Harper
It feels just like old times. Except, instead of sitting in a beat-up old Corolla, we’re peeling through the city streets in a brand new red Ferrari.
Rafe guides my hand expertly on the stick shift, his hand warm on mine, his strong fingers fitting right where they used to.
“How’ve you been, Harper?” he asks. “How’s the painting going?”
“I just actually had a big break,” I reply. ‘So, that’s been nice. I might be getting busy pretty soon.”
“But not too busy to see me.” He gives me puppy-dog eyes.
“No,” I reply softly. “Not too busy to see you.”
He grins as we pull into the parking lot behind a sports bar. It looks like a bit of a dive, but then, he used to like those. Especially when people started to recognize him from college football. These types of places, nobody bothered
