2
Repeat After Me: I Do Not Miss the Rogue Viscount
Harper Sinclair had simple rules when it came to men: Never trust anyone with a family crest, Don’t date anyone with a tabloid nickname, If he lies like it’s a love language, run.
Unfortunately, her latest source, Sebastian Hawthorne broke all three rules entirely. He was an actual aristocrat, Viscount Edgecliffe officially. He was also a public menace, probable Narcissus reincarnate and only occasionally reliable.
Not that she trusted him.Obviously.
She was just strategically tolerating him. You know, for journalism, for justice, for the takedown of Lord Charles Hawthorne, who made most corrupt politicians look like underachievers.
She sipped her tea, scrolled through encrypted messages, and reminded herself that she had once been shortlisted for a media prize. Now she was managing a rogue viscount with espionage fantasies and a flair for drama.
Life comes at you fast.
He was gone, off to Paris. Off to reconnect with his mysterious French uncle and whatever emotional wreckage he had inherited along with his royal paternity.
Harper had told herself she was glad.
No more sabotage-by-text. No more watching him flirt with information like it was a sport. No more half-smiles and deflections when she tried to get a straight answer out of him.
She’d be able to focus.
Sebastian:Going to Paris. Try not to die of boredom while I’m gone.
Smug bastard.
She could practically hear the smirk through the screen. He was probably wearing some ridiculous coat and dramatic scarf, leaning against a taxi like he was auditioning for a noir film titledThe Viscount’s Escape.
Her reply had been perfectly appropriate.
Sinclair:Good. Fewer headlines to bury. Tell your uncle thanks for the trauma dump in advance.
Punchy. Professional. Borderline affectionate, if you squinted.
She hated how long she’d hesitated before hitting send.
Not because she was worried, though she was. Sebastian had that infuriating habit of throwing himself into danger with the same enthusiasm other people reserved for happy hour.
No. She hesitated because he was right, she would miss him if he disappeared.
Harper was used to people leaving. That was fine, expected. She’d built walls around the idea of permanence and called it self-awareness.
Men didn’t exactly line up to date women who were 5’10”, always had an opinion, and wielded sarcasm like a second language. In school, they’d called her Harpy, a name that stuck around longer than any ex ever had. Most of the men she’d dated wanted her to be quieter, softer, shorter.
More girlfriend, less gladiator.
She didn’t know how to be any of those things. Didn’t want to. But she’d learned to treat romance like national politics, with skepticism, contingencies, and no illusions about loyalty.
And yet,Sebastian. Okay, yes, she found him attractive. So what? That didn’t mean anything.
No, what bothered her more was the way she was starting to like him. She liked arguing with Sebastian. Liked that he always kept up with her. He was a good listener and easy to get along with if you let your guard down, and that was what made him dangerous.
She shoved her phone under a stack of documents like it had personally betrayed her.
This was not who she was.
Harper Sinclair didn’t pine.