Into You Series: The Complete Collection

13. Saria

CHAPTER 13

SARIA

M y first thought when we pull up to Nia’s house on Saturday to drop off Cara for the night is, Wow, I didn’t know she owned so many cars. But then Harry’s low groan tells me instantly that she does not, in fact, own a garage full of cars. There are just that many people here.

“Is she hosting a party?” I ask, unbuckling my seatbelt as we park near the cul-de-sac curb.

“No.” He sighs. “Just…people hang out here. Word must have gotten out.”

The squint. “Word?”

“That I have a girlfriend.”

“Daddy, you have a girlfriend?” Cara calls from the back seat.

“I have a friend who is a girl. That’s Saria,” Harry says matter-of-factly.

“Daddy, Saria is a woman ,” Cara corrects.

I have to cover my mouth to stop from laughing as Harry’s eyebrows shoot to the top of his hairline.

“Well, not a big deal, I’ll just stay in the car,” I say. We were supposed to just be dropping Cara off on the way to Noah’s engagement party. She’s staying the night and, well, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping Harry and I would be sleeping together after.

Is that weird? Who cares. I’ve spent the past few weeks getting closer and closer to licking those stupid arms of his. I still have to discreetly glance at his abs when he wipes his shirt on his forehead, and I still have to be very secretive stealing peeks at his nice, firm ass when he bends at the waist to look inside engines or whatever it is he does under the hoods of cars.

No touching around here. No sex. No nothing.

Fake relationship, indeed.

What happened to the heat, the fire, the absolute volcanic rage that came (literally) on the first night we met? What happened to that man? I guess he disappeared when I told him he would be meeting my dad. That would definitely be a boner killer.

But, no, tonight I’m doing it. I want more.

“Nope, you’re coming in,” Harry says. “If I’m meeting your family, you’re meeting mine.”

“What?!” My fun fantasies fly out the window.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“We can suffer meeting families together.”

He shuts off the car then gets out to walk around and open the door for Cara, who has already unbuckled half of her car seat.

His stature alone would be swoon-worthy, and even though we spend most evenings together after I get off work, I still haven’t gotten over the sheer bulk of him. But it isn’t his stature that draws my eye. It’s his outfit.

Harry couldn’t have dressed better for Noah’s engagement party if he tried. I know because he did try with his existing wardrobe, and I shot down every single idea. After the fifth flannel shirt—which, yes, is wonderful, but not engagement party appropriate—I eventually logged on to my favorite men’s online store, picked an outfit from their fall lookbook, got his approval before he rolled back under a car, and then pressed order.

Harry pulls off this outfit better than any model I’ve ever seen. Hell, he even looks better than Noah might. It’s a bit yuppier than his usual style, sure, but I kept with his dark, subdued color palette.

He’s dapper.

He’s beautiful.

“You look great,” I say, closing my own door and holding out an arm to assist Cara down from the van.

“Yeah, Daddy, you look like a prince!”

Her statement adds a bit of color to his cheeks.

“How many people should be here again?” I ask, looking around to observe the variety of vehicles. There are two in the driveway, a regular Honda sitting beside a black sports car that looks like it’s made for speed. Behind that is a black Jeep, a sedan, and, on the road, some older car with a dent in the side and a bicycle hooked on the back.

“Too many,” Harry says with a low groan.

I run my hands over my dress, patting it down. I decided on an A-line dress that cinches in right at the center of my waist with a neckline that dips just low enough to reveal a hint of cleavage. My tiny knockers don’t do much for large exposés, but with the right bra and the right cut, they don’t look half bad. I didn’t expect to see anyone but my own family. I tug my neckline up a tad.

Harry notices the action, putting a hand around my waist for a moment before glancing at Cara and pulling it away.

“You look nice,” he whispers to me.

I grin. “No need to pretend.”

“No, really,” he says. “You’re stunning.”

He ushers Cara forward into the open garage, where she bounds toward the side door, backpack bouncing the entire way.

“By the way, I told them why I’m dropping Cara off,” he says.

“That’s fine. They can know about our fake relationship.”

“I didn’t exactly tell them this was fake.”

My heart drops.

“What?” It’s the only word that will come out, not that I should seriously care. I was already mentally prepared for a night of on-the-spot lying. I had just imagined at least the first thirty minutes of it would be stress-free.

“Surprise,” he says, grimacing. I would hate the look were he not so damn handsome right now.

“And I thought you were above this little lie of ours,” I say with a sly smile.

“What’s that saying about glass houses?”

“I promise not to embarrass you,” I sneer.

Harry laughs. “They won’t get off my back about dating, so I’m getting my piece of this pie too.” He reaches his thumb out to stroke my chin. I may as well melt right here. I don’t think he knows the full extent of his influence on me. “Thanks for being my fake girlfriend,” he mutters.

“Hooray,” I say with false enthusiasm.

This earns me another chuckle, which, to me, seems like a well-deserved win.

We enter the side door to Nia’s house, and I’m not surprised to find a mudroom as un-mudlike as possible. I don’t know much about Nia other than what I see of her in our day-to-day office life as my human resources rep. As far as I’m concerned, her interests include clipboards, looking irritated, and somehow forming a close friendship with our creative director, Grace Kaufman. Grace is cool. Nia is…well, not.

I take a deep breath, and Harry reaches over to give my hand a squeeze before we move into the kitchen.

I expected to see more people, but by the sounds of it, they’re all in the next room. The only soul in here is an older man leaning against the counter near a growling coffee maker. His hair is just as thick as Harry’s, but slightly longer and with heavier layers of gray. It’s what I imagine Harry’s might look like in ten years, which is exactly what I assume their age difference is as well. He wears a hoodie that looks too large to fit his torso and bike shorts that are much too tight to fit his lower, more muscular half.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks with a heavy sigh. “And in those?” He holds out his palm toward the man’s crotch. “Come on, you’re just trying to be difficult.”

“That’s no way to introduce me to your girlfriend,” the man says, clutching an empty coffee mug with a sly smile. It’s disingenuous and very reminiscent of a carefree sibling jab. As an only child, I don’t know what it’s like to have this kind of relationship, but I’ve seen Noah and Heather do it many times.

“You must be his brother,” I say. I step forward, holding out my hand. He tilts his head to the side, something I see Nia do often and Harry sometimes if he’s in a mood. The man eyes me from head to toe. I don’t miss that he pauses for half a second on my legs before finding my face once more. He finally takes my hand to shake it.

“Grant,” he answers. “Aren’t you a little young?”

“Fuck you,” Harry mutters, shaking his head.

My head jolts back in response. “Aren’t you a little old to be wearing those shorts?”

“The older you get, the more you can rock these, baby,” Grant answers, raising his mug and winking. My stomach feels oddly queasy, and I wonder if that’s just the norm with this guy.

“Keep telling yourself that, grandpa,” I say with a grimace.

Grant smiles, slow and steady, much less cocky than seconds before. Almost nice.

“I like her,” he says to Harry with a small nod.

Well, at least I got that form of approval.

“Alright, let’s not pick fights, shall we?” Harry says, placing a hand on my hip to push me farther away from Grant.

“Nice chat,” I call back.

When I turn the corner, I’m riding so high on how fantastically I conquered that last encounter that I’m less prepared for the sight in front of me.

Jesus, is this a family reunion?

There are too many things going on at once, so my brain tries to balance them in segments.

One, we have a couple sitting together in an armchair: a man covered in beautiful tattoos that match his equally handsome face, and a woman who is poised in his lap with thick curly hair and a smile that lights up the room. Neither of them look like they could be related to Harry’s blond siblings, but they sit just as comfortably as family would.

Two, our creative director, Grace, is lying on the carpet surrounded by two golden retrievers. One is hovering over her with a look of sheer happiness, and the other seems content to just be near a fireplace. I’ve never seen a dog so solemn as that old golden, but I bet those flames are really feeding him some sage advice.

Three, there’s Cameron, a man who used to be an employee at Treasuries Inc., talking to Harry’s sister, Nia. They both hold bottles of beer. Hers is barely sipped, his nearly empty.

And last, but certainly not least, there stands tall, beautiful Ian Chambers. My nightmare of a man. Ian worked for Treasuries Inc. since its inception. He was our in-house lawyer before he left almost two years ago. I got drunk one night and hit on him. Not my finest hour, and it ended in puke so that really sent my chances down the toilet.

He’s grown more handsome since the last time I saw him. It’s not that I’m still into him, but he does pull off those wisps of gray well.

I guess you could say I have a thing for older guys. Sue me.

“Holy shit,” he says as he breathes out, finally catching my eye.

Uh-oh.

“Ian,” I say. “Wow.”

Nia turns to look at me. Then Grace. Then Cameron. And suddenly all eyes are on me. Even the dog near the fireplace breaks away to stare. For some reason, his gaze seems the most damning. How dare I interrupt his meditation.

“Hi,” I say with a slight wave. Nia and Grace’s eyes narrow slightly, and then I realize…Harry didn’t bother to tell them who he’s dating, did he?

So now here we stand with all my co-workers looking back at me and not a single explanation in sight.

Thanks, Harry.

“Well this is… fun .” The words leave my mouth with very little fun involved.

“Saria, show them your dinosaur!” Cara says.

“Yeah, maybe not now, Care-bear, huh?” I say. I wish she were older so I could tell her to just be cool, but that’s not really something a kid would understand.

“You’re dating Saria?” Grace asks, her eyebrows rising toward Harry, who is nodding as if slowly understanding there’s more to this story than even he knows.

“Possibly,” he says.

“Definitely,” I agree with as polite of a smile I can muster.

“No, that’s his girlfriend, Aunt Grace,” Cara says with a low scoff and an eyeroll. My hand flies to my mouth to stifle a laugh, and I’m relieved to find Harry’s reaction is similar.

“From the mouths of babes,” Harry says. “Alright, pumpkin, we’re heading out. Be good for Aunt Nia and Uncle Ian.”

Uncle Ian?

My eyes dart from Ian to Nia. They seem unfazed by the absurdity that just left Harry’s mouth, so I curl my lips inward to suppress something that might potentially be blurted out.

Too much has changed since Ian Chambers quit Treasuries Inc. Last I checked, he and Nia were at each other’s throats. I’ve been wondering what stiff gave Nia that engagement ring. I just didn’t think it would be Ian Chambers.

“Well this is… great ,” Nia says with a smile. Something about her tone is unconvincing, but I flash a grimace her direction anyway.

“Harry, we’re going to be late,” I say.

His eyes are shifting from mine to his sister’s, and I can only hope this first impression wasn’t enough to tarnish his vision of me. He seems baffled. I, on the other hand, am ready to leave as soon as we can shimmy our way out that door.

Harry blinks quickly, narrowing his gaze at Ian, who gives a less discreet shrug, long arms flailing everywhere. I cover my mouth with my hand again and practically moonwalk out of that living room, waiting for Harry to follow suit.

One minute later, we’re walking down the driveway and back to his car. He lightly jogs up next to me, arms already crossed over his chest and his jaw ticking from side to side.

“What was that?” he asks, the words coming out slow.

“You’re talking to me like I’m Cara and you found me doodling on the wall.”

“Cara is more polite than that.”

“Well, I’ll have you know I have no crayons. Instead, I had a very weird night where I hit on Ian after work.”

Harry stops mid-stride. Mid-step. Mid-breath. I might find it funny if we were in some cartoon, but in real life, it makes my stomach twist and my knees feel chilled.

“What?” I ask. But, I’m not stupid. I know what. I just told him I hit on his future brother-in-law.

“You liked Ian?” he asks.

“Well, I didn’t like him like him,” I say with a joking grin. Harry’s lips only tip up slightly in a laugh, but based on how he flexes his hand before opening my car door, I can tell he’s still a bit annoyed. “I was drunk. I think I threw up on his shoes.”

Harry nods in understanding, shutting the door after I’m buckled in. The dull silence of an empty car sits around me. I only hear the tapping of the Oxfords I picked out walking against the pavement. It seems almost foreboding.

When he opens his door and slides in the front seat, I lean my own head back against the headrest with a sigh.

“You’re mad, aren’t you?”

I hold out my phone with Noah’s address already loaded on the maps app and let it slide from my hand into his palm.

“I’m not mad,” he says.

“You say that, but then you get a weird jaw thing,” I say, pointing at said weird jaw thing that is happening as he grinds his back teeth together.

“I don’t get a weird jaw thing,” he grumbles. It sounds petulant.

“Hey, look at you,” I say, reaching to poke his ticking jawline. “For once, I’m not the bratty one.”

He sighs. “So, you’ve got a thing for older men, huh?”

“Boy, now is so not the time for the daddy-issue talk,” I say.

“Are you into calling people ‘daddy’, Saria?”

My thighs clench tighter and, well, wouldn’t you know it, maybe I am.

This makes me laugh, which in turn causes him to laugh, and somehow that erupts into a fit of giggles we can’t shake for almost a full minute.

I’m clutching my sides and he’s wiping tears from his eyes as we stare out at the blank pavement in front of the car, the opening of the cul-de-sac emptying out until it disappears in the darkness once more.

“Come on, weirdo. Let’s go meet my parents,” I say. “Hey, if we’re lucky, maybe you’ll have hit on my mom or something and we can call it even.”

Harry wipes his eye with his palm while letting out another laugh. “We can only hope to be so lucky.”

The fact that Harry and I could laugh about how I apparently have a dad kink is comforting to say the least. As we pull up to the curb to park in front of Noah’s house, I can feel the familiar pull of uncertainty and nerves, like muscle memory. I know for a fact Noah would not have found that little story nearly as funny as Harry did, and I’m not sure if that makes me more or less grateful that Harry is my date.

Even though we’re walking hand in hand up to the doorstep, Harry’s thumb tracing over the outside of my hand in some unspoken form of comfort, I wonder what it would be like if this were Noah. My heart flutters only a bit at the thought of it—only to have my brain take out the hunting rifle and shoot it down. I know this moment wouldn’t be nearly the same with Noah.

And that makes my hair stand on end because, for the first time, I don’t want to be with him.

Imagine that.

We get to the door that is already decorated with a holiday wreath, bells and all. I sigh and walk right in, Harry trailing behind me. I can tell he paused a little at the threshold, likely not used to just barging through the front door of a house he’s not familiar with. Fair, but I drag his arm anyway.

“Pumpkin, is that you?” I instantly recognize the voice as belonging to my dad, and though I tense a little, it’s nothing compared to Harry’s stronghold on my hand. I whip around to see him with his eyebrows scrunched together in the deepest V I’ve ever seen on that wonderful face of his.

“Your dad calls you pumpkin?” he asks.

“Weird coincidence,” I murmur before turning away from one daddy and to the other.

Ugh, no, wrong time to think that.

My dad walks toward me with his arms extended. He has this walk about him, almost a saunter, like John Wayne strolling through the doors of a saloon—a saloon that he owns.

“How’s my girl?” he asks, his drawl disappearing into my hair as he pulls me in for a hug. He smells like spice and gin, though I don’t know if it’s his cologne or if he’s already gotten into the liquor.

“Not living in a van yet,” I say, eliciting a low rumble of laughter that vibrates through the top of my head where he rests his chin.

“Ever. You mean not living in a van ever ,” he jokes. I slouch in his arms, still held in a hug, but just barely. My dad laughs again and pulls back, looking down into my now pouting expression. “Seriously—that van is dead, right?”

“Nooo,” I groan, rolling my eyes. “I’m still set to be a vagabond in a couple months. Don’t you worry.”

“Worry…it’s all I do.” He huffs out air, sending the tip of his mustache blowing outward before looking over my shoulder. Based on the way his mustache tilts into a frown, I’m willing to bet he finally spotted Harry.

I don’t like the look that crosses my dad’s face. It’s the exact same expression he made when he saw Frankie sitting in dirt at the end of the dump. It’s the type of look that chastises something for being both a waste of money and time.

“And who is this?” he asks. The charm is oozing off his lips, but I know better than to believe it’s genuine.

“Sorry, this is Harry,” I say, stepping back to loop my arm through Harry’s. I try not to admire how stiff his arm is because, although most of that is muscle, he also must be incredibly uncomfortable.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Harry says, extending his other hand out.

My dad looks down at it, reluctantly gives it a quick shake, then peers back up to me instead of Harry. “How long have you been dating?”

Right to the point.

“A few weeks, sir,” Harry answers before I can get the words out. My dad lifts an eyebrow. I bite my lip and say nothing because what can I possibly say to two dads? Are they mentally sparring like teenage girls do? Or are they both just stuck in some weird limbo of do-they-like-me-do-they-not? Oh, wait, that’s a teenage girl thing too.

Okay, so basically, men are teenage girls.

God, at this point, I’d rather be talking to— oop, and there she is.

How does she keep doing that?!

“Saria! Harry!” Charlotte’s voice calls from the hall. She walks toward us, like she’s the feature model for an upcoming bridal shoot. She’s wearing a cream-colored dress that is both short enough to be sexy and yet still long enough to look like it belongs on the bride of an engagement party, which it is. The dress has that shift cut which, on me, would look like a paper bag, but on Charlotte’s slender, tall figure is flowy and flawless. The sleeves are adorned with ruffles that bounce every time she extends another model-length leg on her imaginary catwalk.

She’s elegant. She’s beautiful. She’s absolutely bridal.

Bitch.

“I need some help with the um…van,” she says, the words not nearly as graceful as her determined catwalk over to us. “I’ve been waiting on you two to get here.”

There’s a small part of me that’s wondering if she’s attempting to save us, and that small part of me dislikes her just a little bit less, yet somehow more all at the same time.

“That’s…awfully nice of you to think of us,” I say, squinting. Her eyes grow wide and, yes, saving us is exactly her plan.

I take the olive branch and tiptoe past my dad, blurting out, “Dad, Harry. Harry, Dad. Great introductions. What are we having? Steak?”

The words flow out faster than I can stop them, but the urgency is at least not nearly as forced as that awkward handshake that occurred between them.

I’m already a few steps away before I’m waving my hand behind me in insistence that Harry take it. He looks from my dad back to me before relenting.

“You know Saria,” Harry says, as if that’s an excuse for getting the hell out of that conversation. I’ll let him use me as the scapegoat, just as I’m using Charlotte.

“Yes. Yes, I do know Saria,” Dad answers. While that does seem alarmingly threatening, I decide ignoring it is best until we can somehow form a better first impression for Harry. Good luck to us doing that, though.

Once we’re farther down the foyer hallway and out of earshot, Charlotte is the first to speak.

“That seemed painful,” she says. Harry barks out a quick laugh, and Charlotte giggles. Light. Airy. Like an angel.

“How’d you guess?” Harry asks.

I shove him with my elbow, but he doesn’t flinch. How dare he speak to the enemy.

“I’ve been meeting new people for the past month,” she says with exasperation. “I think I have a sixth sense about it now.”

I say nothing in response, but Harry, in all his intuition, gives my side a light nudge—much lighter than I gave him—and angles his head toward her.

I roll my eyes and mutter dully, “Appreciate it.”

That’s all she’ll get out of me, and she’s lucky to get that with the help of Harry.

“Not a problem. Now if only someone would save me ,” she says, peering around the room. She grits her perfectly aligned teeth, and it makes me want to scream.

“You can use us as your social crutch if you like,” Harry interjects. “I’m sure Saria won’t mind.”

Charlotte peers over at me. Is she sizing me up, or is she pleading? I can’t tell because in one moment I think she’s literally pointing her nose up at me and the next I wonder if she’s just praying to the high heavens that I say yes.

“Sure,” I drawl out, probably making it too obvious how much that idea pains me. Thankfully, it seems like Charlotte is talented at picking up on awkward small talk but not talented at seeing when she’s not wanted.

“Thanks,” she says through an exhalation. “Noah said you were always good at making people feel welcome.”

I open my mouth to argue this point, but from the corner of my eye, I see the devil himself. Noah plays the part of gentleman very well with his fitted blazer, cropped ankle-length chinos, and bow tie.

I glance over to Harry. They’re wearing almost the exact same outfit minus the tie. In fact, Harry went one step further away from tie-wearing and decided to undo his topmost button. A zip of excitement rolls down through my hips at the sight of Harry’s dirty blond chest hair peeking out.

He looks better than Noah.

Yeesh, I need a drink.

“I’m gonna hit up the bar,” I announce.

“Where’s the restroom?” Harry asks, pocketing his hands. I know this house almost as well as I know my own childhood home, so I point to the room down the hall.

“Show me?” Harry asks. “Big house and all.”

“You go. I’ll go get you that drink,” Charlotte says, looking between the two of us with a sly smile. “Is champagne okay?”

“Sure,” I say, deadpan.

“Thanks, Charlotte,” Harry calls, putting on a boyish smile and giving a small wave like they’re already best buds.

We find the back hallway, winding around the corner, until I lazily point out the restroom to Harry. That whole conversation with Charlotte took the wind right out of my sails. We didn’t even get the chance to leave the port, let alone sail any form of high seas before VannaWhite anchored in my brain.

Harry leans against the wall opposite me, placing his hands in his pockets and staring. His eyes don’t falter from mine, and I can feel my cheeks grow hot.

“What?” I ask.

“You can’t hate her,” he says.

“Who?” I’m playing dumb, but I know the answer already.

“Charlotte. Vanna. Whatever her name is. She’s just trying her best.”

“She’s—”

“Not who you thought he’d be with,” he finishes for me, not needing to indicate who ‘he’ is. We both know without having to say his name. “And that’s fine. It’s okay to be upset. But, play nice.”

I want to argue. I want to ask him where the hell he thinks he gets off telling me who to be petty around, but something about this feels…nice. My fake better half keeping me in check. Plus, why do I hate Charlotte? Is it because she’s dating Noah or because she has the van life I want? Regardless, instead of arguing, I run my tongue over my teeth in anger, trying to find the best words to say in return.

“You dragged me to the bathroom to tell me that?” I quip.

Harry chuckles. “Well, I need to use it too, but sure, I’ll pretend I’m that altruistic.”

I look to the ground, tracing the lines of the hardwood with the tip of my pointed heel.

“I don’t want to like her,” I say. It comes out as more of a pout than I’d like, which makes him laugh.

“I know, but I don’t see any reason not to. Hey.” I feel his thumb and forefinger grip my chin, tilting it upward to look at him. “Don’t be a brat.”

I harumph out a quick breath of air and roll my eyes.

“ You don’t be a brat,” I counter, knowing the quip makes zero sense and only makes me look sillier, which is the point.

“Atta girl,” he says with a low laugh before walking into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

“Have fun,” I call out playfully.

“Don’t be gross,” he says, his voice muffled through the doorway. Cute.

I make my way back through the living room and over to the lounge bar where Heather, Jessi, and Charlotte are already poised on bar stools. Heather is uncorking a bottle, and Jessi is chewing on the end of a cherry stem.

“You ever tried to tie one of these?” she asks through gritted teeth.

“Yes,” Heather answers quickly. “I was told it was sexy.”

“By freaking who ?” Jessi says, her tone dull as she clutches her glass of wine.

“Your dad ,” Heather sneers back. She must be a few glasses in too. They fight like teenaged siblings when they’re drunk. I don’t even want to know what number Jessi is on. She only starts to get this obviously exasperated around Heather whenever she’s about three glasses deep. Her slim figure can handle up to about four before she’s all-out arguing. I don’t want to see five.

Charlotte, on the other hand, seems content with just staring at Noah. Her eyes are hooded, lips slightly parted, and her chin is slowly slouching more and more into her palm. I bet all she wants is to spend her engagement party with Noah and all he’s doing is schmoozing. Surprise, surprise.

Maybe Harry is right. Maybe all she needs is some kindness. I’m the last girl in the world to be giving her kindness. Hell, there are two perfectly kind—albeit, drunk—girls next to her who could be offering the same support. But they’re also not the girls who would understand that look she has on her face right now. That sigh. That very unique Noah Westerton longing.

“I know that face,” I say, plopping down in the seat next to her. She blinks rapidly as if coming out of a small trance. Yep, I definitely know how that feels.

“What face?” she asks.

“The I-can’t-believe-he’s-mine face,” I say. It’s the same look I got almost six years ago. Our afternoon teenage romps would carry me through the evening hangouts with our friends. Touching in secret. Making out in the wine cellar. It was hot. It was sensual. Summer bliss between best friends. I remember thinking, How could this possibly get any better? What a crock of shit that was in retrospect.

“Do you get that face with Harry?” Charlotte asks.

This draws the attention of Jessi, who seems significantly less bored with the party now that my little lie has been brought up.

“I…yes. Yes, I do,” I say. “It’s complicated.”

“Yeah,” she says, her breath leaving in a silent sigh. I almost wonder if for a second she forgot where she is.

Is it really that bad?

I look around, eyeing the whole place, and realize maybe it would suck being the new person here. It may be Charlotte’s engagement party, but I only see people I grew up around. The dads are chortling around a bottle of whiskey they use to refill their bottomless glasses, and outside is the gaggle of women that brought this entire room together—all three of our mothers, already knee-deep in gossip, I’m sure.

Not a single soul belongs to Charlotte except Noah, who seems too distracted by networking among the boys’ club to notice his swooning fiancée.

Harry was definitely right. Charlotte just needs a friend.

It’s weird how Harry can sense my impulses gaining traction even when I don’t. It’s my desperate desire to appear as the number one option in Noah’s eyes, to be the better woman, to be the presentable choice—the obvious choice. Harry felt that and told me to be better than that. But, more than that, do I even want to be the better woman for Noah?

Harry is a different kind of man from Noah. While Noah takes what he can in the moment—no matter which moment he’s in—Harry doesn’t function that way. Harry is caring. Kind. He understands what needs to be done rather than succumbing to base momentary impulses. He knew Cara needed a dad, so he became that. He didn’t continue partying in his twenties because he knew that wasn’t best for his little girl. And, even now, he knows I would love nothing more than to have Charlotte and Noah’s engagement end in flames, yet he still knew it was better to be kind to the woman who is oblivious to my anger.

I smile to myself, and I feel stupid the second it happens.

“So you guys are actually dating?” Heather asks.

My head shoots up. Were we having a conversation? How long was I lost in thought?

“What?” I ask dumbly.

She laughs, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s with me or at me. “You did that weird thing where you smile to yourself. Only people in movies do that crap.”

I lean on the bar top, tilting my head and clearing my throat.

“So you are with him?” she asks again.

Now Charlotte is glancing over, lifting an eyebrow, and the attention is making me uncomfortable.

“Is she not supposed to be…?” Charlotte starts, but I shake my head feverishly.

“I thought she was lying,” Heather states matter-of-factly.

The spotlight shouldn’t be on us. This is a fake relationship meant to drift into the background, but for some reason it seems like we’re drifting farther out into open waters, away from the safety of the shore.

“Not to be rude, but…do you normally lie?” Charlotte asks me.

“Well, Noah isn’t normally in town,” Heather corrects.

“ Heather ,” I say, a warning as she purses her lips. Charlotte opens her mouth to speak, but I interrupt before she can ask the obvious question: Why would Saria lie when Noah is in town?

“Yes, I’m actually dating Harry,” I say.

Heather smiles. “But, it’s ‘complicated’.” The air quotes only help to piss me off.

Where the heck is Harry when I need him to calm me down?

“Because he has a daughter?” Charlotte asks. I appreciate how she makes the questions sound innocent.

I grit my teeth. “Among other things.”

“Because you’re his nanny,” Heather continues.

A loud thump comes from the opposite side of Charlotte, and our glasses rattle.

I lean forward to see Jessi’s fist clenched on the bar, the red stem sticking out of her mouth like she’s a cowgirl picking a fight.

“Heather, Jesus Christ, lighten up,” Jessi says. “Let Saria do whatever she and Harry are doing in peace.”

Though I appreciate the drunken best friend support, it does beg the question: What are Harry and I doing?

Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover it.