Take Me Home Tonight

Harper shoved a pile of drawings and catalogs into her bag. While the Pens had been away, she’d spent her days decorating James’ last guest room and her nights designing Sidney’s house in her mind. When Sid called on Monday afternoon, hours after James left her front door but long before she felt better, Harper knew she had to go over there. There wasn’t much left of James’ house, and she needed to be ready for the next project. Sidney Crosby struck her as the kind of guy who was used to running a tight ship.

She rang the doorbell. It was absolutely frigid outside, but Sid’s house glowed like a Christmas card photo. A welcoming blast of heat came with the opening door.

“Hi,” Sid said, reaching across the threshold and pulling her inside. “Fucking freezing out. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Welcome back.”

Sid tilted his head, looking at her but not speaking. Harper unwound her scarf and shed her jacket, aware that he wasn’t really watching what she was doing; he was just watching her. He had on a brown henley-type sweater with a standing collar, open at the throat over a white t-shirt. As ever, his jeans were perfect and he wore socks without shoes. He was preternaturally good looking; all dark eyes and fair skin. Sid took her coat, hung it on a hook. She wondered if he put the hooks up himself since nothing else was done in here.

“Seems like we were gone forever,” he said.

In the kitchen, Harper spread her pages out. They started with the living room, intending to do that space first as she had in James’ houses. The construction of Sidney’s house lent itself much more strongly to color - hardwood floors, natural light filtered through already mature trees that had been planted outside. The palette would be far more natural than James’ reds and grays. The living room also gave way to the den, with it’s many built-in bookshelves. Harper had included that in her drawing. Sid leaned his elbows on the counter and examined each version of the room she’d sketched. When he had finally scrutinized the her fourth - and favorite - version, he looked up though dark lashes.

“ Have you talked to James?”

Harper had moved across the room, putting the kitchen island between them, not wanting to peer over his shoulder. She leaned back against it and crossed her arms. “Have you?”

"Not yet. How is he?"

Her eyes dropped. It had been hard to fight with James, and Harper hadn’t quite reconciled with forgiving him yet. But her reasons were so different. “Don't ask me that," she said. "You can’t abandon him now."

Sid made a noise like he damned well could do what he thought was right for this team. "So you have talked to him."

"Yes," Harper admitted.

"And he apologized for Thanksgiving."

That was not the reply Harper expected. “Among other things.”

"He was a dick to you, Harper.” Sid straightened up, the broad wall of his chest seeming to expand as his did. For a shorter guy, he could be quite imposing. Captain-like, she thought. And he wasn’t about to be brushed off. “I don't know what's up with you guys, but tell me you don't let him treat you that way."

“I don’t.”

“Because you are better than that.”

Sid didn’t need to come closer for Harper to feel what he meant. It was in the air between them now, as it had been on Thanksgiving. He wasn’t going to make a move - he probably never had to - but he was leaving that door wide open if she wanted to show herself in.

“So is he,” she said.

Sid lifted his eyebrows sarcastically. “You sure about that?” He was angry at James, that much was clear. How much of that anger was over Thanksgiving and how much was about his suspension, Harper didn’t know. No way was she as important as the game. But Sid was focused on Thanksgiving much more than she’d expected.

“I am, actually.”

He made face that did little to detract from how handsome his actual face was. “He’s had plenty of chances, Harper. When has he gotten one right?”

She shrugged. This was bordering on talking about James behind his back, to his boss, which is something Harper was not about to do. Sid took her silence for uncertainty and walked around the island. He came close. Everything about him had a magnetic quality, from the cotton of his shirt to the small of his soap. Harper didn’t back away.

“You could, though. Get one right.” His eyes smiled, just a little, promising that life with him wouldn’t be all stern conversations.

Harper let her shoulders relax. “I’ve already got your house.”

He almost laughed. “Get two, then.”

“Sid,” she dropped the rest of her defensive posture. It wasn’t possible to keep up under this assault anyway. “Thank you for looking out for me. I promise, it’s been handled. You can go back to looking out for James now.”

“He deserves it less.”

It was risky, but Harper could not stop her hand from moving to Sid’s arm. The sleeve was soft; underneath it, he was nothing but strength. Both physically and mentally, Sid had plenty to spare. James wasn’t so lucky. Sid’s eyes dropped to her hand, watching her fingers move against the fabric.

“That’s why he needs it more.”

By the time she left an hour later, Harper was sure about Sid’s living room - if nothing else.
____

James had left Harper standing on her doorstep the day before. Or more accurately, she had not invited him in. A million questions roiled in his stomach but the big one had been answered: she wasn’t letting go. He stayed in as ordered on Monday night and woke up Tuesday feeling a little, but noticeably, better.

At ten o’clock, Harper arrived like it was the old days. She had a shopping bag on one arm and the desire to forgive James like a hole in her heart. After her conversation with Crosby the day before, Harper knew she might be all James had. “I bet you can’t go out,” she said. James nodded. “And I bet that me screaming at you on my lawn for the whole neighborhood to video is also frowned upon.”

He almost passed out with relief.

“You owe me an apology for Thanksgiving. You didn’t stick up for me, and that was really shitty. Especially now when you need people to stick up for you,” she looked pointedly around the room, “and I’m the only person here.”

“I’m sorry, Harper,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“I should have defended myself, but punching the boss’ girlfriend doesn’t look great in front of prospective clients.”

James hope it was okay to laugh. “For the record, I think everyone in the room would have hired you if you’d punched her.”

Harper also laughed, she knew it was true.

“I am sorry,” James reiterated. “Rachel was never - never here for the right reasons.” His own reasons, James didn’t say - he’d been lazy and cowardly himself before Rachel turned into that bitch at Thanksgiving. It was the reason he hadn’t bothered to correct Rachel, only dump her: neither of them had been honest. Yet here was Harper, giving it anyway.

Harper tipped the bag toward him: eggs, bread, veggies. “Me, I’m just in it for the house.”

What James wanted was another of the hugs he’d gotten yesterday, where she let him cling to her like a ledge. He settled for the best egg sandwich he’d ever had: fried egg, tomato, cheese and some turkey pastrami, all from her grocery sack. As she used each thing, she closed it up and put it in James’ fridge.

When they were finished, James jumped up and loaded everything in the dishwasher before Harper could lift a finger. She rolled her eyes. From her bag came that big sketchbook and some catalog pages.

“I meant it yesterday, I don’t want to change anything.”

“But I do.” Harper patted the stool next to her and James sat down. Their arms touched as they leaned over the paper. He inhaled the scent of her perfume; something new he’d never noticed before.

“I really like this bed,” she pointed to one option, “but I think it needs low profile furniture to look right. And you have a lot of stuff.”

He groaned, remembering when she’d made him open the closet to reveal his mess.

“So I thought about doing shelves and adding a false wall around them to make a second closet. It sounds weird but look,” she had a magazine page showing the design. “It would double as an accent wall, like the wallpaper. One that’s got depth without taking away from space in the room. And it can be floor to ceiling so it frees up other space.”

James’ eyes flicked from the photos to her drawing: it had a sleek, almost modern feel, but it didn’t look anonymous like some of the hotels he stayed in. Harper had drawn in a few picture frames with stick figures; she must have added that after they made up yesterday. One was a guy on a boat, another a guy holding something overhead.

“Is that the Stanley Cup?” he pointed.

“Visualization exercise. I hear those work.”

James laughed out loud. “Okay, let’s do it.”

They worked all day. Harper felt such relief to not be fighting with James that hours flew by as they measured, looked online and drove to a nearby organization specialty store. James figured he wouldn’t get in trouble for that. Still Harper suggested they order lunch and pick it up, instead of eating in public.

“My fans are everywhere,” she said.

By six-thirty that night , most plans were made and deliveries arranged. Harper was looking at James’ dresser, as if considering whether or not she could throw the whole thing out the window.

“Game’s in an hour,” he said.

Harper turned away from her mental math, saw James rubbing a hand across his hair, his nervous tick. “I don’t want the Pens to lose, but I sort of hope they can’t win without you.”

Of all the reasons James ever had for kissing Harper, that was the best one yet. Which was precisely why he didn’t. It meant almost as much that he could be so close to the possibility again.

So he asked, “Will you stay?”
____

James watched hockey like no one Harper had ever seen. Granted she’d never watched with a hockey player, and she’d only been watching for two months. But his eyes went before the puck instead of following it. He looked to the spot a pass should or could go, not after it got there. He cursed a lot and called guys by nicknames she didn’t recognize. When Malkin scored just a few minutes into the second period, James shouted something completely incoherent.

“What?”

“Oh,” he grimaced. “It’s a Russian thing Geno taught me.”

“What does it mean?”

“Something I will never, ever say in front of you again. In any language.”

By the time third period, Harper and James were sprawled out on opposite edges of the couch. A little buffer of empty space separated their feet. It was so small that when Sidney scored near the nine-minute mark, Harper kicked James in the shin.

“Sorry!” she yelped.

“That was a distinct kicking motion,” James said. “No goal.”

She thought James might take the opening and bring up Sid, Thanksgiving, everything. James wanted to, of course. He wanted to know every word Crosby and Harper had ever said to each other. But if she said Crosby had asked her out, it would ruin the only good day James had experienced in a long time. In the third, Crosby scored again. Harper smiled, so James made a face. She laughed and kicked him again. The Penguins won.

Harper got up put on her coat. James stood. She wound a scarf around her neck, carefully choosing her words. He didn’t wait for her to speak.

“Why are you letting me off easy?”

The truth was one thing, then the whole truth was another. She figured that just a piece would do. “I’m not. I am giving you a second chance.”

James made fists and shoved them into his pockets. It was that or hug her. “I know.”

Harper didn’t want to elaborate; she believed James understood. Instead she just told him: “Please don’t make me wrong about you, James. Don’t make these people right.”
____

The next morning, Harper suddenly wasn’t crazy about the idea of being back to work. Well, she was crazy - that much was clear. The last week had been rough. The last day, making up with James, had been great but fragile and she still harbored doubts. Now James was all sorry and appreciative and looking so damned cuddly in a dark green thermal shirt, standing at the foot of his bed.

“So,” he said.

She nodded. “So.”

They were back in his bedroom together for the first time since the day they met. Way back when, they had laid down side by side on the bed, both knowing that if they agreed to work together it would be fraught with tension. Now they were back in the same place, in every sense.

After Harper had left last night, James could do only one thing. In the end it didn’t take a minute. He watched her car drive away after the game and admitted he was falling in love with her. Falling quickly, perhaps at terminal velocity.

It had first come to him as he was standing on her lawn, getting screamed at. He should have left. Common sense and the direct order to stay out of sight dictated that James should not be fighting, not in public, and certainly not with a beautiful woman. Yet he’d stayed there and risked that for her. Because James would not - could not - leave before Harper had at least given him an opening. He’d gotten it and held on and she’d come back - back to his house, back into his life. Even back to that couch where they’d watched the game last night, laughing and talking like he hadn’t almost lost her for good.

Of course now, in the light of day, that opening looked like a pinprick at best. Just because Harper had more or less forgiven him didn’t mean she loved him back. It didn’t mean she thought of him as anything more than a friend and a job. When James considered the way he’d treated her, he was reminded that it was a remarkable accomplishment in it’s own.

Of all the days Harper had had thought she wasn’t ready to be in James’ bedroom, today was the worst. But it was the last undecorated place on Earth. They’d made plans, placed orders. The room was white, mostly empty and hastily cleaned. Harper wonder if James had ever cleaned for Rachel.

James, knowing exactly how long his arms were in relation to where Harper stood, calculated that he could scoop her up and throw her on the bed without needing to move his feet until he jumped on top of her. Really from almost anywhere in the room. That was going to pose a problem.

“Where do we start?” he asked.

Harper did her best to keep a straight face. “Let’s get rid of this bed.”
_____

Two days passed with such efficiency that James worried Harper might be sprinting for the finish line, eager to be done with his house. Eager to be out if it. Yet she seemed happy - they ordered lunch, she even watched another game with him. He was very careful to be discreet when he glanced at her - never once did he catch her looking back.

Harper knew he was looking. She felt his sea-colored eyes on her at the most dangerous times: shoulder-to-shoulder hanging shelves, laying on the floor to paint baseboards. She just wasn’t sure what it meant, or what it would mean if she looked back. So instead she kept her eyes on the prize - the bedroom, the crown jewel of the house. And they left that room every chance they got.

Today it was the hardware store. She wanted to give some of the furniture a vintage look, to keep the room from looking too ‘bachelor pad.’ Nothing in the store had been quite right, so she was going to teach James how to help her do it. She put her purse on the counter in his kitchen and set a fistful of paint squares in front of him. As she dug into her bag for an example of the weathering technique, Harper felt the telltale rattle of a phone vibrating. She dumped the whole bag out and fished her phone from among the brochures and discount offers.

Three messages, all from the same person. That was odd. She flipped her thumb across the screen.

“Shit,” she said.

James looked up from paint samples. “What?”

“Oh,” she caught herself, “just... nothing.” Her phone slipped into her pocket. When James glanced back at the samples, she frowned.

“I knew it,” he called her out, eyebrow arched. That trick never worked. “Carpet get delayed again?”

“No no, it’s nothing for here, don’t worry.”

James leaned on the island, surprised that Harper was brushing him off. Was it Crosby calling? Was something delayed for the bedroom that would keep them working longer? At least he wasn’t sleeping in there - she’d given his entire bed away on the first day, a charity even came to pick it up. He’d been bunking in one of the finished guest rooms, which didn’t do much to reduce the feeling that Harper was all around him. He played hockey and he spent time with her, mostly in his room. James wasn’t sure how much longer he could last.

“Now I am worried.”

Harper shook her head. “I am supposed to go to a wedding this weekend and my date just bailed.”

A whole list of ideas whizzed through James’ head like numbers flashing past on slot machine reels. One by one they plunked into place.

“You, uh,” he stammered. She had a date. Harper had a date. A what? “Whose wedding?”

She shouldn’t be thinking about this, or worrying. Everything about it frustrated her. And she certainly should not talking about this with James. Harper got ready to lie, but when she looked back, he was ready for it. His arms crossed slowly over his chest, a move that exaggerated everything about his size and strength. It was a bouncer’s move that said Let’s hear this shit you’re making up. A tiny grin twitched the corner of Harper’s lip.

“My ex,” she sighed.

The word rolled off her tongue like lead and landed on James’ heart. He’d dated a lot of girls but none he’d call an ex. The way Harper said it - “my ex” - meant she still felt part of that belonged to her. Or should. Maybe part of her still belonged to that. Could that be why she wanted this job to be done, because she still wanted someone else who was so far out of reach?

While he put the pieces together, the only safe thing to say was, “Uh oh.”

“It’s okay,” Harper shook it off. “Which of those colors did you....”

“Who was your date?” James braced himself for the worst possible answer: Crosby. If not him, then who was taking Harper out and keeping her happy and how was it possible someone was getting away with this right under James’ nose?

“A friend - he does IT consulting, got assigned to fill in on some contract next week. He can’t request out for, well, for this.” She shrugged.

So it wasn’t Sid, but that really wasn’t enough to put James at ease. “Why are you going to your ex’s wedding?”

Harper looked at James - really looked at him for the first time since they’d made up. If they talked about this, it meant she and James were really friends. She had gotten past his temper, past Rachel, past even her own fear. It could be the last thing she needed to finish this house, to really make it a home. To really know James. But she had to cross a line to get there, and already she felt the boundaries between herself and James slipping.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Because he invited me? So I can be the better person?”

“Why’d you break up?”

“James,” Harper said. It was phrased like she was trying to let him off the hook, tell him to stop being nice. But really she didn’t want to hear any of this again, let alone say it. There wasn’t a lot of pride in it.

He saw her falter. James knew better than most what it was like to not be proud of something, to go about something the wrong way. He could not believe Harper’s shell had a single crack but if this was it, he couldn’t let it pass. Maybe instead of Harper wanting him, James could settle for just being needed. “Do I have to beat somebody up?”

She laughed so suddenly it surprised them both. “Now that you’ve offered... no, I’m kidding. My ex Nate dumped me for this girl. He says nothing happened with them before we broke up, and I guess it doesn’t really matter in the end. He loves her, and I couldn’t say that about us. At least he dumped me for ‘the one,’ I guess.”

Harper frowned as she tried to make it seem less pathetic. In truth she was happy for Nate, but it was never good to be the one who wasn’t good enough. Before she could push that out of her mind for the millionth time, James’ arms were around her. All the height and strength and warmth she’d been trying to ignore plowed into her, snaked around and held tight. Unlike their past hugs, which were grateful or guilty, this felt protective. Suddenly she was surrounded by a high wall that nothing could get inside.

“Sorry,” James said softly. He had not planned to hug or even touch her, but that little frown did him in. It was a trace of leftover sadness, and James knew that feeling inside out.

“I’m not, I guess,” she confessed. “It wasn’t right. I just hated having to be told that. I should have known.”

James rested his chin atop her head, afraid he was already too close. Whatever boundary he’d been worried about crossing, this wasn’t it. This was a whole new place. Her weight rested against his chest, right where James had felt hurt the worst.

As surprised as she was to be wrapped in his arms, Harper was not surprised James reacted this way. Whatever was fragile about him, whatever sadness she’d seen in him, it was something like her own old wound.

“Do you miss him?” James asked.

She smiled, though James couldn’t see, and said honestly, “Not right now.”

Then she giggled. To James it felt incredible to hold a laughing girl, someone happy enough that it shone through even her sadness. He hadn’t ever been that person. Harper tried to wiggle free but he squeezed harder.

“Perv,” she said.

“It only gets better if you keep moving,” he insisted. She twisted feebly, attempted to duck free then tried to tickle him. Nothing worked until they were both laughing and James finally let go.

“So, about this wedding.”

“Ugh,” she groaned. “Wedding.”

“Are you hotter than the bride?”

“You bet your ass I am,” Harper flipped her hair.

James knew this was a bad idea, but that had never stopped him before. His confidence, so shaken since the Boston incident but restored by Harper’s apparent faith, prompted him along.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m your new date.”
____

Notes