He's a cynic. She's a romantic. One deal, one wedding, and one gigantic secret stand between them.
**
Harper Lane wants to believe in true love. After her parents split, she began photographing evidence of it. Couples holding hands. Valentine's Day...
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Harper stared up at the ceiling.
Three cracks. Two were vertical, running through the plaster like lightning bolts, and the third was horizontal. It kind of looked like a smiley face, she thought, which felt like rubbing salt in the wound. She should really tell her father and Diana to fix it.
If she ever left her bed.
Harper shifted, being careful not to jostle her injured shoulder. It had been three days since the wedding. Three days since she broke things off with Lawson, and she'd nearly died falling off a bridge. Three days since she'd holed up at her parents' place in Kensington, binging Modern Family and living off saltine crackers and soup.
She was wallowing.
Some part of her was aware that it was pathetic. But the larger — more insistent — part of her wasn't sure that she could get out of bed. Lawson's words played over and over again in her head, a sick, endless song.
I've never liked anyone as much as I like you, Harper. But I don't know how to give you pieces of myself.
Harper picked up a pillow, burying her face in it. Nope. Screw it. She was going to stay here forever. Or at least, until her plane left on Saturday.
"Harper?" a voice called.
Her bedroom door opened. The smell of expensive Chanel perfume filtered into the room, followed by light footsteps. Diana.
"Someone's here to see you," Diana said.
Her heart stuttered. "If it's Lawson—"
"It's not Lawson," a feminine voice called. "It's me." There was the scraping sound of metal-on-metal: curtains being forcefully yanked open. "Jesus, Lane. When was the last time you opened a window?"
"Cass?" Harper asked hoarsely.
She sat up, blinking in the harsh light. Cass was silhouetted against the window, her head cocked to one side. Her blonde hair was slicked back into a ponytail, and she was dressed in what appeared to be a black formfitting jumpsuit. Diana slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.
"Cute cast," Cass said. "Very chic."
Harper glanced down at the sling — bulky, itchy, and generally hideous — and pulled a face. "I wouldn't recommend it, honestly."
Harper frowned, scanning through her mental calendar. What day was it? Wednesday? Thursday? "What are you doing here? Don't you have a date tonight?"
She'd kept in touch with Cass after what happened at Huntingdon Estate — or rather, Cass had kept in touch with her. Harper sensed that Cass wasn't used to hearing the word no, and largely felt it didn't apply to her, anyway.
