That pulled a real smile from Harper. “I was waiting for the lecture.”
“Oh, I had one prepped,” Margot said breezily. “But then I thought… hell, I made my judgments about him years ago. Maybe he played me too, just not in the way I assumed.” She sighed. “I hate being wrong. But maybe he’s not quite the villain I wanted him to be.”
Harper hesitated, the truth sliding in like a tide she hadn’t realized was rising. “I wanted him to be the villain too,” she said quietly. “It was easier that way. Simple. I could hate him, or expose him, or keep my distance andpretend I was above it all.”
A breath.
“But he’s not simple. And he’s definitely not easy. He’s just… trying. And letting me see him try.”
Margot studied her for a long moment. “That might be the most dangerous thing he’s ever done.”
Harper stared at her. “You think it could actually work?”
She gave Harper a long, assessing look. “I think you’re already making it work,” Margot said. “Just… don’t forget who you are when the storm hits.”
“I won’t,” Harper said, with more certainty than she expected.
Margot tapped the notebook Harper had set between them. “Then write this book. Tell the truth. Love the man. And when it all feels too big, come here and drink overpriced wine with someone who noticed your byline before the rest of the world did.”
Harper blinked back the sting in her eyes.
Margot raised her glass again. “To having it all.”
They clinked glasses, and Harper smiled, really smiled.
Not because it was easy.
But because maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to choose between what made her brave and what made her happy.
* * *
What started as Harper crashing at Sebastian’s on weekends had, without much ceremony, turned into something more permanent.
Her mail still went to her old address. But her books were on his shelves, her shampoo was in his shower, and she’d commandeered a third of his desk for research. The rest of the flat bore increasing evidence of her. The stacks of index cards, half-finished coffee mugs, and colorful sticky notes peeking out of books.
She wrote longhand in the mornings, coffee in one hand and a purple pen in the other, insisting that it helped her think more clearly than a keyboardever could. Sebastian claimed this was a myth but brought her toast anyway.
“That’s a run-on,” he said, reading her notes over her shoulder. He stole a slice of her toast and bit into it.
“You’re a run-on,” she muttered, stealing the toast back.
They argued, flirted, made dinner, burned toast, and fell asleep mid-conversation. It was messy and unpredictable and quiet in the best ways.
One morning, over omelets and mutual underdressed-ness, Sebastian looked at her and said, “We should run away for the summer.”
Harper blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
He gestured with his coffee. “You quit your job. I betrayed my monstrous aristocratic so-called father and became a commoner. We pulled it off with aplomb and, even rarer for me, with positive tabloid headlines. That’s success. We deserve a reward.”
“You mean a vacation?”
“No, I’m talking about a proper escape.” He leaned back in his chair, shirt unbuttoned to a degree Harper refused to acknowledge. “Someplace without headlines. Or photographers. Or any chance of accidentally ending up as a blind item.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You already booked something, didn’t you?”
He looked wounded. “No. I’m not an amateur. I booked three options and was waiting to see which one you’d find least objectionable. I’m thoughtful like that.”
“Sebastian—”