.
Slate's warm cock brushes against her and she can't help but moan at
the feeling. She's still sensitive from her orgasm, but that was only her
G-spot. Her clit is still throbbing with need.
He seems like he wants to touch all of her at all times. Other men tend
to spend their time focused on one or two areas, but Slate seems to have
decided to get as much of her as he can. He's trembling with repressed
power and he seems to be holding back and focusing on gentleness,
taking her through the rhythms of their bodies without overwhelming
her with his massive, muscle-clad body.
Harper pulls her hands out of his and pushes his chest. At first, he pulls
away from her lips and body, pushing himself up to put some space
between them, clearly thinking that she's pushing him away because
she's not happy about something.
It's not that she's not happy. She's just had enough of being treated like
something fragile. It makes her feel special, even loved, and she adores
Slate for being so sweet. But she's also craving something more.
"Slate," she says. "Stop being so fucking gentle and fuck me."
His eyes are heavy-lidded as he gazes down at her. He bends over to nip
her collarbone, but she's not interested in foreplay anymore. She grabs
him by the hair—it's soft, so, so soft—and pulls his head back, making
him hiss. She bites down on his collarbone and feels him gasp.
"Harper, behave," he says in a warning tone.
"Make me," she replies.
She wraps her leg around his hip and rubs her clit against his cock, the
condom lubricating the way and making the ride smooth.
Slate gasps at the sensation and she knows that she's got his attention.
"Come on," she says. "Let me have it. "
And the last tether of Slate' s control breaks.
He pushes her down onto the bed, reaching down to drag her hips into
position, and thrusts inside of her in one fluid motion that leaves Harper
breathless. Harper hooks both of her legs around his hips

immediately, throwing her head back in a moan instead of a laugh,
though she can guess that there's a devilish smile on her lips. Slate
immediately shifts his lips down to her neck, to her collarbone, biting
the skin with his teeth again and it's slightly less playful this time. It's a
warning.
She can feel him over every inch of her body. He moves his hands
along her arms to entwine their fingers, holding her tightly, his body is
pressed down on hers, and he's thick and perfect inside of her.
She bucks her hips, pushing him deeper, and Slate hisses before pulling
out and thrusting back in. Hard. Hard enough that the headboard beats
against the wall and Harper has to pull her hands free to put both of her
them on his shoulders to hold on tight.
He pulls his hips back so just the tip of him is left inside of her. She
tightens her legs so he won't be tempted to pull away entirely, but she
needn't have worried. He just slams back into her, hard and fast, putting
an incredible pressure on her clit as he rams himself inside. Harper
swirls her hips while he's thrusting so she can feel him deeper inside of
her, and the action makes Slate release a choked, "Shit," before he's
thrusting faster, harder, deeper.
"Keep going," she says. "Please, keep going." He pulls back and
presses a hand to her chest, holding her down, his fingers tracing the
dip in her neck as though he intends to hold her there, and Harper is
surprised at how amazingly hot that is. She gives him a little nod and he
wraps his fingers around the base of her neck, squeezing just tightly
enough to make it interesting.
She shudders as an orgasm takes her all over again. The G-spot again.
Her clit is still getting pounded with each of his thrusts—the angle of
their bodies keeps his pelvis slamming into her over and over
again—but she knows the difference and the way it feels.
Slate's eyes flutter shut as he feels her orgasm through his own body.
His thrusts become erratic for a second. This man, is everything.
Harper starts meeting him thrusts for thrust, but after a moment she
realizes that she can't. He's got her pinned down and all she can do is
hold on for dear life.

"Harder," she says.
He pushes his hand off of her neck and presses it to her mouth,
effectively muffling the moans being forced out of her. His thumb slips
into her lips and she bites at the intrusion before licking and sucking it
the way she would have liked to do to other parts of him before she'd
been forced onto the bed.
Now his thrusts are so fast that the whole bed is moving. The neighbors
below must be able to hear them. The pounding of the headboard
against the wall, the pounding of flesh on flesh as he drives into her
with each brutal thrust—there's no way that they're not making the sort
of racket worthy of a noise complaint. Harper's moaning around the
thumb in her mouth and Slate's clearly enjoying himself too much to
care that his hand isn't a deterrent to noise.
Someone's saying Slate's name over and over again. Harper realizes
that it' s her.
Slate pushes himself up off of her, kneeling back and keeping them
connected, before taking her hips and moving them. His muscles gleam
with sweat, his cheeks are flushed with exertion, and when he takes her
hips in his hands she can see the lines of his forearms taut with strain as
he lifts and moves her exactly the way he wants. He' s gripping her hips
so tightly that he must be leaving bruises.
He rubs a thumb over her clit and she sees stars. "Slate. Fuck. Slate,"
she says over and over as her hips buck into the welcoming pressure of
his thumb, which becomes the palm of his hand as he rubs her through
the orgasm, making her howl with the strength of it. She feels Slate
groan again beneath her, and she knows that he's feeling her walls
around him squeezing. Pushing him deeper and deeper with each
contraction.
While she's still shuddering, Slate flips her onto her front with ease. He
presses her, face-down, into the bed, gripping her hair and pushing her
legs apart before slamming back into her again. Harper grips the bed
sheets, struggling to hold him up and still feeling the waves of pleasure
rushing through her. He thrusts hard and pounds into her, making her
gasp and writhe as his body covers her back, keeping her down,
holding her in place by her hair so she can do little more but lay

there and accept the pleasure he's giving her.
She hears a ripping sound and realizes that the bedsheet has torn under
her fingers. Slate's shuddering above her, gasping into her ear, and the
pulsing inside of her tells her that he's riding out his own last wave. The
thought of him falling apart above her, and the fact that he manages to
do it while still pounding away at her G-spot, sends her into one final
spiral which makes her whole body contract. She can't move. She
moans through the last shudders of her pleasure.
Slate goes limp above her. He pulls his hand out of her hair and nips the
nape of her neck, pulling out and rolling over onto the bed. His cock
still erect for the moment. Before she can even protest the loss of it, he's
pulling her back onto him, adjusting her, so they're on their sides and
facing each other, thrusting into her one last time and making her gasp
with the pain and pleasure as her sensitive body adjusts to him all over
again.
His eyes are heavy-lidded and still blown out with lust. His chest
heaves just like it does after a long workout. Harper thinks that she will
never be able to put him through his paces in the gym again after seeing
him like this. He reaches up to run fingers through her hair, before
running his fingers down to her hips and rubbing an apology into her
skin.
"Sorry," he says, his voice rough and husky. "Think I got a bit carried
away toward the end. "
Harper doesn't dignify that with an answer. She can still feel him
pulsing inside of her, slowly going limp. She runs her hands over his
chest again and feels him shiver all around her fingers as she pulls him
into another kiss.

Slate pushes Harper's hair out of the way so he can kiss her shoulder.
They're entwined together, his front against her back, still basking in
the glow of their evening together. But Harper feels the weight of what
he wants to say laying between them. She' s felt it building up from the
moment he pulled out of her, and she settled herself against him. She
doesn't know how she's felt it, but she knows a talk is coming.
She's dreading it.
Does he regret this? Does he wish they hadn't done it? Maybe she
should have made him talk through his feelings more, rather than just
throwing herself at him.
She's got a terrible feeling that he's going to tell her this was a mistake.
Maybe he'll tell her that he's not interested in a relationship. Maybe
that's why he's been resisting sleeping with her, because he doesn't
want to give up the life he's been living. The groupies, the drugs. The
thought of it all depresses the shit out of Harper, but it makes sense
while she's lying there in his arms with the weight of what is unsaid
laying between them.
Maybe she should just go with it? The thought crosses her mind before
she can stop it and when it's there she can't get it out. What

would it cost her to just keep this as a casual, easy thing that she and
Slate share? Do they need to define it? To put themselves in a bubble?
I'd like to.
Harper has had relationships like them in the past. Casual, open things
that aren't defined and don't require any maintenance. She's been in
aggressively open relationships. And she always found them draining.
Eventually, she just runs out of energy, trying to pretend that she's
being fulfilled by a relationship that doesn't actually give her anything
beyond adequate sex. Sex with Slate blows 'adequate' out of the water.
But is that enough? She doesn't know.
She hopes it is.
When Slate takes a breath to start talking, Harper braces herself. "So, I
guess we should talk about this?" he says. She can hear the question
mark in his voice. "I guess," she replies.
She rolls over and her back is immediately cold. She realizes that they
never actually made it under the covers. They're just laying on top of
the bed, the door wide open, and their clothes everywhere. She hopes
that Dash didn't come back to the room while she and Slate were
getting busy. If he had, he'd had the good taste to not interrupt them.
Slate's eyes run over her face. His pupils are back to their normal size,
his cheeks are no longer flushed, but his hair is sticky with sweat. He
looks a bit tired, and Harper feels a stab of accomplishment to think
that she's worn him out. She probably looks just as exhausted. His
muscles glisten in the low, yellow hotel light and Harper has to keep
herself from reaching out to touch. This probably isn't the time. They
need to have the serious talk. Then she can touch the beautiful man
lying beside her.
He leans his head against the pillow and smiles at her through his
eyelashes. "I had fun tonight," he says.
Harper takes a deep breath. "It doesn't just have to be tonight," she
replies.
Slate's hand comes up to run gently over the skin of her upper arm.
"You're still my employee."
"Technically, I am employed by Bass Note," Harper points out

quickly. She's lying on her side and her breasts are squished together,
and she knows that Slate is deliberately not looking at them. She might
shift a little bit so that they're put on display. She's only human.
"Like you were employed by Black Orchid Escorts?" he asks.
Harper swats his arm. "You're nit-picking," she says. "We've talked
about this. You've clearly got some morals, but it's not like I'm
vulnerable here. "
"I know," he says. His hand doesn't pause in tracing light patterns on
her arm. "I know. You can make your own choices. I'm not taking
advantage, and when I think that I am, I'm insulting you," he says it like
he' s reciting something.
"Exactly. Now you're getting it."
"I can't take credit. Dash explained that to me."
Harper makes a note for herself to buy Dash a chocolate cupcake.
"Dash is a very clever young man. "
"He's got his shit together," Slate says, nodding sagely. "Which is
surprising, considering how much time he spends double-tapping
Wolfstar fanart on Instagram."
"What's Wolfstar?"
"It's a Harry Potter thing," Slate replies. He brushes her hair out of her
eyes again. "I love your hair. " "I love yours, too," she says.
"But I'm still not sure about this," he says. "And I know I should be. But
I'm not. I guess. I just don't know."
He shrugs and Harper hates that he seems to be retreating. It's not
stuttering, but it's close. Insecurity doesn't suit him, but it's a look she's
learned to associate with Slate's desire to be something when he isn't
sure that he can be. It's the way he'd looked with his family. He'd been
trying to put on a persona that didn't work on him. He's much freer
when he's being his happy-go-lucky self, grinning at everyone,
genuinely happy to be alive.
So she was right. He's not sure if he can do a relationship. Why else
would he be so insecure at the thought of them talking about this?
Harper shifts and tosses her hair over her shoulder. "How about this,"
she says, taking the lead because she thinks that's what he needs

right now. "Let's not, like, define this right now." She gestures between
them and he watches her hand thoughtfully. "Let's just... have fun.
Enjoy each other's company. We don't have to be exclusive." "We...
don't?" he asks slowly.
Harper shrugs. "Nope. No we don't. Exclusive is a bit much, really, and
we can maybe see other people or something so that it's less of a
problem."
Besides, she got him into bed. She doesn't want to push her luck just
yet. Maybe in a couple of weeks he'll be more inclined to be exclusive.
But right now, he's clearly not ready and if she pushes too hard then
he'll run for it.
"You... want to see other people?"
"I think it'll take the pressure off."
Slate nods slowly. His facial expression is doing something that Harper
can't really put her finger on. Eventually, he smiles and Harper decides
that she's done the right thing.
"Whatever you want, babe," he says, leaning over and kissing her on
the forehead.
Harper feels a weight come off of her shoulders even as a heavy lump
settles in her chest. She's given him the out. She's given him the chance
to pull away from her, to indulge in whatever he wants.
She tells herself that she can handle that. She can handle the thought of
him going away, having casual sex and snorting cocaine or whatever it
is he does with his spare time, as long as he comes back to her bed.
Slate lets out a huff of breath and sits up, stretching his back. "I'm glad
we got that straightened out," he says. When he looks back at her, his
eyes are still lidded and he runs them over Harper's body the same way
that he'd been running his fingers over her skin just now. "I'm starving.
You think we can get the Concierge to get us Pizza Hut?"
"You're paying for these suites, you should be able to order whatever
the fuck you want. "
He wanders out of the room, his pert ass distracting Harper so easily
that she thinks that must be his superpower. He doesn' t seem fazed by
the fact that he's naked. Something that's re-iterated when

Harper hears a door slam shut and Sersha's voice come through the
open door of her bedroom.
"That's quite a cock you've got there, Slate."
"Thanks."
"Fucking hell, Slate," Tommy says in a tired voice. "At least cover it
with a bottle or something. "
"Do you see a bottle around here that's big enough to cover all of
this?"
Harper's already up, putting her clothes on, and she doesn't know why
she's moving so quickly because it's not like she and Slate hadn't talked
about keeping things non-exclusive, they never said anything about
keeping it a secret.
"Is Harper around?" Sersha asks while Harper is struggling to get her
bra back on. "You said you were going to go get her but you never
came back?"
"She's in the bedroom," Slate says.
There's a pause.
"You guys had sex, didn't you?" Tommy asks.
Well, so much for covering it up. Harper slows down in putting her
clothes on, sliding her jeans on one leg at a time instead of trying to lay
on her back and shove her legs into them while flailing around like a
stuck turtle.
"She started it," Slate says easily.
"So you guys talked?" Tommy says, sounding pleased. "That's great!"
"Yeah, we talked," Slate replies. Harper's starting to wonder if they
know that she can hear them. "We're gonna keep things casual, not
exclusive, you know how it is."
There's a pause. Tommy's voice sounds confused when he asks,
"Really?"
"Yep," Slate says cheerfully. "Totally not exclusive. We' re gonna see
other people and enjoy ourselves, and see how we go. "
"That sounds... nice," Sersha says. She doesn't sound convinced.
Harper finally decides that she' s heard enough and walks purposefully
out of the bedroom. She finds Slate in the living room,

phone in hand, flaccid penis dangling unashamedly between his legs.
Sersha and Tommy are by the door, their shoulders brushing and their
faces in identical expressions of confusion.
That's the thing about Sersha and Tommy. Mikayla and Logan are
constantly on one another, touching and caressing, coming up with
more and more creative ways to maintain contact with one another, but
Sersha and Tommy display their connection without touching too
often. Instead, they're connected in how they feel. Their expressions
match when they're together—if one is confused, so is the other. If one
is happy, so is the other. If they're apart and Harper sees one of them
laugh or frown, she's reminded of the other. Their faces are so entwined
in her memory that to imagine one is to never forget that the other
should be nearby.
Their eyes swivel over to Harper when she enters the room. It must be a
bit of a shock to see her fully clothed while Slate is letting it all hang
out. Slate winks at Harper when she comes in and she rolls her eyes at
him.
"You didn't think that maybe they don't want to see you in all your
glory?" she asks him.
He shrugs. "Nothing Tommy hasn't seen," he says easily. "And Sersha
needs something to dream about while Tommy's disappointing her. "
Tommy gives him the finger while Sersha laughs. "By the way, I
promised you guys a threesome," Slate adds, throwing them a wink.
He's throwing around a lot of winks tonight. "Come see me later
tonight and we'll work something out."
Harper rolls her eyes again and heads over to the fridge so they don't
see the hurt that she knows was flashing across her face when he said
that. She did practically give him permission to see other people.
Seeing two people at the same time is technically allowed, though she'd
hoped he wouldn't throw it in her face like that.
"Well... that's kind of you," Sersha says. Harper has her back turned to
the three of them, but she thinks she can hear an unasked question in
her tone. "Speaking of disappointment, maybe you can invite Harper to
this little party and I can give her a real seeing to. "
Harper fumbles with the bottle of water she'd been pulling out and
quickly tries to cover it up.

"I am one hundred percent on board with that," Slate says. "Me too,"
Harper throws over her shoulder, not one to be outdone. She straightens
up and opens the water, taking a sip and closing the fridge door.
"It's settled then," Tommy says crisply. "We're all going to have a wild
foursome. But in the meantime, we wanted to know if you 're up for
another nightclub. "
"Another one?" Slate asks. He still looks tired and his shoulders droop
slightly.
Tommy shrugs. "Yeah, it's Dash's idea. He's picked someone up and
she told him about this place where they have bubbles coming out of
the ceiling. "
"Sounds awesome," Slate says. He takes a seat on the armrest of the
couch and Tommy winces when his bare ass lands.
"Yeah, it does," Tommy agrees. "The dress code is a bit fancier,
though, so Sersha wanted to get changed before we go. "
"Not my fault the clubs are sexist," Sersha says, shrugging. "You boys
could get in with your button-downs and your plaid, or even cocks-out
if you're so inclined, but I need to show some leg and put a lipstick on.
"
"What about Mik?" Slate asks.
Tommy and Sersha shrug in unison. "Mik and Logan disappeared,"
Tommy says. "They're probably having more fun right now than we
will. Unless it's one of those clubs. Which, if it is, I will never forgive
Dash because he knows how I feel about those—"
"It's okay, Love. It's not going to be a sex club." "They just never seem
like they're having any fun. It's a job to them."
"I know."
Harper watches this exchange in a kind of mute awe. Slate glances over
at Harper and shrugs. "You want to go?" he
asks.
She doesn't. She wants to stay in, drink some water, and maybe watch
something on Netflix and cuddle up to Slate. She can only imagine how
good it would feel to fall asleep in those arms. Probably the

same way it felt when he' d held her during sex—protected, safe, gently
covered.
"Sure," she says. "Let me put a lipstick on. "
"Don' t forget to show some leg," Slate says, waggling his eyebrows at
her. "Maybe we'll find you a fella while we're out."
For some reason, that sounded almost like a challenge. There's a light
in his eyes that tells her this isn't entirely a joke, but she's not sure what
it's meant to be. It's weird to have the gauntlet thrown down by a naked
man.
"You should put some clothes on, babe," Harper tells him, giving a
significant look to his penis. "Is it getting cold in here?"
It's clearly not because he's still as long and perfect as ever, but her
words have the desired effect. Sersha and Tommy burst out laughing,
while Slate smirks at her with a 'you little shit' look in his eyes.
"Sersha, you wanna help me pick out a lipstick?" she asks.
"Happy to, Love," Sersha replies, following Harper into the en-suite.
She reaches out and takes Harper's hand, giving it a squeeze as they go,
and Harper holds onto it as tightly as she dares without seeming
desperate. Behind her, she hears Tommy's voice.
"Do you think I could get muscles like yours if Harper gives me a
special routine?"
"I think you rock the tortured artist look, man."
"Thanks."
Harper and Sersha find themselves in the en-suite, which is basically a
tiny pool area masquerading as a bathroom. It' s so well-lit that Harper
has become spoiled after a few hours. She thinks she' ll need to buy all
new bulbs when she gets home because she' s never had better lighting
before in her life.
Sersha waits until the door is closed before turning to Harper.
"Everything all right?" she asks. "Because I didn't get a 'non-exclusive'
vibe from you. Or Slate, for that matter."
Harper shrugs, trying to put a brave face on but knowing that she's
probably failing. "I'll tell you all about it later," she promises. "But
right now. lipstick?"

Sersha gives her a long look. Harper has a disturbing feeling that the
other woman is reading her mind. If she is, she's probably seeing the
thoughts that every woman has had at one point or another—if I talk
about it, I'll cry, so please don't ask.
"Red," Sersha says, nodding with certainty. "You've got a red,
right?"
"Yep."
"Let's do this."

There are bubbles coming out of the ceiling.
"Awesome," Slate says, reaching over to grab Harper by the hand and
pull her past the bouncer.
Dash is already inside, his arm slung around the waist of the woman
he'd been dancing with at the first club, but he waits patiently for the
others. His eyes fall on Slate's hand still wrapped around Harper's, and
for a moment he looks pleased. Then he looks Harper in the eye and he
frowns.
"Bubbles," Sersha says giddily as she and Tommy stroll in together.
The club is dark, but lights in the floor and walls keep everything
illuminated enough to see. Bubbles descend from the ceiling in waves,
taking on different colors when the lights change—pink, blue, green,
red. It's pretty amazing. Even better are the people. Everyone is dressed
slightly formally, but most have florescent paint on their cheeks and
bodies that shine whenever they move. The DJ is mounted against the
back wall and there's a bar along the left side of the room, with tables
and stools for people to rest in. They're hardly being used. Nearly
everyone in the room is on the dancefloor while dubstep thuds through
the room, making Harper's chest vibrate.

She's got red lips like Sersha suggested. She decided to switch out of
her jeans for a skirt and keep the top and ballet flats. The bouncer hadn'
t even batted an eyelash, but that probably had something to do with
some women in the line realizing that Slate, Tommy and Dash are in
Black Lilith and nearly started a riot trying to get their autographs.
Once the bouncers realized they were dealing with celebrities, they
were ushered inside. Harper could have been wearing a burlap sack as
long as she was with the band.
Dash checks his phone, swiping through a message and frowning
thoughtfully. He types a quick reply before turning to his date for the
evening. Harper realizes that she'd never asked the woman's name.
"Wanna dance?" he shouts at her. The music is so loud that shouting is
really the only way to hold a conversation. Yet another reason Harper
doesn't like clubs.
The woman nods eagerly, grabs Dash by the lapels, and drags him onto
the floor.
Harper watches them go, enjoying the feeling of Slate's hand on hers.
Tommy makes a drinking motion with his hand and Slate shouts their
drink order—light beer and soda water. He's still on the light beer. Is he
feeling sick? Harper would have thought that he might need a Red Bull
after the night they just had. But maybe she's just projecting.
Slate leans over to shout in her ear, "Betcha I find a date first," he says,
waggling his eyebrows at her.
So much for that little gauntlet just being a joke. He's already scoping
out a replacement for her. Harper does her best to look amused instead
of mortified.
"Not a chance," she shouts back. "You're Slate No Last Name from
Black Fucking Lilith. I'm not making conquest bets with you."
"Fine, we'll get you one first," he says, putting his hand on the small of
her back and steering her toward the bar.
Harper has a disturbing feeling as Slate parades her around, looking for
a man who might like her. He passes a couple of skinny guys who look
like they'd fit in at a board meeting for Google, three men in sparkling
button-downs who clearly just came from a drag show, and a guy in
hipster glasses pretending to sniff his wine. Each one of these men

is appraised and dismissed, and then Slate is craning his neck to see
across the room, with his hand still on her back. It takes her a while to
understand what the feeling is. It's the feeling she had when she was
first walking through the agency, with Angelica's hand tucked into the
crook of her elbow.
The thought makes her shudder so violently that she actually slides out
of Slate's grip and takes a step away.
"You know what?" she questions, putting on the brightest smile that
she can. She can do this. She can be the fun girl who lets her lover sleep
with other people, and even have a good time herself, if that's what he
needs her to be. "I think you 're the problem."
"Me?" he asks, cocking his head in an adorably confused way.
"You're the most gorgeous creature in the room, which automatically
makes you the worst wingman ever. "
He frowns, then grins in realization. "Oh yeah, you' re right," he says.
He turns back to the bar and stands on his toes, before pointing out
Sersha and Tommy who are huddled together in a nearby table with
four drinks. "Let's get Sersha to help you out."
"I don't need help," Harper says. Slate raises an eyebrow at her and she
gives him a look. "Why, you think I do?"
"Not even a little bit," Slate says cheerfully. He leans forward to kiss
her on the temple. It's an affectionate, 'go-get-um' kiss. "Have fun.
Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
And then he's turning back to Sersha and Tommy, leaving Harper all by
herself in the middle of the crowd.
So that's it, Harper thinks. Slate's back with his friends and Harper is
out on a limb, wondering what to do with herself. She has zero interest
in hooking up again tonight. At the agency, she might have been
expected to entertain three or four clients a night, but now that she's a
personal trainer she's going to stick to one person per day.
Slate is apparently into this 'non-exclusive' thing enough to help her
pick out a date for the night. Harper realizes that, tonight, she's going to
have to go back into escort mode. She's going to have to be Tiffany
again, become the woman that some man needs her to be, to become
what Slate is expecting her to be, so she can get through this. If she

wants to keep something with Slate, then she needs to be Tiffany.
Maybe not completely Tiffany. Just a little bit. But she can't just stand
in the middle of the club with the bass line beating at her rib cage and
bubble juice getting in her hair.
"Just pick someone," she mutters to herself as she turns to give the bar
another hard look. It doesn't have to be someone you're attracted to.
Just pick a guy and ask him for a dance. "
The Google guys look promising. She's never liked the lean look, but
they're smiling a lot and holding beer bottles with an ease that tells her
they haven't been drinking much tonight. They're also looking around
the room with awe, unlike some of the other men at the bar, who either
look bored or annoyed by all the bubbles and noise. The Google guys
are clearly new to this environment. Like her. Which means that they'll
be less likely to turn her down if she asks one for a dance.
She walks up to the nearest one—a brunette with a nice smile—and
taps his shoulder.
He turns. "Hi," he says, smiling delightedly. His eyes flicker down to
her clothes before looking back up to her eyes. Good start. "Am I in
your way?" he asks, gesturing toward the bar behind him.
An even better start. "No," Harper shouts back. "I was wondering if you
want to dance?"
He looks taken aback, but the guys he's with give him encouraging
nods and take his beer. He straightens his shirt and nods quickly, as
though worried that she might change her mind, before following
Harper out onto the dancefloor.
Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Slate watching.
The music is pounding. Harper knows she's going to get a nasty
headache from this, she always does. Clubs just have a way of getting
under her skin, leaving her feeling like she's jet lagged for days
afterward.
She can feel Slate's eyes on her as she drags her conquest onto the
dancefloor. The man looks well and truly out of place, even though he'
s dressed like most of the other men in a simple button-down and jeans.
It's the way he holds himself. Tense, like he's expecting to get kicked
out of the place any minute now.

She leans up to shout into his ear, "Relax!"
"I' m trying," he shouts back. He shrugs an apology at her and Harper
takes his hands, leading him around so they're swaying in time with the
music.
"Ouch."
"Sorry. "
Now Harper' s really glad that she wore flats instead of some open-toed
monstrosity. The guy' s shoes are probably a bit too big for him.
When Harper looks up again, she sees Slate on the floor. He's not alone.
He's got a frickin' model grinding on him, her ass right up on his crotch.
At least, Harper assumes she's a model. No woman can have flawless
skin like that without it being a part of her job. Her blonde hair is curled
to a tousled, Grecian goddess perfection, her skin is alabaster white,
and her clothes are so well-suited to her figure that Harper guesses they
were probably designed for her. She's got this smirk on her face as she
twists her hips into Slate. Harper watches in half-horrified fascination
for a moment before she lifts her eyes to look at Slate properly.
He is staring directly at her.
He's got his hands on the woman's hips, he's grinding back, but his eyes
are locked on Harper. He twirls the woman around so they're flushed
chest-to-chest, manhandling her into position so they can grind
together with his chin on her shoulder, but his gaze never leaves
Harper's.
It's a challenge. Is he trying to see how far she's willing to take this?
Does he want to make sure that she'd actually meant what she said
about them not being exclusive? It's a test!
She thinks that it must be. Why else would he be so blatantly throwing
that woman in her face? He must have decided that Harper needs to
understand exactly what it means to be in a casual relationship with
him.
Harper grabs the guy she's dancing with by the hips and pulls him
close, so there isn't an inch of space between them.
"Woah! " she hears him say—delighted, just like before. That

seems to be his default setting.
"There's no need to be gentle," Harper says to him.
She feels his hands cautiously wrap around her shoulders. Not big or
strong enough to satisfy her, but it's nice to feel the warmth of another
human while her body grows colder and colder at the sight of Slate in
the arms of another woman.
She sees Slate's eyes narrow at the new position she's dancing in. He
spins his own date around a little, before pulling her back in and
practically thrusting into her hips. Harper swallows her anger at the
sight.
That should be me, she thinks. But it's not.
This is what it's like to be in an open relationship with Slate. It's
watching him with other women, enjoying every minute. It's feeling his
eyes on you like he's daring you to call him on it, daring you to be angry
just so he can remind you that this is what you agreed to. It's watching
him touch someone else and knowing what it feels like to be in that
position.
She meets his hardness with softness. While Slate is practically
dry-humping that woman, Harper traces her hands slowly down her
dance partner's back, her eyes never leaving Slate's. She watches the
way he watches her, eyes ever narrowing as they follow her hands.
When she reaches the edge of her dance partner's pants, she gives his
skinny—but not entirely unappealing—ass a squeeze. He yelps. She
can feel him getting hard in his pants.
"You... ah, you never told me your name?" the guy says hesitantly into
her ear.
"Tiffany," Harper replies without hesitation.
"Nice to meet you, Tiffany," the guy says. "I'm George."
She thinks it's sweet that he's trying to have a normal conversation
while her hands are on his ass. Eyes never leaving Slate's, Harper takes
her hands away from George's ass and puts them in his hands, moving
them slowly down her back so he can return the favor.
"Nice to meet you too, George."
George gives a tentative squeeze and when she doesn't slap him, settles
into the position happily.

The music keeps building, the bass pounding in all of their ears and
hearts and bodies. Harper moves slowly, knowing that any sudden
movement will startle George, but also wanting to push Slate just a
little bit harder. Because his eyes haven't left hers either. And the more
sensually she dances, the more aggressive he becomes with his dance
partner.
He lifts the woman up, letting her wrap her legs around his hips in a
mockery of the way that Harper had her legs only hours before. The
woman is tossing her hair around, and for a moment she obscures
Slate's face entirely. Then her head is thrown over her shoulder again,
and Harper gets the full view of her face practically glued to Slate' s.
He's kissing her. With a fervor that should probably be kept off a public
dance floor. It's all tongue and mess and, when he's sure that Harper is
looking, Slate bites her lip almost viciously. Harper feels like the world
has fallen out from under her.
She's still dancing though. She hasn't missed a beat. When Slate finally
pulls away from his date and she latches herself onto his neck, he gives
Harper a challenging look. He's daring her again.
Harper finally tears her eyes away. So she's expected to get with the
kissing now. She's expected to... do her job.
She's Tiffany tonight and Tiffany is expected to kiss, and touch, and
maybe even get her new dance partner off in the middle of the
dancefloor. It would be so easy. He's already hard. A few well-turned
hips—maybe a discrete touch or two with her hand—and she'll be
one-up on Slate.
But when she pulls her eyes away from Slate and looks into George's
eyes, she realizes what she's doing.
Jesus Christ, I didn't leave Black Orchidjust to fuck some poor guy on a
dancefloor to make my not-boyfriendjealous?
Harper wants to slap herself. That's too far. That's way too far. Slate's
still watching her expectantly. But Harper leans over and presses a
chaste kiss to George's cheek.
She's a personal trainer, now. Not a whore.
"Thanks for the dance," she says to George.
George looks confused. "Oh! You're leaving?"

"Yeah, sorry," she says. "But you're a good dancer. I had fun." "Can I...
maybe get your number? Call you sometime?" She smiles at him and
shakes her head. "Have a great night." "Thanks, you too."
He doesn't look disappointed. He actually still has that delighted smile
on his face, as though he'd known that their dance wouldn't last and he
was just happy to get what he got. Which is a wonderful position to
take, as far as Harper is concerned.
She kisses his cheek one last time and leaves him there, walking past
Slate on the dancefloor and determinedly keeping her eyes averted
from his so she doesn't have to see the look of triumph on his face. She
walks back toward the bar, where Sersha and Tommy are waiting. They
take one look at her, and Sersha grabs her coat.
"Bye, Love," she says, giving Tommy a quick peck on the lips. She
grabs Harper's jacket as well and holds out a hand to her. Gratefully,
Harper takes it, allowing the other woman to lead her out of the club.

Harper explains everything to Sersha in the cab on the way back to the
hotel. Sersha doesn't say anything. She just holds Harper's hand, her
wild blonde hair falling into her face, an occasional noise of
bemusement escaping her lips. When they arrive at the hotel and ride
up the elevator to their suites, Harper's voice is almost raw with talking
so much.
".. .but I couldn't do it, Sersh. I stopped before becoming a whore, I
don't want to go back to feeling that way."
"You shouldn't have to, Love," Sersha replies, rubbing Harper's back
with one hand as they exit the elevator.
They come out to find Mikayla and Logan making out like teenagers
against the door to their room.
Pulling apart at the sound of the elevator dinging, the pair of them turn
their kiss-swollen lips to Sersha and Harper. Logan looks a bit abashed,
running his hand through his hair and ducking down so that he doesn't
have to make eye contact with the two women, though his hand never
leaves Mikayla's waist. Mikayla discreetly wipes her mouth while she
eyes Harper up and down.
"Something happened," she says decisively. When she says it, Logan
frowns at her before turning to give Harper a more thorough looking
over.

"It's nothing to worry about," Harper replies.
"Slate's made an error in judgment," Sersha says simply.
Mikayla and Logan share a look.
"Go on," he says to Mikayla, kissing her on the nose. "We've got the
rest of our lives. "
That's an odd thing to say, but it makes Mikayla's entire face light up
like someone's switched on a lamp behind her eyes. She kisses him on
the cheek and squeezes his arm—the one with the colorful tattoo on
it—before joining Harper and Sersha, shepherding them both into the
suite that Sersha and Tommy share.
"Don't want Slate coming home and interrupting," she says, throwing
one last look at Logan before closing the door.
Inside, the suite is nearly identical to the one Harper shares with Dash
and Slate, except it appears to only have one bedroom. She doesn' t
really have the time to look properly because as soon as the door is
closed, Mikayla has Harper by the elbow and is drawing her over to the
couch, while Sersha fusses with the kettle on the kitchen counter,
making tea.
"Tell me," Mikayla says.
She's got an almost motherly air about her. Harper suddenly feels like
she needs to tell Mikayla what happened because Mikayla is the only
person in the world who can take all of the crap that has been going on
in the last few hours and force it into a more organized,
easy-to-understand structure. So Harper tells her. Once Sersha has a
cup of fortifying tea in Harper's hands, Harper doesn't stop talking.
When she's done explaining it all for the second time, Mikayla has a
pinched look on her face. She shakes her head thoughtfully.
"I think you did the right thing," she says. Harper hadn't realized that
she needed to hear that until the words were out. "You shouldn't let this
thing with Slate force you into doing something you 're not comfortable
with. "
"Damn right," Sersha says. She and Mikayla are sitting on either side of
Harper, their thighs touching hers, with a mug of tea each.
Harper is starting to realize how much she likes being surrounded. She
never used to like it before she met these people. But now, the

thought of being enveloped in Slate's scent, or bracketed by these two
women, make her feel almost at home. Safe and sound. It' s a nice
feeling, but she's starting to wonder if she shouldn't be getting used to
it. If this thing with Slate is going to end, then maybe she won't be able
to stay with them for much longer.
"I know what you're thinking," Sersha says. "You're thinking that since
you've slept with Slate, you're going to get fired or something."
"How did you—"
"I don't know... you've got the face, I guess. The 'oh no, what have I
done?' face."
Mikayla nods thoughtfully and sips her tea. "You're not going to lose
your job over this, Harper. I've seen you training the band. I know
you're a good instructor."
"But..." Harper shakes her head to clear it, "...it's going to be so
awkward. "
"Only if you let it be," Sersha says. "Besides. you should probably talk
to Slate, don' t you think? Sit down and have a conversation with him?"
Mikayla nods vigorously. "A conversation needs to occur. If only so he
can understand what went wrong here. Because this should have been
easy. "
"Yeah! "
"Honestly, this is a colossal fuck-up even by Black Lilith standards,"
Mikayla says, shaking her head.
But Harper isn' t so sure. "It was my idea, really. To not be exclusive. I
thought that was what he wanted."
Sersha and Mikayla frown over that for a second. "See, that's the
thing," Sersha says. "Because I told you this before, I didn't get the
impression that casual was what he wanted with you. He hasn't picked
anyone up since the two of you met. I know this for a fact."
Harper sighs. "Well, he's picking someone up now. Literally. He
picked her up off the ground before he kissed her. "
Sersha and Mikayla share a look over Harper's shoulder. Harper feels a
warm flood of emotion through her chest. She wants to tell them both
how much it means to her that they're trying to help. That even

though they clearly adore Slate, they're not taking his side over the
former almost whore he'd hired as their personal trainer with no
references or experience. They would have been well within their
rights to brush her off and send her back to Manhattan to lick her
wounds. But instead, they' re here with her, comforting her, offering
her tea and sharing looks that tell her that she's not alone in the blame
here. It makes her feel like she's not alone in this. Harper opens her
mouth to say that, but her words are cut off by the sound of a
blood-freezing scream coming through the wall. Sersha drops her mug,
sending scalding hot tea onto the floor, and all three women are on their
feet in seconds and heading for the door.
It's a woman screaming. It's an awful, vicious scream that echoes
through the three women on a primal level. They can hear her—she's
somewhere on their floor. When they come out into the hallway,
Harper realizes with a sudden jolt that the screams are coming from her
suite. She fumbles her key out of her pocket and Mikayla snatches it,
opening the door deftly so the three of them can run inside. "Dash?"
Mikayla calls, real fear in her voice. The screaming is getting louder.
It's coming from Dash's room. Rushing forward, Sersha gets to the door
first and throws it open. Then freezes. Harper comes up behind her and
feels her jaw drop.
A woman is lying on Dash's bed, back arched, eyes scrunched up in
pleasure, her mouth hanging open as her scream peters away into a loud
moan of ecstasy. Between her legs, Dash is kneeling with a hand
wrapped around a long black vibrator, a look of steady concentration
on his face. He's completely naked. When the door opens, he jumps and
nearly falls off the bed as he turns to see who's there.
"Jesus, guys... haven't you heard of knocking?" he asks, scrambling to
get a pillow and cover himself.
The woman lying in front of him is still twitching with the force of her
orgasm. She doesn' t even seem to have noticed that there are other
people in the room.
Harper realizes that her throat has gone dry. Dash has nothing on Slate'
s muscle-clad body. But still. damn. He' s heavy-set with wide
shoulders and thick thighs, and his chest is deep and sprinkled with
hair.

The black vibrator isn't the only toy he's got on the bed—there's also
some beads, a bottle of lube, and a small whip. Harper snaps out of her
amazement-induced paralysis just as soon as Sersha seems to. She
grabs the door and slams it closed.
"Sorry, Dash," Sersha calls through the wood.
The three women stand at the door for a moment. Then they make a
collective decision to leave, quietly, the way that they came.
They get out into the hall and close the door behind them. They lean
against the wall together. No one seems to know what to say. Mikayla
and Sersha both look shell-shocked, and Harper can guess that she
probably looks the same way.
"Did." Sersha swallows and starts again. "Did anyone else notice that
massive unit he's working with?"
Harper did. She's still trying to wrap her head around it. "That's
porn-worthy."
"I didn't... sweet mother of..."
The three of them shake their heads.
Logan steps out of the suite that he shares with Mikayla, his phone
loose in his hand and a look of concern on his face. "Did I hear
screaming?" he asks.
The three woman turn slowly to look at him.
"Logan," Sersha says. "Are you aware that your brother is part
giant?"
"Specifically the penis part?" Harper adds.
The apples of his cheeks go a little bit red as he shrugs. "Yeah, I know.
I've come to terms with it."
Mikayla speaks for the first time, "It's bigger than yours."
Logan's cheeks go redder and he laughs awkwardly. "Well, I had come
to terms with it."
"No, I didn't mean..." Mikayla gets suddenly flustered, "...I didn't mean
it like that. It's just... surprising."
"No, it's cool, my ego needed deflating."
"Logan," Mikayla says exasperatedly as Sersha finally breaks down
into sobbing fits of laughter. She laughs so hard that she ends up sliding
down the wall and into a ball on the floor.

Seeing her in that state makes Harper start giggling too, and then
Mikayla, and soon all three of them are collapsed on the floor, laughing
so hard that Logan begins to look a little worried. He presses the phone
to his ear.
"Tommy? Yeah, I'm still here. Your girlfriend just saw Dash with his
pants down." He listens for a moment, nods, then says to Sersha,
"Tommy would like to remind you that you've already picked a
member of the band and that there are no take-backs."
That sends the three women into more peals of laughter.

Harper doesn't sleep in her suite with Slate and Dash that night. Dash is
clearly using his and Slate's room, and Harper doesn't want to risk
running into Slate during the night. Sersha—in a move that seems
almost superhumanly kind—kicks Tommy out of their suite and sets up
the king-sized mattress in the living room. She, Mikayla and Harper
curl up on it, eating popcorn and watching Netflix until the sun starts to
rise through the window, before finally drifting off into an exhausted
sleep.
At some point, Harper changes her ringtone to 'I Don't Wanna Be In
Love' by Good Charlotte. She looks up to see Mikayla watching with a
sad frown, but when Mikayla realizes that Harper has caught her
looking, she turns away.
"Let's go with the TV series Stranger Things," Mikayla tells Sersha to
deflect any embarrassment that Harper might be feeling. "Millie Bobby
Brown is a badass. "
"And a Brit, but we won't hold that against her," Sersha replies easily.
After a few episodes, they lapse into talk about Harper's problems,
though this time Sersha and Mikayla don't try to offer advice. They just
listen.
"I mean... I don't know why I'm getting so emotional about this. I

don't even know his name."
"Nobody does," Sersha says, rubbing Harper's shoulders. "It's a
national secret. "
"I just... you know what? I shouldn't have told him my name. I should
have just been Tiffany the whole time. Then at least we'd be on equal
terms here." She wrings her hands and shoves them under a blanket
while Mikayla frowns and fiddles with her phone.
They fall together in a pile of bedsheets, pillows, and empty popcorn
packets, talking over one another about who would die first in the
Upside-Down movie. Mikayla drifts off first with Sersha at her back,
and after a few hours Harper is the only one left awake. She stares at the
other two women in the bed and thinks to herself that, while it's nice to
be warmed on either side by these women who have taken her into their
little family, it would have been even better to sleep in Slate's arms.
Her body still remembers him holding her down, enveloping her in
strong muscles, gripping her hips and pounding into her. She's got the
bruises—she checked in the bathroom before she went to bed. Her
mind replays every moment of her evening with Slate. She loses herself
so completely in the images that she has to remind herself that Sersha
and Mikayla are in the same bed as her. They're good friends now, but
Harper doesn't want to stretch the friendship just yet.
Still, before they had their little 'talk' afterward, Harper had thought
that it was going so well. But then Slate had started panicking, and
she'd offered him the way out, and then he'd gone and... well. Her mind
shifts to the moment she saw him biting that other woman's lip.
Discretely, she pulls her phone out from under her pillow. Slate hasn't
tried to contact her since she left him at the bar. She pulls up Google.
She searches 'Slate Black Lilith Women.' Instantly, dozens of photos
come up on her screen. There are so many different women—pictures
taken with cell phone cameras, with regular cameras, with special
paparazzi lenses. Harper can only take a few minutes of scrolling
before she tosses the phone away and buries herself back under the
covers. She falls into a fitful sleep to dreams of Slate kissing hundreds
of other women and forcing Harper to watch.
The next day, at around midday, Mikayla wakes up in a flurry of

motion.
"Shit, shit, we're late. Everyone get dressed and meet me downstairs in
twenty minutes. "
And then she' s disappearing through the door before either Sersha or
Harper can say anything.
"The fuck?" Harper says as the door closes behind Mikayla. Sersha
stretches. "Impromptu band outing. We' re going to a hospital, I think. "
"Oh, that's nice." Harper knew about the charity work that Black Lilith
does—she had to tell half of Slate' s relatives about it at the
wedding—but she hadn' t realized that they would be fitting it in
around vacations.
The wedding feels like a lifetime ago.
Sersha reaches over the edge of the mattress and picks up a phone,
swiping it open and taking a look at the open screen. Before frowning.
"This isn' t my phone," she says. "Harper, why were you Googling
pictures of Slate and his groupies?"
"Because I'm a glutton for punishment." "Jesus, come here woman."
Sersha pulls Harper into a hug that lasts probably a smidge longer than
it should have considering they had to meet Mikayla downstairs.
Harper decides to forgo makeup, and even a change of clothes because
she doesn't want to risk running into Slate in the suite. Not yet. She tells
herself that she just needs to see him in a group setting—like at a
hospital, with the rest of the band, for example—and then she'll be over
the awkwardness. She braids her hair instead and feels a twinge of
regret when every movement causes a pleasant pang in her groin and
thighs, which are still aching from the night before.
Sersha doesn't even try to wrangle her hair. It looks like a golden bird's
nest, so she crams a Black Lilith beanie on top of it, cheerfully
explaining to Harper that it creeps Tommy out when she wears his
merchandise.
"I got a Team Logan shirt a few weeks ago. Tommy didn't talk to me
for a whole day." She gives Harper a devious wink. "But he was only
too happy to rip it off me that night."

"Are there Team Dash shirts?"
"Not as many as there should be after what I saw last night. His cock is
big enough to run a small country for fuck's sake."
She sounds annoyed, as though she feels betrayed by Dash's surprising
girth. It' s definitely a big thing for Harper to wrap her head around, and
if it weren' t for the fact that there were so many witnesses, she would
have thought that she'd been imagining things last night.
They get downstairs to find Mikayla waiting. She'd sent the band
ahead.
"It's my own fault, I didn't think to set my alarm last night—"
"Relax, Mik, we'll get there," Sersha tells her.
They clamber into a taxi and, within half an hour, they're at the
hospital. It's a gray, monolithic building with fake palm trees on the
roof and a clean line of pavement out the front where hospital
maintenance staff seem to regularly bleach. Paparazzi are outside,
flashing their lightbulbs at everyone who goes into the hospital,
whether they look famous or not.
Mikayla sighs loudly. This was supposed to be an unscheduled,
spontaneous event, but somehow word had gotten out. Black Lilith
were supposed to be performing on the roof. From where she sits down
on the pavement, Harper can see roadies already setting up.
"When do they start?" Harper asks, neck craning so she can see the roof
without opening the window and letting in the dusty desert air.
"In a few minutes," Mikayla replies. "Come on. Let's get this over
with."
She opens the door and the paparazzi immediately pounce on them.
Mikayla has been a draw card for them since the incident on the band' s
last tour, when she'd stepped in front of a knife-wielding fan to save
Dash. Harper had read about it while she'd been researching the band
for the wedding. Sersha is also known to the press because of Tommy's
very public announcement that they were dating. Harper can only
imagine what the paparazzi think of her when she steps out of the cab,
walking on Mikayla's heels with Sersha taking up the rear.
"Mikayla, look this way!"
"Give us a smile, Sersha!"

"Girls, girls, what's it like being the women behind the band?"
Behind the band. Harper wants to laugh. Without Mikayla, the band
would fall apart, and Sersha's clearly going to be responsible for some
of their greatest hits in the years to come.
Beyond the crowd of paparazzi is a stream of men and women with
band T-shirts and their mouths open in perpetual screams. While the
women tend to outnumber the men, the men are making themselves
heard over the shouts of paparazzi, so by the time Harper and the others
make it to the entrance of the hospital, Harper is nearly deaf with the
sound wall that had been blasting into her.
They get inside the hospital, behind the line of security that has set
itself up inside the doors to make sure that only legitimate patients get
inside, and not rabid fans or sleazy men with cameras. They're ushered
into an elevator. Mikayla pulls her phone out and starts texting the
minute they're inside.
"They're just getting through the last of the prep," she says to Harper
and Sersha.
Harper nods like she knows exactly what Mikayla is talking about.
"What are they playing?"
"A couple of originals for the kids, and some classics for the
grown-ups."
When they come out onto the roof, they find a huge crowd of people in
hospital gowns and slippers clustered around a raised bandstand where
Black Lilith is waiting to get started. Some people are in wheelchairs,
while others are laying prone in beds that have clearly been wheeled up
to the roof by the nurses who are hanging around in excited clusters,
their eyes fixed on the band. One little girl, who looks about seven with
burn scars across her face, sits on a teenage boy's shoulders, her head
high above the crowd.
"We're never gonna get through that," Sersha says decisively.
"Nope," Mikayla replies. She presses her phone to her ear and, on
stage, Harper sees Logan answer. "Hey, can you make sure that they
tweak Dash's amp settings? Some of the kids are epileptic and we can't
freak them out. "
Logan nods and says something, before hanging up and tapping

Dash on the shoulder.
Harper finds herself staring at the crotch of Dash's jeans without
meaning to.
Tearing her eyes away, they fall almost naturally onto Slate. He's
fiddling with his drum sticks, looking remarkably still in a way that he
never does when he's away from his drum kit. The man is nearly always
in motion until he gets behind his drums. Then a calm seems to fall
over him like he's coming home from a long day and he can finally
relax. It's quite a sight to see. The Nevada sun glints off of the steel rims
of his drum kit, and his white sleeveless T-shirt shows off his tanned
arms in all their glory.
He looks up, tosses his fringe off of his forehead, and their eyes meet
over the crowd. Harper feels like someone's burying a cold hook into
her chest, and she drops her gaze. Every time she looks at him, all she
sees is that woman he'd thrown in her face.
Sersha seems to notice because she wraps her arms around Harper's
shoulders.
Then Slate starts playing. Completely without warning—Logan hasn't
even done his customary introduction to the gig. Harper looks up to see
Dash and Tommy exchanging confused looks, while Logan cranes his
neck over his shoulder to look at Slate. Slate has his eyes closed, his
head down, and he's beating the drums with both hands in a slow,
deliberate rhythm that Harper vaguely recognizes.
Whatever it is, the crowd seems to be picking up on it. Some of the kids
start clapping along with the bass drum, while others clap to the snare,
effectively rendering the entire crowd as backup percussion. All while
Slate plays, eyes closed and lips slightly parted, losing himself to the
beat.
Finally, Tommy scrambles into a bassline of smooth, soulful blues
notes. Dash picks up the tune with his guitar. Logan enters with his
smoky vocals.
I can feel it calling in the air tonight.
Oh, Lord!

Harper instantly recognizes the tune. Beside her, Sersha puts a hand on
her chest.
"Phil Collins," she mutters. "Typical Slate."
Harper watches as Logan and the band start swaying to the low,
rhythmic beat that Slate carries. The crowd starts to sway with them.
Until, when Logan repeats one of his 'Oh, Lord's, Slate throws his head
back and pounds through five loud, heavy repetitions of beats, and the
crowd cheers.
Harper watches him as intensely as she had when she'd discovered him
in the studio alone. Only now he knows that she's watching. He knows,
but he's still playing with the same blissed-out expression, the same
close eyes and thrown back head, the same fluid motions like he's
swimming through the beat instead of playing it. There's a whole crowd
of people between them, but when his eyes finally open and fall on
Harper again, she feels the air sucked out of her lungs. His gaze makes
her feel like they're the only people on the rooftop.
And she hates it.
Because she knows it's not true. She's replaceable to him. Why else
would he go out of his way to show her how easy it is for him to pick up
another woman, kiss her, while looking Harper right in the eye? He
makes her feel like she's the only one in the world, but he can also make
her feel like she's one of hundreds.
The music builds, then ebbs away naturally. When the song is finally
over, the crowd—both on the rooftop and from the street
below—applaud.
"Thank you," Logan says, giving Slate a look over his shoulder. "Just a
bit of smooth Collins to get your attention. How are you guys doing
today?"
The crowd screams their answers. Slate's still gazing at Harper, running
his fingers absently over his drumsticks while Logan gets the crowd
hyped. Harper doesn't think that she can take another few hours of
watching Slate be so deeply affected by the music.
Then she realizes that she's under no obligation to be here.

Muttering a quick goodbye to Sersha and Mikayla, Harper turns on her
heel and walks back inside the hospital.

Mikayla and Sersha find Harper back at the hotel and, thankfully, don't
ask. Instead, they take her into Mikayla and Logan's room, which is just
like everyone else's room except they have a balcony and a hot tub.
Mikayla swears up and down that it's just the luck of the draw, but since
she was the one who'd booked the hotel the rest of the band thinks that
she's making her own luck.
Either way, Mikayla and Sersha immediately start telling Harper what
she'd missed at the gig. Acting as though she'd had to leave because she
got a headache and not because she' s a total mess of a human being.
"It was a great show. Dash kept checking his phone between songs,
which got a bit distracting. "
"How can he even play guitar with that massive cock swinging
between his legs?"
"For the love of.. Sersha, Dash is well-endowed, get over it."
"I can't get over it. I can't unsee it. That penis is indelibly inked in my
brain. And what's worse is that it's Dash. This is the guy who
body-slammed Slate for stealing his chicken nuggets and cried over
Marlee and Me."
Harper immediately gets a mental image of both of those scenes,

and can't help but snort out loud.
"It's like everything I ever knew was a lie. Am I Irish? Are you a natural
brunette? Is Logan secretly a furry?"
"Logan's not a furry."
"That's just what his furry mistress would say." "You seem to be taking
this really personally." "I'm just so baffled is all."
Harper gazes out at the view from the balcony. She can just see the side
of the Eiffel Tower and the Colosseum from there, and the long stretch
of mountains in the distance. This is actually her first time in Nevada,
and she thinks it's a shame that her drama with Slate has pretty much
ruined any enjoyment she could have gotten out of it.
"What are you thinking about?" Mikayla asks Harper softly.
Harper shrugs. "Just enjoying the view."
"You're not thinking about quitting, are you?" Sersha asks.
Harper smiles and shakes her head. "No," she says. "Even if I weren't
stupid lucky to get this job, even if I wouldn't be literally insane for
turning it down, I still wouldn't want to leave. I love you guys. You
guys are the best. I think I'm just going to have to get used to being
around Slate again, that's all."
The three of them fall silent. Mikayla's phone dings and she quickly
pulls it out of her pocket, with such haste that it makes Harper raise her
eyebrows.
"Everything all right?"
"Why wouldn't it be?" Sersha asks.
Mikayla gives Sersha a nod and Sersha disappears into the bedroom,
leaving Mikayla and Harper alone on the balcony. Harper watches her
go with a raised eyebrow and, for some reason, starts to feel
anticipation building in the air. Just like it had the night that Slate had
pounced on her after the wedding. Which is weird, because Harper' s
pretty sure that Mikayla's not going to take this opportunity to try and
get in her pants.
"Mikayla? What's going on?"
"Nothing. Hey, have you ever seen Pretty Woman?"
"Is this a joke about me being an almost hooker?"

Mikayla purses her lips. "I wouldn't joke about that," she says. "But for
the record, I don't think it's a big deal. We've all done jobs we didn' t
like because we had bills to pay. "
"Why do you ask?" Harper asks since she doesn't want to get into the
philosophical differences between Bass Note intern and whore.
Mikayla shrugs. "Just curious," she says, in a tone that isn't fooling
anyone. "Do you remember the name of the Opera that Edward took
Vivian to?"
"La Traviata?"
And, as if her voice is the on switch to some cosmic record player, an
ear-splitting blast of Opera music comes drifting up to the balcony
from down on the street. Harper nearly jumps out of her seat as a
swelling crescendo of orchestral music, helped along by a deep,
powerful tenor voice, fills her ears.
She recognizes the song immediately. It's the song from that final scene
when Edward is trying to win Vivian back.
Mutely, almost afraid to look, she steps over to the balcony edge and
peers over.
A white limo drives down the street toward the hotel, drawing curious
looks from passers-by, though no one seems particularly interested in
taking pictures or lingering to watch. This is Vegas, and everyone has
done something ridiculous at one point or another. But Harper can see
the man standing in the sunroof of the limo, and she feels her jaw drop.
Slate. In a white button-down with a handful of red roses. He's
squinting up at the balcony and when his eyes meet Harper' s, he breaks
out into a brilliant smile.
Harper spins around to Mikayla. "You knew about this?"
"Who do you think helped him plan it? " Mikayla asks with an arched
eyebrow.
Sersha appears with the help of one of the roadies Harper recognizes
and pushes a massive roll of what looks like coiled rope ladder out onto
the balcony. It's mounted on a metal frame with a complicated winch
system attached to it. "Of course, we had to improvise because this
hotel doesn't really do fire escapes.

The limo pulls up to the hotel and Slate climbs out of the sunroof. The
men of Black Lilith use the doors, standing around Slate like an honor
guard. Sersha kicks a brake onto the wheel, then unrolls a
strong-looking rope ladder and flings it over the balcony and down all
three storeys to the street. The three women put their hands on the
railing and watch as Slate grabs the ladder and begins to climb.
"I'm not, I'm not sure about this," Harper says. But even as she says it,
she's laughing. Because this is, without exception, the cheesiest thing
she's ever seen. It melts her heart a little bit even as her brain reminds
her over and over of all the shitty things Slate had done and all the
reasons that she'd decided not to pursue anything with him after all.
"Okay, here's the stitch," Sersha says, with one eye on Harper and
another on the man climbing up to them. "After we left the club last
night, Tommy dutifully beat some sense into Slate. With an umbrella, I
believe. Then they came back to the hotel and watched Pretty Woman
with Logan and Dash. I don't know why. Slate, in his infinite wisdom,
decided that this..." she gestures at the ladder, "...would be the best way
to win you back. "
"But why would he even want to win me back?"
Mikayla and Sersha both shake their heads at her, apparently at a loss
for words and giving her looks like they think she's dumb as shit. Slate
is almost halfway up the ladder, moving with the ease of a man who's
paid special attention to his arms in the gym. Mikayla takes Harper by
the shoulders.
"You should not feel pressured to do anything," she says seriously.
"But... I think you should hear him out. We'll be downstairs if you need
us."
And with that, she and Sersha disappear, leaving Harper alone to wait
for Slate.
Her mind is racing, and yet it is staying still. She feels like she ought to
be planning what she's going to say and figuring out a strategy for how
to approach this conversation. The Pretty Woman reference is a sweet
gesture, but it doesn't really make up for how badly Slate had hurt her.
It's almost as if her mind is on a bad Wi-Fi connection—she's
buffering, and she's still buffering when Slate finally pulls himself over

the balcony.
As soon as she realizes that he's there, her brain is moving again.
"Are you insane?" she asks, rushing forward to grab him by the
shoulders and pull him to safety. "That's a three storey drop, and you
don't even have a safety line."
"My personal trainer has been helping me work on my arms lately,"
Slate says easily, straightening up.
Harper's got her hands on his shoulders. She quickly snatches them
back and puts a little distance between them. Slate sways forward as
though he means to follow her. Instead, he hands her the roses. She
takes them because she can't think of anything else to do.
"You... this is an aggressive way of trying to say you're sorry."
Slate nods. There's no cheerful smile in his eyes, no roguish grin or
wink. He looks deadly serious. "Mikayla and Sersha told me
everything you told them."
"Those bitches," Harper says without venom.
"They're worried about us. I think they have a right to be, don't you?"
He takes a deep breath. He's barely even panting from the climb and
Harper wonders if she can take any credit for that. "They told me about
how you said that you wished you'd never told me your name, and how
you were Googling pictures of me with other women..."
Harper takes a moment to be mortified. "Slate," she begins.
But Slate doesn't seem to be listening. He's rummaging around in his
pocket. "Tommy wrote some notes for me."
"Tommy wrote some notes for you?"
"He's better with words than I am. My head's not really... I'm not good
at getting my thoughts out in words. I beat my drums and I wink at
people, that's what I'm good at." He pulls a scrap of paper triumphantly
from his pocket.
She's instantly reminded of those hours she'd spent defending him from
everyone who'd ever thought an unkind word about him. "Jesus, Slate,
you're good at a lot of stuff," she says without thinking. "You are good
at reading people. You're kind and generous, and you're so supportive.
"
He looks dumbfounded. "That's... maybe you should have written

this." He waves the paper. He's clutching it like it's his lifeline.
Harper stares at him. The way he's chewing his lips, the way he shifts
his weight from foot to foot, the way he makes deliberate eye contact
with her even though she can see that he'd rather not. He's nervous as
hell.
"Go on. Read it to me." She's feeling generous after the Pretty Woman
entrance.
"Okay," he says gratefully. He unfolds the note and, with one last,
hesitant glance toward her, he starts reading in the clear, slow-moving
tone of a man who learned public speaking in high school and hasn' t
needed to use the skill since. "Harper. I'm sorry that I agreed to be
non-exclusive. I was surprised when you suggested it, and agreed
because it felt like the easy option, and because I was afraid that I
wouldn' t be a good boyfriend to you because I' ve never been in an
exclusive relationship before. That anxiety made me weak. " He
swallows. Tommy has a way with words, but these ones don' t seem to
suit Slate. He presses on anyway. "I' m also sorry for making out with
another woman right in front of you. I am a total c— Um... wow, okay.
I didn' t know he wrote that part. " He glances over his shoulder, over
the balcony railing to the street below, where the band must still be
waiting. "Prick."
"But you mean it, right?" Because it' s not the pretty words. It' s what
he's saying. Harper can feel her resolve starting to waver.
"Yes, yes, this is what I mean to say," Slate says earnestly. "Just, you
know, words. I don't do words. I mean..." He starts to falter again,
turning back to the paper in his hands and then back to her. "Harper.
I . " he hesitates again, before blurting out, "Jordan. "
"What?"
"That's my name. Jordan Nicholls."
"Oh." How... ordinary, she thinks. She hadn't expected it to be so
ordinary.
Slate looks down at his boots. "Never told anyone that before," he
mutters.
She immediately feels warmth rushing through her chest. "It' s nice."

"I know. But it isn't me. It never was. Just like Tiffany was never you,"
he adds, with a significant look. "My mom and dad, I love them, but all
they ever wanted was for me to meet a nice girl and make a nest behind
some white picket fence and I just hated that. And I didn't know how to
tell them, so I just kept fucking up all the time, until I embarrassed them
so much that they sent me to live with my aunt in Jersey. That's where I
met Logan. That's where I became Slate."
Harper licks her lips and his eyes follow the motion. "Why Slate?"
"Clean Slate. You know? It's a metaphor, I guess." He shrugs
self-deprecatingly. A breeze blows through the balcony, moving his
hair into his eye and wafting the now-familiar scent of chocolate and
leather into Harper's face.
"And you say Tommy's the only one who's good with words."
His lips quirk up in a not-quite-smile. "I didn't want to be
White-Picket-Fence guy, so I became the Sex, Drugs, and Rock and
Roll guy. It was easier, I guess. " He shoves the paper into his pocket,
sighing and tossing his head to get the hair out of his eyes so he can see
her properly. "But now I'm kind of freaking out because I know you
deserve better and I don't know how to be anything but... him. Slate."
Harper immediately feels a sting of apprehension. Because she
knows—she knows—what it's like to feel like you have to play a part
for someone. And she hates it.
"Slate, we don't have to be anything for each other." He looks dejected
at the expression and she hastily adds, "I don't want you to play a role.
This isn't about playing parts. We should just be able to be ourselves."
Slate looks up at her again, and his eyes have a hopeful tint to them. He
takes a step closer to her, his eyes flickering nervously across her face,
and she wants to drag him into a hug. Because nervous and hesitant
doesn't suit the image she'd had of Slate when she'd met him, but this is
clearly him. No persona, no mask. This is Slate at his most vulnerable.
And Harper gets the feeling that very few people have had the privilege
of seeing him like this.
"Harper, I'm the drummer. I'm at the back of the band, watching
everyone else's backs and keeping them from fucking up, so I never

learned how to be the one who needs help." He shrugs. "And then I
didn't realize I was fucking things up with you because I don't know
how to do this, and it was too late to ask. I'm an asshole for what I did to
you last night," he adds, in a serious tone which leaves no room for
argument. Not that Harper would be compelled to argue over that
particular point. "I should never ever have agreed to keep it casual, but
I thought that was what you wanted." Which is ridiculous, because that
was what Harper had thought Slate wanted. "I don't want casual with
you."
"Even though I'm your employee?" she finds herself asking, even as
her mind is spinning. Because if what he's saying is true, then they
could have hashed it all out last night. If she'd just said, straight out,
that she didn't want him kissing other women, then he wouldn't have
been kissing other women. It feels like she missed something
terrifically simple that anyone else would have seen, and now she's
kicking herself for not noticing sooner.
"I'm not going to worry that you're my employee if you're not. It's
worked for everyone else in the band," Slate says decisively. "Ever
since the wedding I've missed waking up beside you. The girls you saw
in those pictures you Googled." Harper is stung by the memory but
Slate plows forward, "... that's the Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll guy.
And that' s. mostly me. Not all of me, but it' s a big part of me, and it' s
not always my favorite part. " He reaches out to take her hand, brushing
his fingers against her skin as if he' s testing cold water, trying to decide
if he' s welcome. "I can' t promise I won' t fuck up again, but I think if
we both put all our cards on the table and just. agree to help each other
out... I think we can make a go of it." She doesn't pull her hand away, so
he takes it in his. "What do you think?" he asks hopefully.
Harper looks down at their hands. Holding hands isn't as intimate as
kissing, but it's close. She's had Slate pin her to a bed and fuck her, but
holding his hand is starting to make Harper blush. She clutches the
roses he gave her to her chest.
"I think... that you really hurt me," Harper says. Slate's face falls. "And
maybe I hurt you a little, too? " He visibly hesitates before nodding.
"So... yeah. Let's just agree that this has been a shitty twenty-four
hours.

We'll do better next time. Right?"
Slate finally smiles. It's the kind of smile that lights up his whole face
from the inside. He reaches out with his other hand, burying his fingers
in her hair and tilting her head up so she can look deeply into his
chocolate-colored eyes. She feels herself answering his dazzling smile
with one of her own as the roses are crushed between their chests.
"Sounds perfect," he says.

The speaker is playing on the bedside table and Slate hums along "Love
You To Death" while he traces lines on Harper's bare thigh.
Harper found the hard, almost gritty music off-putting at first, but she
likes the lyrics. She likes them even better when Slate whispers them in
her ear.
"Type O'Negative is no Lenny Kravitz," she tells him as she curls up
against his chest.
"They're not trying to be," Slate mutters. He rolls over onto his back,
away from her, reaching over to change the radio station. Harper rolls
with him and bites the edge of his hard pec lightly. "But the lady's wish
is my law. "
He rolls through the playlists until he hits on one that starts Kravitz
'Again,' which Harper loves, before rolling back over and burying both
of his hands in her hair. The gentle drum and guitar fills the room as he
stares into her eyes like he's trying to decide if she's really real.
After they made up on the balcony, Harper and Slate had gone to their
room. They've been there ever since. Harper isn't sure how Dash feels
about being sexiled from the suite, but since they did it in the middle of
the day she's hoping that he'll be a good sport about it. Once or twice,
she'd even considered suggesting sneaking into his bag and

raiding his stash of sex toys. But Slate doesn't need toys. They've gone
through three condoms since they locked themselves in the suite, and
they've got two more before they have to leave for more supplies. Or
maybe they can just get the Concierge to send for some? Surely he's
had weirder requests than that?
Slate had worshiped her body. Harper can't even begin to try and replay
the memories now, lying in bed beside him while her body still hums
from the pleasure he gave her. He'd already apologized on Mikayla and
Logan' s balcony, but that hadn' t stopped him muttering apologies into
every inch of her skin for most of the afternoon. Harper had returned
the favor, though. She had a lot to make up for, too.
How could she have read the situation so badly? Harper has always
been so good at reading people, at knowing what they want to hear, at
being what they need. How could she not see that Slate needed her to
say what they both wanted?
But that's not fair, Harper reminds herself. They both had the chance to
avoid the pain from last night. All they'd had to do was come out and
tell the other what they'd wanted. Fear had held them both back.
"I' m gonna stop doing coke," Slate says, leaning over to kiss her
neck.
Harper is exhilarated at the thought but also troubled. "Don't go
changing your whole life for me."
Slate kisses her twice before answering. "Not my whole life. I'm
keeping the sex and rock and roll," he says. He pulls one hand out of
her hair and starts running it down her shoulder, arm, waist, heading
toward her thigh. "But the Drugs. Some things aren't worth fighting
over. Not with you. "
"And the sex—"
"Just you," Slate says, leaning around so that he can kiss her lips. "Only
you. Exclusively you. You get me high just being in the same room. "
Harper loses herself in the kiss, letting her body drape over Slate's. She
can feel herself getting wet from the kiss, but it's too soon for him to be
hard again. Slate seems to sense how the kiss is affecting her because
he pulls away and smirks.

"Harper, you're gonna kill me aren't you?" "But what a way to go,
right?"
He pushes her onto her back and kisses her languidly while he reaches
down between them. Harper lifts her leg and stretches her back so he
has better access to her. Gently, but with obvious care and attention, he
presses two fingers to her still-sensitive clit.
Harper's breath catches in her throat. She lets herself relax into the
feeling. Slate likes to take his time, and she's discovered that if she gets
too worked up she'll find herself on her belly with her ass in the air.
Earlier in the day, that was useful information. But she's in the mood
for an easy, unhurried orgasm. Plus, after the workout she just had, she
thinks she deserves a treat.
Meanwhile, Slate does not stop kissing her. His penis is soft and thick
against her thigh as he lies on his side and massages her with his
fingers, his head tilted so their lips never part. He rubs her clit with two
fingers while a third brushes her folds, tracing up and down, and she
shivers in anticipation for what she knows is coming. If there's one
thing that Harper can be grateful for, it's that Slate's years of
womanizing has given him intimate knowledge of the female form.
It's slow building up. If it were any other circumstances, she'd beat him
over the head with a shoe for making her wait like this. But Harper just
rolls her hips a little, letting out a breathy moan as he leaves her clit to
dip two fingers inside of her. He slowly thrusts, keeping the kiss going
even as Harper starts to pant. His other hand reaches up to cup her
breast and toy with the nipple. She can feel the slow rise of light
pressure in her belly. He keeps thrusting his fingers into her—he's
added a third now—and rubbing his palm against her clit. It doesn' t
take long before she' s pulling out of the kiss to throw her head back
and lets out a contented moan.
Slate keeps rubbing her as she shudders and twitches through the
orgasm. It' s not as body-shattering as the ones he' d given her when
they first locked themselves in the suite. It' s a gentle, calm tidal wave
of lust that ebbs away slowly once it' s finished flooding her.
He pulls his fingers out and traces them, still damp, up her belly,
rubbing her and bringing her into another kiss.

"I' m gonna need at least fifteen more minutes," he mutters into her lips.
"And probably a protein bar. "
"We never did order that pizza last night," she replies, breathless. "At
what point do you think the others are expecting us to come
out?"
Harper shrugs. She reaches over to the table next to her head, her
fingers still trembling from the waves of her orgasm, and she takes
Slate's phone. She looks at the screen and snorts.
"You've got a text from Logan."
"What's he saying?"
"He says, 'When you two come up for air, we're having dinner in the
hotel restaurant.'"
"Or we could order room service and never leave this bed."
Harper stretches. Her muscles ache pleasantly and she tries to calculate
in her head how many calories she would have burned in the last few
hours. Sex is good cardio, especially the frenzied kind where neither
partner knows what they're doing besides touching and feeling.
"I want to thank them," she says. "For helping us get on the right
track."
Slate hums, leaning over to rub his nose along her neck. He seems to
like that. Harper likes it too, except when he does it too lightly and
tickles her. He dips down to kiss her shoulder, collarbone, and grabs
her hand to plant a kiss on the inside of her wrist. Every moment in bed
with him makes her feel more and more wanted, like he wants to erase
any doubt from her mind that he was ever anything but absolutely into
her.
"Yeah, I already did," Slate says. "It's nice, you know? I always knew
they'd have my back, but I never thought I would need them to."
"You're so used to playing matchmaker?"
Slate grins at her. "Tommy and Logan were fucking hopeless. I thought
I was going to have to lock Logan and Mik in a closet together like they
do in those Harry Potter fanfics Dash is always sending me."
"Men in glass houses should not throw stones."
"We didn't need help admitting we wanted each other," Slate says,
leaning over to kiss her lips again. "We just needed help with the other
parts."

Harper wraps her leg around his hip, bringing him close and deepening
the kiss. She meets his warm, sweet tongue with her own and presses
her hands to the back of his neck to hold him there. He goes pliantly,
allowing himself to be maneuvered into position. He's very pliable until
she does something to break his iron control. Harper wonders if she'll
ever be able to play his body as expertly as he seems to play hers.
Nothing like practice.
As the kiss becomes more passionate, Slate begins rubbing the skin on
Harper's hips, right where the bruises he'd left her the night before lay.
She can feel him stirring against her.
"What time is it?" he mutters, definitely more breathless now than
when they' d started the kiss.
"Four thirty-seven," she replies. It took her a second to remember the
time on the phone screen.
"We've got time," he says, slowly rolling over to pin her on the bed,
knocking her legs apart with his knees so he can settle more
comfortably in between them. "Round four?"
"I'm on round nine."
"You have an unfair biological advantage," Slate says, grinning down
at her with his golden smile. "I need backup, I swear."
"Didn't Tommy say something about a wild foursome?"
He braces himself above her and gives her a smirk. "You minx. Later!
Right now, you're all mine."
Harper couldn't be happier with that.

When they finally surface, it's past dinner and Slate's got another text
asking him to come downstairs because Black Lilith is putting on a
show for the crowd at the restaurant. The hotel staff got a bit freaked
out when they saw Slate scaling the wall outside, so Mikayla had
organized an impromptu private gig to make up for the inconvenience.
Harper is starting to realize just how much of Black LilitK s career can
be blamed on them flying by the seats of their pants.
Harper and Slate join the rest of the band downstairs, in the private
restaurant for guests of the hotel. It's a massive room gilded in gold and
bedazzled to within an inch of its life, with dozens of tables covered
with red cloths and fine silverware. Most of the guests are dressed like
they're planning on going to a casino later tonight, though there are
some who clearly just got back from the spa and plan to return there as
soon as they've fueled up. Harper and Slate are part of the second
group—jeans and T-shirts, though Slate is wearing his jacket because
he has to perform later.
As soon as the guys see them coming, they start jeering. "Look at the
lovebirds." "Harper, you're glowing." "Slate, you look exhausted."

Mikayla and Sersha just grin over their matching chocolate brownies. It
seems that Harper and Slate have shown up just in time to sneak in
some dessert before the band does their show.
Slate pulls the seat out for Harper on Sersha's left, and then takes the
seat beside Harper for himself. He's looking pretty pleased with himself
now. "Now, now, boys... a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."
"So there was kissing?" Dash asks, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that
makes Harper snort.
Logan leans over and hands Harper the dessert menu, giving her a
warm wink as he does. "Glad to see it all worked out."
"Thank you," she says, taking the menu. Their eyes meet and he nods
as though he understands—the thank you is not just because he' s
handed her the menu.
She flips through, ignoring the ribbing from the band, it's aimed more
toward Slate anyway. Sersha and Mikayla each give Harper a
congratulatory smile and offer her bites from their brownies. Harper
accepts them. She just had an amazing cardio workout, after all, she can
afford to treat herself.
"So did you get into trouble for the Pretty Woman stunt?" Harper asks
Sersha and Mikayla while the men keep pouring shit on Slate.
Mikayla shakes her head. "They weren't thrilled about it, but thank God
being famous apparently gets you a bit of leniency."
"Money talks," Sersha says sagely, taking another bit of her brownie.
It's Harper's turn to shake her head. "Guys, you didn't need to do that. I
would've been happy with an apology."
"This is Black Lilith, Love," Sersha says, reaching across to pat
Harper's hand. "They don't do things by halves here."
"When Logan wanted to apologize to me, he wrote a song and
performed it live on stage."
"When Tommy wanted to apologize to me, he flew halfway around the
world," Sersha said, nodding. "That's the thing with these boys. The
fuck-ups are colossal, but so are their theatrics when it comes to
making it up to you. "
Harper looks around the table, at this strange family that she's

found herself a part of. Because she has no illusions about her place in
this group now. The men are brothers, the women sisters-in-law.
Harper is dating the drummer, and he brings with him a family of five.
Mikayla and Logan, entwined no matter where they are and gazing at
each other whenever they're not directly in a conversation with
someone else at the table.
Tommy and Sersha, separated by Logan and Mikayla, but still
managing to match their movements as though they'd practiced the
routine of eating dessert for weeks.
Dash, with his cheeky grin as he carefully makes his way through a
tiramisu, making fun of Slate in-between mouthfuls.
It's such a sharp contrast to the family she'd met at the wedding that
Harper is reminded all over again how lucky Slate was to find these
people. How lucky he had been to get shipped off to his aunt in Jersey,
to meet Logan, to form this band. If he hadn't, he might still be Jordan
Nicholls or White-Picket-Fence guy. She glances over at him,
cheerfully accepting the ribbing from his bandmates, and thinks what a
waste it would have been for him to have stayed in Pella.
She reaches over and gives his hand a squeeze. He looks at their hands,
then at her with a question in his eyes, but she just smiles. He returns
the smile and the squeeze. There's really nothing to be said now.
The band is still making fun of him, mostly for having a girlfriend. The
King of Groupies—Dash's words—has finally settled into a
relationship, which is clearly baffling and intriguing for the rest of the
band.
Tommy's hair flops into his eyes as he grins over a wine glass at Slate,
shaking his head. "Honestly, I don't know how you managed to keep
her interested," he says. "She saw Dash last night, same as Sersha. I'm
gonna have to pull double-duty just to keep her on my team."
"There're no teams," Logan mutters. He's got one hand visible on the
table while the other is underneath, suspiciously in the vicinity of
Mikayla's thigh.
"There are teams," Slate says. "But I'm not worried. I make up for the
size issue with enthusiasm. "
"There's no size issue," Harper says, probably a bit louder than she

should. She glances around to make sure that no one is listening, but the
other people in the room seem more interested in their food than they
are in the slightly rowdy table in the corner.
"Exactly," Tommy says, pointing at Harper as though she's said
something profound. "Not our fault Dash is... well, Dash."
Dash, who has been sipping his coke throughout this conversation with
a very pleased smirk on his face, doesn't answer. Harper thinks that he'
s enjoying watching the other guys rile themselves up. It makes her
wonder how the band discovered Dash's... assets. She would have
loved to be a fly on the wall for that little revelation.
"I' m more interested in what he was planning to do with that whip,"
Sersha mutters.
Dash laughs at that while Tommy purses his lips and takes a bite of his
cupcake, a very aggressive bite, which should be tough to do when his
fingers are covered in sprinkles. But somehow he manages it.
"You've got no idea, Sersha," Dash says, giving her a wink. He looks at
Mikayla and Harper as well as he says, "Don't worry, girls, I'll give
your men some pointers later. Someone's gotta make sure they treat
you right."
Harper laughs at the scandalized looks on Logan, Tommy, and Slate's
faces.
"Listen here, Squirt," Slate says, shoving Dash in the shoulder. "I'll
shove that guitar up your ass if you start talking shit." "I'm not talking
shit, I'm dropping knowledge." Tommy and Logan boo at him.
The waiter comes around and the table orders drinks, plus an apple pie
for Harper and a cupcake like Tommy's for Slate. Harper's mind fills
with thoughts of Slate licking the icing off of her belly, and she needs
to pull her mind out of the gutter as quickly as possible. She looks up to
see Dash giving her a knowing smile.
"You're looking a little flushed there, Harper."
She smiles charmingly at him. "Keep talking shit, Dash. Remember
who's in charge of your cardio training."
Slate chuckles beside her as Dash's face switches from amused to
horrified. Tommy and Logan cackle as well, while Mikayla and Sersha

just shake their heads in amusement.
Then the band is called to perform. Logan kisses Mikayla on the cheek
and it's so sweet that Harper will need to run a full mile on the treadmill
just to work off the calories she gained by looking at it. Dash
practically bounces up to the stage and slings the guitar expertly over
his shoulder, while Tommy follows at a more sedate pace.
Slate is the last to leave the table. He leans over and whispers into
Harper's ear, "Just to be clear, you're on Team Slate, right?"
She thinks it would be funny to make him sweat a little. To say
something like, 'That depends on how you do on stage,' or 'how about
you talk Dash into a threesome and get back to me?' But now isn't the
time for funny. She can hear the faintest—so faint she's half-sure that
she's imagining it—hint of insecurity in his voice. It could be the fact
that Dash is so much bigger than him or the fact that the band has been
making fun of him for dating Harper, or even just the fact he's still not
sure if this is real. Harper can relate to that. If it weren't for the pleasant
ache in her crotch, Harper might have thought that the last twenty-four
hours were a dream.
She turns her head so that she's looking him dead in the eye. "Always,"
she replies.
He kisses her quickly on the lips. "Back in a bit," he says, and this time
she's sure that she sees relief in those eyes. He pushes himself away
from the table—giving Mikayla and Sersha kisses on the
cheek—before heading up to the stage to join the rest of the band.
They open with their song 'Thanks A Lot.' Sersha leans over to Harper
and explains how that was the first song she'd written with Tommy.
Harper thinks that she can hear their voices in the song lyrics, but she
has to admit that she' s no expert. Music is still just noise to her, but it's
nice noise. She wonders if she'll make a good girlfriend for a rockstar.
As soon as that thought crosses her mind, it gets stuck and she starts to
panic.
What if she isn't a good girlfriend for a rockstar?
Slate and Black Lilith are getting more popular every day. Their band
keeps going from great moment to great moment, and it would take

a great woman to hang on for that ride. Sersha seems to understand the
music world, and Mikayla's so well-put-together that she probably runs
the ride. Where does that leave Harper? She's just a personal trainer.
She's not musical, or important to the band's functioning. What if she
turns out to be an absolutely terrible companion?
And then there's the paparazzi. And the press junkets. And the tours.
She'd freaked out over a spur-of-the-moment trip to Vegas. But Black
Lilith's job is to travel to exotic locations and perform. Could Harper
handle seeing her face in gossip mags?
She hasn't even told her parents yet.
Harper feels a hand close on hers as Black Lilith moves into their next
song. Mikayla is leaning over Sersha, holding Harper's hand and
looking concerned.
"Everything all right?" she asks, raising her voice just a little to be
heard over the music.
"I' m dating a rockstar," Harper says. "I think it just hit me. What that
means. "
Both Mikayla and Sersha share a look. They seem to instantly
understand what has Harper so worried. Sersha leans over to wrap her
arm around Harper's shoulders while Mikayla gives her hand a
squeeze.
"We'll be with you, Love," Sersha says.
"We're still trying to figure this out, too," Mikayla says. "But believe
me, these boys are so worth it. "
Harper doesn't think that actually helps her predicament, or ease any of
her concerns. But it's sweet that they want to help. Harper nods
gratefully at them while filing away that particular conversation, so she
can have it with Slate later. After the complete fuck up that was their
first evening, Harper has decided that everything will be discussed
from now on. No more petty squabbles causing more harm than good.
No more heartbreaks that a conversation could have prevented.
They watch the band perform three songs. It's a short set for a really
small crowd, though the kitchen staff and waiters all come out from the
back room to watch. Some of the people at the tables are filming the
performance on their phones and Harper thinks that's a shame. There's
something that gets lost when you're watching a concert

through a phone camera. The camera can't capture the way that Slate's
drums vibrate through a listener's chest. The camera can't do justice to
the rapture on his face when he plays.
Black Lilith get a standing ovation when they finish their third
song.
"Thank you," Logan says smoothly. "And thanks again to the staff
here, for putting up with our shenanigans this afternoon. It was all for a
good cause, I promise. "
The crowd laughs, even though there's no way they can understand just
how much truth is in Logan's words.
The band returns to the table after pausing to sign some autographs for
a couple of older guys who claim that they have teenage daughters.
Whether they do, or whether it's a smokescreen designed to hide the
fact that they're giant fanboys is anyone's guess.
"That was fun," Tommy says, taking a seat and grinning sunnily at
Mikayla, Sersha and Harper.
Logan sits next to Mikayla and immediately takes her hand, entwining
their fingers and kissing her on the cheek. Slate takes a seat next to
Harper and gives her a high-five. Dash, meanwhile, has paused in the
middle of the walk back to the table. He's staring at his phone and
typing a text, a small smile on his face.
Now that the show is over, the waiter brings Harper and Slate their
food, as well as drinks for everyone else.
Harper takes a bite of the apple pie and decides that it's perfect and
needs to be a part of her life for as long as possible. Maybe dealing with
paparazzi and gossip mags will be a small price to pay if she can keep
eating food like this?
What a stupid thought.
She shakes her head at herself even as she offers a forkful of pie to
Slate. He takes it, licking the fork with a little more gusto than
necessary and giving her a smoldering look that she feels all the way
down to her blood.
The table moves back into a conversation about the general
astonishment of Slate being in a relationship. Harper had known that
Slate had never been in a serious relationship before, but hearing the

boys talk about it, she's starting to get the impression that they'd never
even imagined that he would be in one. They're making fun of him and
bringing it up a lot because they're still trying to wrap their heads
around
it.
Maybe that's why they worked so hard to help him in his Pretty Woman
scene. They were probably just excited to see what would happen next.
Harper curls her fingers around Slate's and decides to do everything she
can to make sure that this thing lasts.
While Tommy and Logan wax poetic about Slate' s various personal
failings, and how they will all lead to Harper coming to her senses and
dumping his ungrateful ass, Dash is on his phone. He' s staring at the
screen, tapping on it every few minutes, smiling quietly to himself.
Most of the time, he's a flurry of motion, but when he's texting he
seems perfectly still. Until he grins, or chuckles, or even outright
laughs—which is what he does halfway through a joke that Tommy is
telling.
Finally, Logan asks, "Okay, seriously Dash... who do you keep
texting?"
"My future wife," Dash says without a pause. As soon as the words
leave his mouth, he looks surprised. Like he hadn' t planned on saying
them out loud. "It's no one," he adds quickly. "Just a girl. She just... sent
me a pic. Oh, not of that, Slate fucking hell. Look..." He shows them
his phone screen.
Harper leans over to see a picture of a woman's hands, covered in
brown goo, holding a chocolate cake on a cooling tray. Harper can't see
anything else in the picture that could tell her who the woman is or even
what she looks like, if it weren't for the bony, delicate set of hands, she
wouldn't have even known the gender of the person who sent the
picture.
"Just-a-girl has had you distracted for weeks," Logan says with a raised
eyebrow.
Dash shrugs, looking down at his phone. "I texted the number by
accident. She's funny." He shrugs again, like it's no big deal, but the
way his shoulders hunch up make the rest of the table instantly and
painfully aware that he's insecure about this.

Unlike Slate, who is fair game for ribbing over girls, everyone seems to
make the unanimous decision to move off of the topic of Dash's text
buddy. Harper finds herself marveling, yet again, at how in sync these
people are. She can only hope that someday she'll be on their level.
"Speaking of marriage," Logan says loudly, drawing attention away
from his brother. Dash takes a big mouthful of coke as the eyes of
everyone at the table turn to Logan. "Mikayla and I got married last
night."
Dash spits his coke all over Tommy. "WHAT?" everyone blurts out at
once.

Thank you for reading Make Me.
If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving a review at your point of
purchase and on Goodreads. It means a lot to me to hear what you
think.
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Hazel Jacobs is a passionate fan of romance novels and a crazy fan of
rock and roll. Never trained as a writer, she began creative writing as a
hobby. That quickly evolved into a mission to pen a novel that brings a
new generation of readers into the wild realm of loud music and total
passion.