Page 24
“Unbelievable,” Harper mutters, eyeing the bottle of champagne sarcastically. “Flowers, candles, and champagne. Eleanor must be rolling on the floor laughing back in Manhattan.”
“The bottle can stay there unopened,” Victoria says, opening the master closet to hang up her jacket. “No one’s forcing us to drink it.”
“That’s the irony of the situation, Victoria. I didn’t expect the universe to lock us in a bridal suite.”
Victoria bursts out laughing as she hangs two of her blouses on the hangers.
“Play along, Harper. Nothing’s going to happen to us.”
Harper stands in the bedroom doorway, watching her with her arms crossed over her chest. Victoria notices how her eyes follow her every move as she organizes her things.
“What are you doing?” Harper asks.
“Unpacking. I don’t want my clothes to get wrinkled. And making room for you.” Victoria shrugs. “I don’t want your clothes to suffer either.”
“How thoughtful. Paris has changed you.”
“I’ve always been like this,” Victoria replies, glancing over her shoulder at her with a half-smile. “When I want to be.”
Their eyes meet for three eternal seconds. Being there with her, doing something as ordinary as sharing a closet, feels strangely familiar. It reminds Victoria of the trips they used to take when they were married, of the laughter in hotels, of making love until the wee hours before facing a business meeting.
Victoria’s mouth suddenly goes dry. She needs to get out of this bubble before she does something stupid.
“If you want, you can have the bed,” Victoria offers, pointing to the mattress. “I don’t mind sleeping on the sofa bed.”
Harper opens her mouth to reply, but Victoria cuts her off before she can start to protest.
“I’m going to take a quick shower,” Victoria announces, grabbing her toiletry bag and a pair of black satin pajamas. “Then we’ll order something for dinner and go over the key points for tomorrow’s meeting—the lines we won’t cross and where we can compromise.”
Harper looks at her warily, as if searching for a catch in her words.
“I can sleep on the couch. Don’t worry.”
“Fine. That’s settled, then.”
Victoria heads toward the bathroom, desperately seeking a little distance. Just as she’s about to step inside, Harper’s voice stops her.
“Victoria.”
Victoria turns at the threshold, her hand resting on the doorframe.
“Yes?”
“Nothing,” Harper says after a second, shaking her head. “I’ll order dinner for when you come out.”
“Okay,” Victoria murmurs.
She goes into the bathroom and closes the door. Then she leans her back against the wood, letting her head fall back as she lets out a long sigh.
“Don’t even think about it, Victoria,” she warns herself. “Don’t even think about making this any more complicated than it already is.”
Chapter 8
Harper hasn’t slept a wink. She hasn’t slept a wink, and it’s not because of the sleeper sofa—which is much more comfortable than she’d imagined—or because she’s tired from the flight. The real reason is less than thirteen feet away, on the other side of the partition between the living area and the bedroom.
Victoria Vance has been breathing just a few steps away from her for hours. Breathing, moving, and making those tiny nighttime noises that Harper swore she’d erased from her memory. But she remembers them all. Of course she remembers them. Victoria always starts the night with deep, rhythmic breathing, and when she enters the lightest stage of sleep, she lets out an imperceptible sigh every so often. Sometimes she also lets out the occasional murmur. And just like she did years ago, Harper has been trying to guess what she might be thinking as she makes that sound.
“This is absurd…” she murmurs very softly.
