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I needed to talk to her. To apologize. To tell her about Marc—that I wanted to bring in a professional to do a full marketing campaign. And to figure out what day next week worked best to have him come up to the farm because he was leaving for Paris the following Sunday for two weeks.

My skin prickled seeing the uneven sliver of light from under her door. I dragged my hand through my hair, tugging the ends until my scalp tingled.

What the hell was wrong with me? Was I…nervous?

No, I couldn’t be…The idea was almost laughable, but damn, my heart was thudding. My palms were a little damp. How many sets…how many red carpets…how many interviews and TV shows and PR tours had I done. Not one made everything underneath my skin hum like it did right now. Like everything beneath it was electrified, and if I wasn’t careful, I might not survive.

I guess that was the price I paid for fucking up and needing Harper to forgive me. For Paisley. Because of our situation. Not because it felt like a hand around my throat every time I thought about letting her hate me and living with the knowledge that I’d hurt her.

I passed through the living room to her bedroom door, making sure my steps could be heard. I didn’t want the knock that followed to come as a surprise, especially if…

The memory of her hand holding that lemon came to mind. Dammit, why did my mind have to go there?

Because you haven’t had sex in a year and she just shoved her vibrator in your face.

I huffed a deep breath—the deluded parts of me believed I’d smelled her scent for a split-second the other night. Pure fucking fantasy.

I stopped in front of the master bedroom and knocked gently. “Harper?”

Soft footfalls, and then the door swung—stopped open, half of Harper’s face visible through the crack.

“Is Paisley okay?” she asked, and I swallowed hard, unable to stop the slingshot of my stare down over her.

She was in her pajamas—a tiny tank top and too-short shorts, both a butter yellow.

“Yeah—she’s fine. She’s asleep,” I answered, my hand, still pulled in a fist from knocking, tightening. “I wanted to talk to you. About the other night.”

Color burst into her cheeks and she tried to slide just a little more behind the door that was hardly open. “I don’t think we need to do that.”

“Harper, we can’t go on just not speaking and avoiding each other.”

Anger flashed in her eyes. “I thought that was what you wanted. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

I exhaled slowly. I deserved that.

I filled my lungs. “Can you open the door?”

“Why?” If anything, the opening narrowed further with her question.

“So I can apologize to your whole face,” I said, the smoothness of my voice crumbling at the end. Lou said she’d forgive me; she never said she’d make it easy.

We stood locked like that for a long second, like a bull and a matador waiting to go another round. And then the door inched wider until her shoulders fit into the opening.

Air pierced my chest like a hot knife. I’d wanted to apologize face-to-face because it shouldn’t be easy for me. I shouldn’t be able to skate away with apologizing from the shelter of a closed door where I didn’t have to see on her face all the ways I’d hurt her.

I didn’t want it to be easy for me. I wrongly anticipated just how difficult it would be when facing her meant seeing her like this. Her shoulders bare. Her tits, braless, under her tank and poking against the fabric. Her shorts giving way to the whole length of her legs, the little bow in the front just begging to be undone. If she turned, I knew I’d see the lower curve of her ass.

Fuck.

I was hard. Not just my dick throbbing against my stiff jeans, a small mercy if they were able to hide it, but every single muscle in my body, poised like she’d just waved a red flag in front of my face.

“You were saying?” Harper prompted, and my eyes snapped to hers.

She had to have seen my distraction, but there was no sign of it on her face. God, she really wasn’t into me anymore. Could I fucking blame her?

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice fully rasped now. “I’m sorry for what I said—what I implied the other night,” I continued, remembering to be specific. Anyone can say I’m sorry. Specificity meant sincerity. “I never should’ve assumed and accused you of coming into my room to try and…take advantage of the situation. I was exhausted and stressed, and I’m just used to people trying to take advantage of…things like this.” I huffed and let my head shake. “It’s not an excuse, but it’s been my reality for a long time, and I’m sorry you paid the price.”

And that right there was the most I could ever admit to her; I would forever be sorry that Harper continued to pay the price for my mistakes. For my overreactions. For poor life choices. For the way those choices didn’t just come back to haunt me but to beat me over the head.