Harper possessed a rare talent - she could blend two worlds that the universe swore could never coexist: her humdrum life as an accountant by day with her steamy famous alter ego crafting erotic tales online by night.
But her double life unravels...
❝My place is not deliberate The feeling of your arms I don't wanna be your friend I wanna kiss your neck❞
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I woke up to the weirdest client commission I'd received yet: "a giant flying toaster-shaped UFO beaming up cows wearing tuxedos in the peaceful countryside."
And you know what I did?
I took it.
Was the $450 attached to the request a very attractive offer? Yes. Was it not only attractive but an actual necessity? Also yes.
The old me would not have touched a request like that with a ten foot pole but Harper and EJ had been right. I didn't have the luxury to be picky and choosy about work anymore. Bills didn't care about artistic integrity. They just needed to be paid.
I'd managed to make more money in the last two weeks doing commissions than I had in the last year while denying myself the opportunity due to my 'artistic philosophy.' I chuckled at the absurdity of it all as I looked over at my blank canvas. It seemed to mock me, as if my muse had taken a permanent vacation, leaving me to deal with toasters and tuxedo-clad cows.
The loud clatter of pots and silverware banging from the kitchen pulled me out of my thoughts. Concerned, I got to my feet and started to head for my door before pausing. Would she want me around her, whatever it was she was up to?
Since I'd come clean to her, our living situation had become a tad...interesting, to say the least. Harper blushed and stuttered her way around me like a schoolgirl for the most part while I did my best to give her the space to process. My best, apparently, wasn't good enough.
She'd openly caught me staring at her lips a couple times when she spoke. She avoided any accidental brushes with my downstairs like the plague, and with good intention. The other day, I'd chosen to sleep in so she'd quietly tip-toed into my room to use the bathtub before going for another interview. I'd genuinely been asleep until the moment she'd come out, wrapped in nothing but a short, lavender towel that proudly displayed her long legs and hourglass figure.
It was hard being around her-literally, and otherwise.
But I hadn't stepped out of the room almost all day today and the realization that I hadn't seen her face since last night had my feet moving to the door with a mind of their own.
When I made my way to the scene of the crime, I took her in with a small sigh of relief before noticing the kitchen landslide behind her. Harper stood in front of the stove, her long black hair braided, wearing an apron, and her face buried in a big recipe book. An assortment of pots and pans surrounded her with only a solitary wok on the open flame above the stove.
My eyes flit to the wok where the buttered garlic was turning an uncomfortable shade of charcoal. I swiftly moved into the kitchen, my arm reaching past her to turn off the heat on the stove, just slightly brushing her waist.
