To the Stars (Thatch #2)(13)

“Still?”

“Still?” I murmured, and huffed a laugh. “Wow. Who knew one word could make me feel so pathetic?”

Winter 2009—Seattle

I STOOD IN front of the door restlessly as I waited for it to open. I should’ve called. I should’ve asked her earlier in the week if she’d had plans today or tonight since she’d assumed I did—but I hadn’t. Now I was standing there like a dumbass with two bouquets of flowers, hoping I wouldn’t have to leave so Harlow could go on a date tonight.

The door finally opened, and Mrs. Evans’s face brightened. “Knox Alexander, why doesn’t it surprise me that you’re knocking on my door this afternoon?”

I failed at hiding my grin, and handed her the first bouquet. “First, these are for you.”

“Why, thank you!”

“Honestly, Mrs. Evans, I’m just worried that I’m not the only guy showing up today.” I glanced inside the house, and asked, “Does my girl have a date tonight?”

She raised one eyebrow, the action making her look younger, and so much like Harlow. “I’m not sure,” she said playfully. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

My face fell for a second before I was able to compose myself. All I wanted to be able to do was take Harlow out on a date—but I was afraid to risk even that. I cleared my throat and said, “Well, I’m hoping she’ll let me spend the day with her. If it’s okay with you,” I added quickly.

Mrs. Evans rolled her eyes and stepped back to let me in the house. “I doubt my daughter would ever choose anything over a day with you, and you are always welcome in our home.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Evans.”

“Harlow’s in her room. Remember: no closed doors,” she said strictly, then turned to walk toward the kitchen with her flowers. Just as I started up the stairs, she called out, “I’ll set an extra place for you at the table tonight, Knox.”

I stopped to look at her, and said sincerely, “Thank you.” She and her husband would never know how thankful I was that they didn’t try to keep me from the girl upstairs.

I hurried up the stairs and barely slowed long enough to knock on Harlow’s door. As soon as I heard her mumbled “Yeah?” I walked into her room, left the door as wide as it would go, and stopped trying to fight my smile when I took her in.

She was facing away from me, and lying on her stomach on the bed. Her feet were in the air, crossed at the ankles, and her eyes were glued to the book in front of her. Her hair was piled messily on her head, one side of her oversize shirt was falling off her shoulder, and the fitted black sleep pants she was wearing hugged every curve of her perfectly.

It wasn’t morning, but looking at her then, I knew I wanted to wake up to this Harlow for the rest of my life.

She still hadn’t looked up, so I took a few more steps into the room, then brought the bouquet of poppies in front of me. “For the girl who hates roses.”

Harlow gasped and whirled around on her bed as soon as she heard my voice, and had launched herself at me by the time I finished talking.

I tossed the flowers on her bed in time to catch her, and tightened my arms around her when she did the same to me.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Low,” I whispered against her shoulder, and gripped her tighter before setting her down on the floor. Something caught in my chest when her eyes met mine, and I wanted to live in that moment.

Have you ever looked at someone . . . just one look, and you knew that was it? There would never be anyone else who would compare? That was Harlow for me. Every time.

Her hands slid to my shoulders, then back to my face, like she was making sure I was real. “What are you doing here?”

I gave her an amused look, like the answer to her question was obvious. “Seeing you.”

“But it’s Valentine’s Day. Shouldn’t you be going somewhere with your girlfriend?”

Girlfriend was a very loose term, but every time I tried to explain that to Harlow, she thought I was only saying it for her benefit. “No, I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

She tilted her head away, but not before I saw heat fill her cheeks and the corners of her mouth tilt up in a faint smile. When she looked back at me, her expression was stern. “That’s not very nice to do to her,” she informed me.

“Harlow, trust me. There’s nowhere I need to be more than where I am right now.”

She bit down on her bottom lip and looked like she might argue as her blue eyes searched mine. Just when I started to repeat myself, she huffed and her mouth quirked up in a lopsided smile. “If you were anyone else, I really would feel bad for your girlfriend . . . but you’re not, and you know I’m selfish enough to want you here.”

“Then it looks like I’m staying.” Like I would’ve left. Leaning around her, I grabbed the poppies off the bed and held them up to her. “For you.”

Harlow gave a giddy smile, then took the bouquet like it was something precious and breakable. Her eyes lifted to meet mine from where she’d been looking over her flowers, and she said, “Thank you, and perfect timing. My monthlies just met their unavoidable end with the trash.”

I followed her stare, and let out a low laugh when I saw half a dozen little cards piled up on her dresser. I’d sent her poppies every month since I’d met her, and each one had come with a card letting her know I was still waiting for her.