Into You Series: The Complete Collection

2. Harry

CHAPTER 2

HARRY

T he shock on this girl’s face is almost enough to make me change my mind when I tell her no. She’s cute, I’ll give her that.

“ No? ” It’s like she’s never been told no in her life. And, by the looks of her, I’m willing to bet she hasn’t. Her hair is dyed a light silver blonde and cropped just below the chin. She has a hooped nose ring, a black choker necklace, a crop top with those skintight jeans, and dark plum-colored lipstick. Although she’s undeniably gorgeous, that whole ‘social media influencer’ look really isn’t my thing.

“Please,” she continues, “my ex-boyfriend from the Peace Corps is back in town.”

“Is he someone we should be worried about?” I ask instantly, because that’s the first thing I feel needs to be addressed. I’m not exactly in the habit of butting into domestic disputes, but ‘scary ex-boyfriend’ never bodes well. Maybe it’s my father senses tingling. I can’t imagine if it were Cara with a sketchy ex. “He doesn’t hurt you, right?”

“He’s only hurting my heart,” she says, hand over her chest as her chin dips low with a solemn gaze. It’s overdramatic, which makes me laugh against my better judgment. “Did you not hear me say the Peace Corps? The Peace Corps .” She waves her hand in the air to emphasize her point. “He’s too perfect! You have to help me.”

Her eyebrows curve in farther. She looks desperate. Real desperate.

“What do I get out of it?” I ask, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

“My wonderful company!” she says, her fists landing on her hips and chest pressing outward as if in victory. It’s hard not to notice how great that crop top looks on her and how her abs tighten just below it in this stance. She must work out. “I can pay you.”

“Don’t pay me,” I say with a laugh.

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s an ‘I’m thinking about it.’”

“And how long do you typically mull things over?”

“I’m a muller,” I say, shrugging. “I mull.”

She groans in an overexaggerated way, but it’s weirdly cute. Maybe it’s her adorable nose and plump lips. Who’s to say.

“Saria, right?” I ask, trying her name on for size. She nods in confirmation. “That’s a unique name.” When her proud posture falters, I quickly add, “Pretty—it’s pretty.”

If this girl is begging me to be her boyfriend, I’m willing to bet her ego is a bit sensitive at the moment.

The bar door swings open and in walk two people whom I can only guess are her friends due to their general demeanor of ownership. It’s almost a strut with how the blonde one walks. The tall brunette just seems bored by it all.

Saria’s head darts back to me, teeth clenched as she mutters, “Please, please, please.”

“Ten minutes.”

“Twenty.”

“Fifteen.”

“Deal.”

The group approaches, and Saria turns on her lone heel to face them.

This whole thing seems ridiculous. Here I am facing two people who couldn’t be more my opposite next to a woman who may or may not be a bit crazy. I already wish I were back at the shop working on my next project.

And yet, for some reason, I find my hand curling around Saria’s waist of its own accord, a finger dipping into her exposed belt loop, my palm tightening around her core. She’s smaller than I thought, more petite, but strong. I can feel goose bumps run over her flesh.

She sucks air in through her teeth. I don’t know the last time I got that type of reaction out of a woman. I smile.

“Guys, this is Harry,” she says. “He’s my boyfriend.”

Right to the point, I guess.

“Yep, we’re in love,” I say, squeezing her side. I can’t help myself.

She stiffens under my touch. Okay, so I attacked it too strong.

“ So much,” she says through gritted teeth.

Her friends stare back at us, unblinking. One even lets out that noise that’s a mix between “Uhhh” and a slight throat clearing. Nobody really says anything, let alone making an accusation that this is so clearly a dumb lie. I wonder if they’ll let her keep her dignity and accept this.

They start to look at each other until the brunette goes, “Nice to see you again, Harry!”

I squint before suddenly realizing this girl must be in on it. “Yes, we’ve met,” I say, hoping my one short stint in a drama class is paying off.

“Oh, you’ve met?” the blonde asks. Her harsh tone seems accusatory, and her raised thin eyebrow only presses the point home more.

“Yes, I’ve met…” I pause, raising my eyebrows to cue Saria.

“Jessi,” Saria coughs out, her fist going to her lips.

“Jessi. Yes, sorry—my memory,” I say.

The blonde girl with the thin eyebrows smashes her lips together so tightly she appears more duck than human. She lets out a low snort.

Yeah, she ain’t buying this.

“Right,” she drawls. “I’m gonna go get some sticks.”

“Only if Harry and I can be on the same team,” Saria says quickly, stiffly stroking my back. The feeling of a woman’s hand on me is startling, but still nice. It might be nicer were her hand not in some tense claw.

So much for a quiet night out—though I can’t help but wonder if this is for the best.

I’ve been stressed, trying to find solace in anything that isn’t paperwork, marketing efforts, or business opportunities that seem to be growing more pressing by the day. Normally when I’m feeling this overwhelmed, I’d just hang out with Cara, make mac and cheese, and watch whatever princess movie she wants to watch then we’d go to sleep by nine o’clock, maybe ten if Cara convinced me. She always knows the right buttons to press, using phrases like “Daddy, let’s go stargazing” and “Daddy, show me what that tool does.”

Twist my arm, tiny mechanic.

But Cara is at Aunt Nia and Uncle Ian’s house tonight. My sister and her fiancé insisted on a sleepover with their niece. They said I was overworking myself, told me I needed to take a break, so here I am left to live up my life as a ‘hot, single man’—as Ian puts it—when really, I just miss my three-and-a-half-foot-tall partner in crime.

“That was super convincing,” Saria says sarcastically, bringing me back to this bar and the now.

Yep, bar life is definitely different than life with a six-year-old daughter.

Her friend group has dispersed almost as fast as it arrived. The sour blonde girl is gathering pool sticks, and the brunette named Jessi is at the other end of the bar getting drinks. Geez, is she even old enough to drink?

I look at Saria standing beside me. I hadn’t noticed how young she looks until now. Much too young for me, I’m sure.

Her elbows lean back on the bar, and our thighs touch as she gets closer in proximity. My legs are easily two or three times the size of hers, but that’ll happen when you alternate between squatting and standing to work on cars all day.

“I would say I’m sorry for ruining your night,” Saria starts, but then she shrugs. “But you’re really doing me a solid here.”

“It’s fine. I generally don’t go out,” I admit. “My sister convinced me to. Didn’t know I’d end up in a relationship, though. She’ll love that.”

Saria smiles, throwing her head back, the silver hair following suit in a coconut-scented wave. I stiffen at the smell. Yeah, I’ve definitely been deprived of sex for too long if fucking coconuts are going to set me off. Settle down, Harry.

“Well then, you’re welcome for showing you a good time,” Saria says.

I smile back. At least this is something different from the day-to-day grind of paperwork. And it’s not a princess movie, that’s for sure.

“So,” Saria says, continuing to run a hand over my back. I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it. “If you don’t mind me asking…why did your sister push you to go out?”

“To take my mind off things, I guess.”

Saria smiles with a nod. “I feel that.”

I weirdly get the sense that she does, but I don’t know why.

“So,” she starts again. I notice she has a tendency to start sentences off like that, as if that word announces her conversational presence. “Like, what do you do?”

I tilt my head back, trying to take in every bit of her as she stands beside my bar stool. Her eyes are equally as curious as mine, but they’re a blue-green color, like high tide. Of course her eyes look like the wild, unknown ocean. It seems fitting for her. She carries an equally sly and knowing smile. It’s alluring, just like the lines her fingers draw over my shoulder blades.

“I own an auto shop,” I say.

“Woah, really?” she says as she exhales.

I chuckle. “Is that impressive?”

“You’re a business owner,” she says with a slow nod. “I dig it.”

“Okay, what about you?” I ask. “What do you do?”

Saria pauses for a second before clearing her throat and shrugging. “Receptionist. Not the most fascinating job.”

Her tone is dull—duller than it’s been in the last few minutes.

“Why do you say it like that?” I ask. “Cushy office job—that’s not a bad gig.”

She groans. “Honestly, I got paid more babysitting, but it’s got benefits, so there’s that. It’s not the Peace Corps , that’s for sure.”

Right. The mysterious ex from the Peace Corps.

“I’m sure the Peace Corps is not that great,” I say, trying to make her feel better.

She rolls her eyes. “I barely graduated college and he’s off doing cool things. Which is why”—she sucks air in for dramatic effect—“I bought a van!”

“A van?”

“It’s already renovated. I’m going to live in it.”

Oh right. I see those tiny house vans come into the shop from time to time. These people travel and live in these souped-up makeshift RVs. She must have seen the trend on social media and jumped on it. Although I’ve repaired a few for people who say they love the lifestyle, I wonder if Saria knows it isn’t nearly as glamourous as the internet makes it seem. I’ve cleaned out too many spiders and rats from those vans over the years.

“Why a van?” I ask.

“Freedom,” she says, her chin tipped upward in pride.

I wonder if it’s freedom or something else.

“Running from your ex?” I ask.

I expect her to jolt back in offense, but instead she calmly looks at the ground between us, shifting from her heeled shoe to the un-heeled bare foot. I almost mention she probably shouldn’t wear one shoe in a bar, but I don’t.

“I’m not running from my ex,” she says. “More like calmly moonwalking backward into better plans. I’m going to tour the country.”

“Are you in a band?”

“No.”

“A comedian then.”

“Shush,” she says, shoving my shoulder, a smile reappearing. “I’m living in a van to travel…experience life.”

“Is your life not good right now?”

“It’s fine, but it could be better. I could be living on the road.”

“What is it with the younger crowd and this idea of living wild and free?”

Her cheeks flush.

“I’m not that young,” she says.

Her childish tone in that moment betrays her, but it’s still cute. Innocent.

Saria lifts her heel from the ground to nudge my booted feet where they’re hooked on the bottom rung of the bar stool.

“How old are you, Harry?” she asks.

“I’m thirty-one,” I say. “Can I ask how old you are?”

“I’m twenty-one.” She looks up at me through her eyelashes as if judging my reaction, but I have none to give, so she rushes into her next sentence, grabbing a small bit of lint off her crop top distractedly. “But I’ll be twenty-two in one month. Nine years age difference…that’s not too bad.”

I laugh again. “You know we’re not actually dating right?”

She smiles. “A girl can pretend to be happy in her fake relationship, can’t she?”

Some weird feeling zings through my chest and drops into my stomach. It’s both light and heavy, like a magnet suspended in air, all pointing toward her. The feelings carry with them a type of unease that comes when I drink too much, but I can’t blame the alcohol because I’ve barely had any tonight.

My eyes shift between hers, and I wonder for a moment if she felt the rush of energy too.

“So how are we going to convince your friends? That blonde one seems highly suspicious,” I say, nodding over at the girl with the pool sticks now shooting daggers in our direction.

“You could kiss me,” Saria says, her eyes darting from my eyes down to my lips.

There’s that nervous buzz again.

On instinct, I laugh, but I don’t think she’s joking.

“This deal is getting worse and worse,” I tease.

Even though she’s smiling, I can hear the hitch in her breath.

“I’m serious, Harry. It’ll really seal the deal.” I feel weird when she says my name. It triggers something my old car school mentor told us: Saying someone’s name gives you unspoken power over them. It’s an oddly convincing sales tactic, and I wonder if Saria knows that because I can feel the pull of her power over me already.

She pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth, and her eyes twitch from her friends back to me.

“I swear I don’t bite,” she says. When I lift an eyebrow, she shrugs. “Unless you want me to.”

Well shit.

I can feel the blood rush down south, and the zipper on my pants grows tighter.

This whole situation feels foreign, yet familiar all the same. I had a one-night stand with Cara’s mom—another similarly confident woman—and nine months later, we had Cara. It was a mistake I don’t regret because now I have a daughter I love, but it was an impulsive decision all the same. I’m not usually one for impulsive decisions, but that night stemmed from mid-twenties boredom and a lack of direction. What makes this night different is that I’m not bored. I’m spurred on by electricity. Curiosity.

That night with Cara’s mom was nothing like this. Nothing this frenetic.

Ian and Nia told me to go out, have fun, be single…but I don’t think they anticipated this five-foot-woman’s worth of crazy.

But, looking at her plum-colored lips, breathing in her coconut shampoo, I don’t see myself arguing with her request.

For just a few hours, let me not be the single dad who wears the crafted paper crown. Let me not be the only single male parent at PTA meetings or after-school pick-up getting side glances from the moms. Let me not be the man who has to figure out how to braid so my daughter won’t be the only girl in kindergarten going to picture day with un-styled hair.

Let me be a single man who kisses a random, beautiful, crazy woman in a bar.