𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐏𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐒 two years ago, my life changed forever. All it took was one night to alter the rest of my life. I wasn't sure about a lot of things however, there are two things that I was absolutely certain on: what I wanted to wear and who...
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At ten to three in the afternoon, I find myself crossing the street and entering Forbes through the back door. It's shut since we weren't here for New Year's Eve.
Tony tilts his chin at me when I reach the metal staircase that leads down to the offices. Carefully, I make my way down all the while my heart beats and beats and beats in my chest because what could he possibly want?
I take a second to sort myself out in front of his closed office door. After making sure my sister was one hundred per cent okay, I dragged myself home, unpacked, showered and changed into an appropriate outfit to meet my ex-boyfriend at his club in broad daylight.
Goen. J V-neck ruffle-trim mini dress, Paris Texas stiletto 85 boots and Christian Dior 2001 Trotter Saddle shoulder bag. Perfectly modest because I'm not here for a mid-afternoon shag.
"Harper, come in." George's voice comes through the door, I open the door and stroll in. He's sitting at his desk, tumbler of 45-year-old The Dalmore in hand. I place my bag on the glass coffee table and take a seat on the black leather sofa.
"How did you know I was out there?" I ask.
He waves a hand toward his sleek black MacBook, "cameras."
Then there's a blanket of silence, bit awkward bit comfortable but overall it sits heavy with words we cannot bring ourselves to say out loud.
"It actually amazes me how you wear the same thing every day and still manage to pull it off," I tilt my head to the side, swallow back my anxiety and take in his outfit. Slim-cut leg trousers and drawstring pullover hoodie both from Tom Ford, Unravel Project two-way zip bomber jacket. It's black, it's boring and it's so him that my stomach twists and makes me feel all kinds of things.
He brings his crystal tumbler up to his mouth, his eyes never leaving my bare legs as I cross them. "I'm still pissed at you, Haysie."
I fight back the disappointment although I don't know what else I expected. "So, you called me all the way over here to give me a mouthful?"
George places his glass back down on the desk, swirling the brown liquid as he keeps his eyes downcast. "Do you not get cold—with your legs out in minus-degree weather?"
"Do you not realise how silly you look with all those cuts and bruises on your face from that ridiculous sport," fight the urge to go over there and clean him up. My fingers start twitching with the need to care of him. Force of habit, I guess.
George raises his eyebrows, hums and places a cigarette between his lips. "You bored, Harper?" He looks over at me, eyes low and dark and dangerous.
I take a minute to find my words because I'm too busy admiring him. His whole aura just radiates sex—but not like Charlie or Carter. They're footballers and models, they have to carry that energy. George is different, he's carefree and although he takes good care of himself, it's not his job. His job is illegal and scary and taboo. He carries himself with authority, he's sat there staring at me like he owns the place because, simply, he does.
