Please.
From the nightstand, a lamp glowed, allowing him to watch Harlow atop the bed. She rolled toward him, a lock of midnight hair hanging over the side of the bed, teasing him. “You’ll laugh, but...”
“Tell me.” He had to know. Every. Little. Detail.
“I wanted to be a trophy wife. But only because a life of leisure sounded way cooler than the things my friends wanted to be,” she rushed to add. “Doctor? Blood is gross. Reporter? Hounding family members of someone who just died? Never! And if you say ‘what friends,’ I’ll smother you with one of my pillows. I had a posse back then.”
“A posse, huh? Did you often ride off into the sunset together?”
He hadn’t laughed, but she launched one of those pillows anyway, smacking him in the face. “I had it all figured out. I would paint during the day while my very rich, very good-looking husband worked at his office. He owned the company and even the building, of course, and everyone feared him. Except me, because even though he was a bear, he was putty in my hands.”
“Of course.”
“Our chef would prepare dinner,” she continued, “and the maids would clean up after us.”
All doable. He would enjoy making her dreams come true. “And now?” He stuffed the pillow under his head.
“Now I absolutely do not want to be a trophy wife. I told you. I like earning my own way.”
“I bet I could change your mind.”
“You wanting to pamper me, Becky?”
“Desperately. If only you’d let me...”
Silence stretched, and tension grew.
“What about you?” she asked, a hitch in her breath.
“I’d make an amazing trophy wife.”
She snorted. “I mean, what did you want to be when you grew up?”
He could have refused to answer. This wasn’t about him. But when had he ever been able to resist her? “For a while, I dreamed of being a cop. I was going to bust some serious caps and take some names. Then I was arrested for theft, then assault, and that dream died real fast.”
“What’d you steal?”
“Food, mostly. My fosters at the time were big on taking the checks they got for keeping me around, but not on feeding me.”
She extended her arm, offering her hand. As he reached up to twine their fingers, she said, “I hate that you weren’t treated fairly.”
“I turned out all right.”
“But you are not without wounds.”
“None of us are,” he said. “But for the first time in my life, I think I’m healing.”
* * *
“TELL ME MORE about your parents,” Beck said the next night.
Miracle of miracles, Harlow had made a pallet next to his with zero prompting from him. They faced each other, were basically curled into each other, and he’d never been so pleased with so little. But he wanted more. He needed it. As close as she was to him, so close he breathed in the soft fragrance of her skin every time he inhaled, his hands fisted because he remembered all too well the silky feel of her hair tangled between his fingers.
He missed her so bad he hurt physically.
Unwilling to leave her this morning, he’d blown off work. Well, his own. He’d accompanied Harlow, stepping in and helping her with chores. He’d teased her and laughed with her, even scolded her. She worked too long and too hard, refusing to slow down, and he’d quickly gotten tired of people coming to the inn just to humiliate her. And since he’d taken over most of the rooms, the would-be patrons had holed up in the lobby and dining hall and Carol had demanded Harlow clean both.
His temper had nearly snapped. Would have, if Harlow hadn’t stormed to the register where Carol was helping an out-of-town guest, yelling, “Enough! I’ll clean, but I won’t entertain. Not without a significant pay increase. So unless you want to triple my check or fire me, I’m done for the day!”
Her confidence had grown by leaps and bounds, and Beck liked to think he’d had a positive influence on her. While Carol wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, she recognized a moneymaker when she saw one, and she hadn’t fired Harlow. The girl brought in too much business with or without the personal cleaning entertainment.
And Harlow, well, despite the setbacks, she truly seemed to enjoy her life. As she’d worked today, she’d teased him right back, and he cherished every second.
“You were cuddled when you were sick, I’m assuming,” he said now.
“Yes,” she said. “My mom was the best. She loved me, and I was never in doubt of that.”
“Did she know you were the town bully?” he asked carefully, not wanting to raise her hackles.
“Yeah. My dad knew, too, and he’d yell at me for it anytime a teacher or parent would complain, but that would only make me lash out worse.”
“He was a hypocrite.”
“Yes, but I thought his attention, any attention, was better than the times he ignored me.”
Poor Harlow. She’d been adrift, conflicted and in turmoil. Beck knew the feelings well. He’d felt them every time his dad had dropped him off at one of his aunt’s houses, saying he’d call, but never calling, saying he’d be back soon, but never showing up. Meanwhile, his uncles had enjoyed playing ball with his cousins.
“Even though my dad was a deadbeat, I loved him almost as much as I hated him,” he said. “I always hoped the guy would change his mind about giving me up and rescue me from the system. At least, I hoped the first year...a little the second...but by the third I knew the truth. I would never see my father again.”