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 had been on some bad first dates in her life. No, some terrible first dates. But this week really took the cake.
She sighed, adjusting her bag. Lawson had talked her into going on three dates after the garden party, all of which had been equally disastrous. There had been Alex, who'd interrupted the waiter, and then Kane, who'd insisted on ordering wine with an Italian accent. And then, worst of all, there'd been Ned.
Ned, who'd written a poem comparing her eyes to mud. Ned, who'd proceeded to get utterly obliterated and stand on a table to recite the poem.
Harper winced.
She could never unhear the phrase "your eyes are so brown like warm mud, I hope you're looking for a stud."
She found Lawson standing near Vauxhall Bridge. He was dressed in his maroon cricket uniform, his dark hair shiny with sweat. A bat dangled from his back. He held out something as Harper approached, and it took her a second to realize what it was: strawberry ice cream. Her favourite.
"Ice cream?" Lawson asked.
She accepted the cone. "Is this an apology?"
"For what?"
"The poetry."
"Ah," Lawson said, falling into step beside her. "I forgot Ned wrote poetry. He regaled you with his finest works, then?"
"Something like that."
Lawson cleared his throat. "Love seeketh only self to please, to bind another to its delight, joys in another's loss of ease, and builds a Hell in Heaven's despite." Seeing her surprise, his smile turned mischievous. "Blake."
"You know," Harper said, licking her ice cream, "I'm convinced that you've memorized that just to impress girls. Nobody can actually quote poetry from memory."
"I can."
"Why?" Harper asked, aghast.
Lawson shrugged. "Because I like poetry."
"Really?"
"Are you surprised?"
Yes. Although maybe she shouldn't be, Harper realized; after all, Lawson had attended one of the most prestigious boarding schools in the country. And his sister, Paige, was an artist; it made sense that Lawson would like some form of art too, right?
"You could have warned me," Harper said, changing tracks. "About Ned."
Lawson raised an eyebrow. "I thought you'd be the type of girl that liked poetry. And Valentine's Day. And all of that other romantic shit."
"I do," Harper said. "Just not poetry. And especially not recited to me on a table."
