In Pursuit (6 page)

“I can get myself into a car, you know,” I mutter to myself before he closes the door, angry with myself for my reaction, and taking it out on him.

“You aren’t much bigger than a pixie. I thought you might need the extra help,” he responds tersely.

Ugh, he was not supposed to hear that.
I sink into the plush tan leather, mortified.

In my life, it was always my duty to take care of myself. Dad never coddled me. When it was time to learn to cook, I did it myself by reading my mother’s old cookbooks. When I had trouble with homework, I stayed up until all hours of the night, teaching myself the material. I do not need Harris Grant lifting me into cars. Before he can make a comment, I buckle my seat belt. It takes all my willpower not to cross my arms over my chest like a child. Instead, I mess with my shorts and stare straight ahead.

He climbs into the car and begins to expertly move it out of the drive. With a flick of a button on his steering wheel, music fills the cabin.

“You like Mumford and Sons?” I ask, incredulous. Though I’m not sure why I’m so surprised that he would like this mellow, folksy music. Maybe it’s his hard exterior that makes me think he wouldn’t like any sound at all when he drives. I focus my eyes to study his strong profile while I wait for his response.

“Yes. Is that a problem?” He doesn’t look in my direction when he answers, eyes focusing on the traffic ahead.

“Just thought you would be listening to talk radio.”

Now I have his attention, he turns to study at me. “Why?”

“So serious.”

The words tumble out without any checks or balances from my brain. I am appalled at the way I am speaking to him. This blunt girl is a stranger to me; I’ve never told anyone exactly what I’m thinking so quickly. I’m taken aback but what I’ve said to him while he is in the middle of doing me a favor.

“That was rude,” I say, shifting in my seat. “I’m sorry.”

I might be mistaken, but it looks like his lip twitch at the corners. It’s like they want to smile but can’t get the marching orders from his brain to do so.

He clears his throat. “I probably do come across as serious, but I enjoy music. It’s one of my vices.” His lips twist to a smirk and my sexual awareness returns.

Holy shit, is he flirting with me?

Harris reaches up to yank at the tie knotted around his neck. Once it is free, he uses one hand to unbutton the top few on his shirt, revealing a thick, muscular neck and a peek at his broad, tanned chest. I want to lick that spot, at the base of his neck where his pulse beats steadily.

When I gulp this time, it’s out loud. Luckily, the music covers the noise and I don’t think he hears me. There is no doubt about it: I want him. If he and I were to be in bed together, I’d be at his mercy, completely wrapped up in whatever he wanted to do. The problem is that this concept should terrify me. But it doesn’t scare me at all. Instead, I feel an unfamiliar ache between my legs, begging for release.

A rush of heat washes over my body, so I try and open my window to cool down.

“What are you doing?”

He uses his blinker, and I notice that we are merging onto what I think is Lake Shore Drive. LSD is a freeway that runs parallel to Lake Michigan. I’ve only seen photos of the iconic road, and I am thrilled to experience it, although it would probably be more fun in a convertible.

“I’ve never been on Lake Shore Drive. I want to check it out.”

The excuse sounds dumb, and again it looks like he is trying not to smile. He presses a few buttons on his arm console, and lowers the two front windows and sunroof. I’m surprised that he obliges me so quickly. For a guy who seems annoyed by my presence, it’s awfully considerate.

“Address?” he asks over the roar of the wind.

I call it out to him, then turn my face out the window. I want to study the skyline as we whip past, but I can’t make myself do it. The sun feels too calming on my skin, and my eyes flutter closed. I lean my head against the window frame and sigh happily. When he pulls to a stop minutes later, I enjoy the balmy air for an extra second, then allow my eyes to drift open lazily.

This feels right.
The thought pops into my head. Is it riding in a car with Harris that feels right? I barely know the guy, so it can’t be that. It’s got to be the perfect weather that’s making me feel so relaxed. And safe. My heartbeat has slowed to a steady drum, a perfect rhythm to the soothing music that I can hear, now that we’ve stopped driving so fast.   

“Enjoy it?” he asks softly, and I turn toward him.

The tense features that I have noticed before have faded off his face and now he looks relaxed too. His eyes are scanning over me, trickling down my neck and back up again to my eyes. I offer a content smile as my response. There’s nothing I can say that would convey how I feel in this moment, so I don’t say anything at all.

The shrill beep of a car behind us breaks the moment, and Harris turns away from me. He accelerates the car forward without another word. As he directs the car into the west side neighborhood, I grudgingly admit ̶ only to myself of course ̶ it probably is best to have my own personal chauffeur take me here. Sometimes being slight makes me an easy target, especially for boyfriends like Jared who had too much to drink.
Stop thinking about him, Eddie.

Harris deftly parks, then exits the car to round to my side. This time when he opens the door, I’m ready for him, and put my hand forward to pause him. I don’t think I can handle the physical contact, it will just make me more confused.

“I can manage climbing out of a car, Harris.”

He steps backward, surprised. It’s almost like he didn’t know what he was doing.

“Right. Sorry.” That word again sounds strange, coming from him.

“You don’t apologize often do you? Because I think you need some practice.”
Where did that come from?

I shut the door behind me, and tug my camera out of my bag. He raises his eyebrows at me almost like he’s saying,
Excuse me?
A hard shell has erected itself over the soft exterior that I saw in the car.

“How very astute of you, Eddie.” We reach the front of the door, and he yanks it open, sharply cocking his head forward to tell me to walk ahead.

“Thanks.” My manners force to me say it, even though I just want to run away from him and pretend like this whole exercise never happened. Angering someone is a rare feat for me, and I don’t know how I can fix this. I keep my mouth shut; that’s what keeps getting me into these messes with him.

The outlet is row after row of fabric samples, in every color and pattern imaginable. Art students and dressmakers and other designers rove the floor, testing and comparing fabrics. I quickly forget my angst over Harris and begin to survey the aisles.

“I’ll wait for you back here then,” he calls after me.

I turn and look over my shoulder at him. “Thanks. I won’t be too long.”

But he isn’t paying attention to me; his fingers are flying across the keyboard of his smartphone.

Thirty minutes later, I’ve interviewed the owner and taken some photos of a dressmaker pulling samples. The owner is a jovial man, and after just an explanation of my blog, he offered to give my readers a ten percent discount. I’m thrilled with the results of my trip. It would have been nice to get a snap or two of me browsing the fabrics, to add a bit of my own personality to the blog, but this entry will have to do without. Once I make a network of some local bloggers, I will probably call upon them at times to snap images of me.

I make my way back to Harris at the front of the store. He looks intently at his phone, and I use this as an opportunity to study him. His closely cropped hair reminds me more of a MMA fighter than a high power attorney, but the look works for him. Obviously, by the way my mouth has gone dry and my hands are clammy again, I find his looks appealing. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more sexy man up close in person. Never had a guy so gorgeous put his hands on me. If he were to pick me up again, I think I might have a hard time telling him to stop.

This is all just a favor for Claire,and nothing more. You’d do best to remember that, Eddie.

“Okay, I think I’m all set.”

His eyes rise from the screen and lock with mine.

“Did you get everything you need? I don’t mind staying longer.” Harris watches me expectantly.

“Enough,” I answer, honestly and hesitantly.

“What are you missing?”

“Nothing, we can go. I don’t want to make you wait any longer. You were so kind to drive me here,” I say, uncomfortable because I don’t understand what he wants from me at this juncture. In the car, it was silence, and now all of a sudden he’s willing to prolong this engagement.

“I want you to get exactly what you need. Tell me what’s left,” he commands, taking a step closer to me.
He wants? I want, too, and it has nothing to do with fabric samples,
I think wistfully.

Now, he’s invading my personal space, and I can no longer think about the photos I want to take. I’m focusing on taking deep breaths through my nose and inhaling his musky scent. It filters off of his body and into my personal space, citrusy and masculine. 

“You...”
Stop right there!
I just barely cut myself off before throwing myself into an embarrassing heap at his feet by telling him that he smells delicious.
Take me,
I want to whimper, even though it contradicts every other sexual encounter I have had with any other man in my twenty-six years.

I give myself a mental shake, trying to disrupt my sexual fantasies, and return to the conversation. “A photo of me with some of the fabrics. My readers want to see more of me in my blog, so it would be good to have a shot of me. Probably only a profile shot, though, one step at a time right?” I’m completely babbling.

“I’ll take it.”

“You don’t mind?” My voice betrays my surprise.

“I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean,” he informs me impatiently.

Slipping my camera from around my neck, I hand it to him. “You just need to – ”

“I know. I have a similar camera. Where do we do this?”

I steer him to an aisle of shades of purple. I drop my tote bag near the top of the aisle and walk half the length away from Harris. I begin to give him direction but he shakes his head.

“I got this, Eddie. Just look around and you’ll have your photos.”

I don’t respond. Instead, I lift my hand to caress the samples in front of me. The cotton is soft and cozy beneath my fingertips. I barely register the click of the camera as Harris works. I give it a few more minutes then look at him.

“All set?”

“Yes.” He thrusts the device back to me and I quickly gather my items. He’s already striding out of the store in a rush and I chase after him. This time he doesn’t open my door for me, by the time I’ve jumped into the seat next to him, he has his buckle securely fastened and the car is running.

Once he steers away from the curb, he stretches one arm out lazily to direct the car. With a few taps of the screen in the dashboard, Harris turns on
I Think of You,
a hauntingly familiar song to me. I don’t comment aloud, but inside I’m ripped to shreds.

When I was a girl, my father played this record endlessly on the nights that he wasn’t out on his beat. He kept his sleep schedule, even when he wasn't at work, staying up through the night and sleeping all day. On some nights, when he probably thought I was asleep, he would play this record. I would sit in my bed, my back pressed up against the headboard, listening with him. It’s the only time I felt like my dad showed true emotions.

It’s a reminder of our failed relationship, and it burns painfully. I came to Chicago on Saturday, it’s Monday now, and my dad hasn’t called to see if I made it here okay.

I wish he would call me.

Now, Harris all of a sudden plays this song to me. I keep my face turned toward the window, begging the tears to stay behind my eyes. The song ends three excruciating minutes later, but the album continues to play. Harris stays quiet, and so do I because I’m afraid anything I say will be garbled by the massive knot in my throat.

To distract myself, I close my hands into fists and dig my short nails into my palms. The slight pain provides a welcome distraction.

He jerks to a stop in front of the building, slamming his car into park. Quickly as I can, I scramble out of the car. Though I don’t want to, I wait until he is next to me, and we walk through the lobby side by side. When we’re in the elevator, his stance remains rigid, he stares forward without speaking.

Walking toward the apartment, I stay as far away from him as socially acceptable, but somehow manage to refrain from wrapping my arms around my stomach protectively. We reach the front door and I choke out, “Thanks again, Harris.”

When I sweep past him into my home, he doesn’t try to stop me, doesn’t say another word, but then again, I don’t dare to look at him. I hurry through the foyer and toward my bedroom.

“Hey, how did it go?” Claire asks from the couch. I pause and force a wobbly smile.

“Great. Lots of work to do now, so I’ll talk to you later.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Harris enter the living the space. It feels like he is staring at me, his sharp gray eyes boring two holes into me.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“I’ll make something to eat later. Oh,” I pause, realizing that I probably sound incredibly rude. “I spoke with Amanda today, and I’m going over to her place tomorrow. So, thank you, Claire. A million times, thank you for everything you’ve done.” I give one more weak smile, feeling drained from my encounter with Harris and the music in his car.

Did he know?
He couldn’t have. There’s no way he would have known that album was a button of mine. Even Sarah doesn’t know.

“Enough with the thank yous! I told you already, I’m glad to do it. Do you want me to pick something up for you?”

“No, I got groceries earlier, so I’m good. Thanks. I’ll see you later.” I give a half wave to her, and then take the steps into my room. I gently close the door behind me, and drop my bags to the ground. I press my back to the wall and then slowly slide down to the floor as tears leak out of my eyes. Then I practice an art I mastered growing up: painful, body-wracking sobs without a sound to accompany them.