Bad Intentions ↠ h.s.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Arabella

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"Is that even enjoyable at all?" I ask, watching as Harry's long and slender fingers hit anonymous keys on his laptop, aimlessly triggering between back and forth. "It looks boring."

"It's not that bad, really," he shrugs, hitting the backspace button for what seems like the thousandth time in the last minute. "It could be an awful office job where I actually have to drive out to an annoying building, meet annoying people, type annoying things, tidy my annoying space, and be confined in an annoying area each day instead of the comfort of my own home."

I wiggle around in my seat, sipping on the hot chocolate I'd made only minutes before. "What kinds of things do you write about, anyways?" Harry never really explained to me what he did all day that managed to take in the money it did. Not until this morning, that is.

Harry is a novelist. He professionally writes these apparently amazing fictional stories. Judging by the little he let me read, he specializes in mystery stories. The story he's currently writing has a bit of a Nancy Drew vibe to it. It centers around a duo of college age girls who are accused of murdering their best friend who went missing at some point in time. (I haven't gotten to that party yet; Harry only let me read the first chapter which detailed the girls sitting in a holding cell.)

"You're an amazing writer, Dad," I say softly, referring him to the name due to Ashley being only in the next room over and practically being able to hear us. I take another sip of my hot chocolate and hand him back the expensive laptop. "I hope you get a movie made by the big film productions."

"I hope so too, but it's not that easy," he agrees, placing his hand on my lap while I sit cross-legged, totally oblivious as to how it made me feel inside. "I need to have a good plot, structure, actors, and so much more."

I shrug, bobbing my head. "Well you're a third way there I guess."

"I guess so," he confirmed, taking his hand off my lap to press it back to the multiple keys on the computer. "How'd you sleep, darling?"

My eyes fixate on my drink, thinking about the heavy, dreamless sleep I had last night while I was wrapped up tight in his warm, tattooed arms. I was so sad to see him leave so early in the morning, five a.m. exactly, because he kept claiming that Ashley would wake up and be curious for where he went, and I was too tired to argue.

"I slept fine," I huffed, circling my fingers on the couch, drawing a pattern on it while the fabric overlaid itself. "I was cold after you left though."

"Such a shame," he teases, pouting his lips, making sure that we're both quiet while talking. "I went downstairs and started to work right after that."

"You haven't gone to sleep since my room?" I nearly gasp, taking all of my mind to wonder how he survived these past few hours with no sleep. "Aren't you tired?"

"I have a bad case of insomnia and you were sort of a cure," he whispers, his eyes still not leaving the computer screen.

"Then you should have stayed with me," I say, leaning over so that my head was nuzzled against his shoulder. Harry laid his head on top of mine. "Forget Ashley."

"I wish I could have. You're such a great cuddle buddy," he complimented, stalling his typing momentarily to press a kiss to the top of my head. "So cuddly."

I hear a few clanks and clinks from the next room over before hearing Ashley chime in with a quick "Food!"

"Goofball," I giggle, patting his head of messy curls while standing up and adjusting my pajama shirt before walking into the dining room. "Smells delicious, Mom."