At six o’clock on Friday night, I’m parked in front of Harper’s building.
Not sure which apartment is hers, I’m about to send her a text when she comes bounding down the stairs. I climb out of my truck, unable to wipe the smile from my face.
“Hey,” she says, coming to a stop on the sidewalk before me.
My mouth twitches as I take her in. No one should look this good wearing ripped jeans and a sweatshirt, but Harper does. She really f*****g does. It also amuses me that she didn’t dress up for our date. Most girls would have just to impress me—even after I texted her and told her the date I’ve planned is casual. But, of course, Harper doesn’t bend to anyone’s expectations.
“Hope this is okay. I mean, the first time we met I was wearing a dress that made me look like a marshmallow, and sin
