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 spent the rest of the afternoon in a state of panic.
The marquee had a hole in it. The seating chart was missing. The whole manor smelled of chemicals post-fumigation. Absolutely nothing was ready for the wedding next weekend, and she hadn't the faintest clue where to start. She almost wished that Griffin was here to blow the whole place up; that would have only improved the décor.
No wonder Diana was stressed.
She wandered into the library, spraying a bottle of lavender-scented water. This was partially under Diana's direction to "cleanse" the house, and partially, Harper thought grimly, to hide the smell of bug-killing gas. This whole manor needed a good air-out. ASAP.
Lawson was sitting in an armchair, a book propped open on his lap. Flames crackled in the grate, casting odd shadows across his cheekbones. His dark hair was damp from the shower. He was also, Harper noted in amusement, wearing glasses; there was something oddly endearing about the way they kept slipping down his nose.
Harper climbed a ladder, still brandishing the bottle. Lawson looked up.
"What," Lawson said calmly, "are you doing?"
Harper sprayed. "Cleansing."
"Cleansing?"
She sprayed again. "Don't ask."
"Ohio," Lawson said. "Put down the bottle and take a seat."
"Up here?" Harper examined the towering ladder, her voice mild. "Seems kind of dangerous, don't you think?"
Lawson whistled. "That almost sounded like something I'd say. Things must be bad." He rose, pouring a healthy splash of caramel-coloured liquid into a glass. He set it down next to the couch. "Here. Drink this."
Harper frowned. "What is it?"
"Sustenance."
She turned back to the bookshelves. "I'm busy."
"Ohio." His voice was stern. "Sit down and have a whisky. Before you hurt yourself."
Harper sighed. Lawson was looking up at her, his arms folded across his chest. He'd been helpful today, organizing bedrooms and seating charts and parking spaces. The least she could do was have a whisky with him.
Even if a drink with Lawson did seem a little dangerous.
She climbed down the ladder. Lawson reclaimed his seat by the fireplace, ghostly flames reflected in his glasses. His long fingers swirled a glass of caramel liquid, sending light dancing across the walls. He looked like a photograph, Harper thought: Man with Whisky, June 2022. But for the first time, her hands didn't itch for a camera.
Oddly, she wanted to keep this moment just for herself.
She took the seat across from him. Lawson's gaze was fixed on his drink, his dark brow slightly furrowed.
