away with her ears back as the pounding came again.
Still groggy, Harper jumped to her feet, looking around for a baseball bat before remembering that she didn’t have one anymore.
“Harper, are you naked?” Bonnie’s impatient voice called from outside. “Put some clothes on and open the damned door. These bags are heavy.”
She’d forgotten it was Saturday. Bonnie was coming to stay.
“Hang on!” she called hoarsely, grabbing the keys from the coffee table. When she finally got the door open, Bonnie stood on the other side clutching four overstuffed bags, including one that clinked when she stepped inside. “About time,” she groused.
“Are you moving in for good?” Harper looked at the overfilled bags doubtfully.
“I need all of this,” Bonnie insisted, dropping them by the door. “I know you won’t have any food. And the wine is medicinal.” She looked from Harper to the rumpled sofa to where Zuzu sat on the floor, blinking at them both disapprovingly. “Did you just get up?”
“It’s noon.” Harper said it like that explained everything. She was wide awake now, though, and her main thought was that it was not a good idea for Bonnie to be here right now.
She’d invited her before she’d learned about Martin Dowell.
The last thing she wanted was for Bonnie to somehow get caught up in this. But if she explained why she wanted her to leave, she’d insist on staying to protect her.
Utterly unaware of Harper’s internal conflict, Bonnie had already picked up the bag of wine and groceries and headed across the living room to the little kitchen, talking nonstop. “Well, as you might have gathered, my date was a disaster.”
Harper tried to remember a conversation that now seemed to have happened long ago. “Remind me—who was he?”
“His name is Dylan,” Bonnie called over her shoulder, setting bags down in the cramped little kitchen. “He’s so good-looking. He does light art.”
Harper sat back down on the sofa. “That sounds … bright.”
“It’s beautiful. That’s why I wanted to go out with him. But, dear lord, he talks about himself more than a homecoming queen.” Harper could hear her opening and closing cupboards. Sliding things onto mostly empty shelves. “He has a lot of thoughts about his process and art and ‘the realized world,’ whatever the hell that is, and damn if he doesn’t like to talk about it nonstop.”
She leaned in the kitchen doorway. Her wavy, white-blond hair was pulled into a side ponytail that hung over one shoulder. The section dyed magenta shimmered in the light. She wore faded jeans rolled up to expose slim ankles, and a black T-shirt that she’d sliced up in places so that it hung loose, revealing the delicate curves of her collarbone. On the front, she’d painted the word “CREATE” in silver, entwined with flowers.
“I’d have sent him home but he’s so good-looking.” She sighed, leaning her head against the wood frame. “Even when he was boring me, I just thought about how pretty he was and then I felt better about him. He’s got this gorgeous hair that falls over his forehead. He kind of peeks out from under it like a little deer.”
Harper wasn’t impressed. “Did you make an excuse and get out of there?”
Bonnie straightened. “Honey, no. I had sex with him and then I went home before he could talk me into a coma. You want some water? I’ll put some coffee on, too.”
She talked as if Harper were visiting her, instead of the other way around.
“Sure,” Harper said. “Was the sex good at least?”
“It was okay when he finally stopped talking. But there won’t be a repeat performance.” Bonnie’s voice floated back from the kitchen. “I’m not as into him as he is.” Harper heard the sound of the tap running. “What about you?” Bonnie raised her voice above the water. “Did you go out after work?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of how?” Bonnie walked back in and handed her a glass, before sitting down in a chair.
“I ran into Luke on my way back to town. We went out for a beer.”
Harper kept her tone careless but Bonnie fixed her with a knowing blue-eyed stare.
“And what was that like?”
“Like having a beer with the guy who broke my heart,” Harper said. Curled up on the sofa, her feet tucked under her, she told her about passing him on the bridge. The way he’d turned his car around.
“I’m sorry but that is sickeningly romantic.” Bonnie sighed. “No one ever turned his car around for me. I swear someone up there wants