“I don’t have a toothbrush, though.”
“I have an extra one. Never been used,” I tell her.
She places her index finger on her lips as if she’s weighing all the options. “But what flavor toothpaste do you have?”
A blush creeps across my cheeks.
She notices and points. “Don’t tell me you use bubblegum Crest?”
I shake my head. “No. I bought the kind you like. The minty Crest.”
Her eyes sparkle, and she brings a hand to her chest. It’s the sweetest thing. “You bought me toothpaste.”
She sounds happier than when I bought her the ring. My heart beats faster, and words start to form on my tongue. Words that reveal strange new feelings inside me. I part my lips so I can say something. Tell her how much I am starting to feel for her. How real it is all becoming.
I stop when she lowers her mouth to mine and whispers, “You really are my best friend.”
Friends.
Yes. That’s all she wants to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Harper licks lemon ice cream in a cone.
“This doesn’t make up for Santa,” she says, pointing at the treat as we leave her favorite gelato vendor. “But it’s a good start, and you’ve bought my silence for another few days.”
“Good. That’s all I need.”
“Saw the picture of you and Charlotte this morning.” She nudges me as we walk along Central Park, en route to a quick softball practice with our team’s star slugger, Nick. The three of us snagged the field for thirty minutes on a Friday afternoon before the actual game tomorrow. I’ve got my glove and bat, and Harper has her glove in her free hand.
“You really can’t stay away from me online, can you?” I tease her.
“I know. It’s a terrible addiction I have, my gossip fetish.”
“So it ran? The one from Sardi’s?” I ask, confirming what I suspected Abe would do.
“Yup.”
“That reporter from Metropolis is such a tool.”
She furrows her brow as she licks the icy treat. “Wasn’t in Metropolis.”
As we turn into the park, I ask, “Well, where was it?”
She shakes her head, bemused. “I really can’t believe you don’t look this stuff up about yourself.”
“Believe it. I don’t. Never have. Tell me.”
“It was Page Six.”
My eyes widen. Page Six is the big New York gossip outlet. I try to avoid Page Six.
“How’d that happen? I thought he worked for Metropolis Life and Times.”
“He’s an intern there,” Harper says. “Abe Kaufman. I looked him up. He’s in journalism school at Columbia, so he freelances for Metropolis Life and Times as well as Page Six. Looks like he sold the picture of the two of you to more gossip-centric one.”
What a tenacious fucker.
I consider the benefits. If I’m seen on Page Six with my loving fiancée, this could be key placement for Dad for the sale. Mr. Offerman would wet his pants to see me appear like the good, solid, soon-to-be-married son of the respected businessman he’s buying the store from. “What did it say?” I ask hopefully.
She stops on the path, shoves her glove at me, and whips out her phone. She clears her throat. “Ahem. Spencer Holiday, son of the founder of the well-known jewelry chain Katharine’s, and creator of the popular dating app Boyfriend Material, known for its lack of photos of a certain member of the male anatomy, is betrothed to his business partner and co-owner of the popular bar chain, The Lucky Spot. Charlotte Rhodes is also a Yale graduate, and the ring on her finger is as large as Holiday’s little black book. Looks like he’ll have to burn that list of numbers soon, since the one-time bachelor playboy was using it a few weeks ago. Time to zip it up, Holiday! Check back on Sunday for even more juicy photos and the full story on the engagement.”
Smoke billows out my eyes. I want to find that horse-faced, cub reporter and throttle him. Wait. I hate violence. I’ll play dirty instead, and slather his Facebook page with so many nut shots he has to shut it down.
Not my nuts.
Just nuts. Nutscapes, preferably.
I drag a hand through my hair. “This is everything Dad didn’t want in the papers.” I point to the phone. “And what the hell is he going to add to this on Sunday? He kept pushing about how new it was, and asking when we started dating. Like that’s interesting? But this write-up is just complete crap. Why would the reporter write that stuff? Why do they do that?”
“Because it sells, that’s why. But that’s not why I’m reading the piece to you.”
I hand her the phone and we resume our pace. “Why are you showing it to me?”
“You really don’t know why I read this stuff?”
“Because you like gossip?”
“You’re such an idiot. I do it for you. To look out for you.”
I soften for a moment. “Really? You do it for me?”
“I do. Because you don’t. I look you up online to make sure there’s nothing we have to deal with, and this is something we have to deal with.”
I nod. “Right. We need to figure out how to spin it for Dad.”
She shakes her head. “Wrong again.” She stops once more underneath a magnolia tree that canopies us with lush, green branches. “Look again.” She taps the screen. “Look at this picture.”
I stare at the image. Abe caught the moment when I was sniffing Charlotte’s neck. My face is only half-visible, but Charlotte lights up the screen, radiant and joyful. Her eyes are bright, and I swear I see of a flicker of something in them, but my mind returns briefly to her neck and the way she smelled last night. The scent memory washes over me—peaches. She smelled like peaches and dirty dreams.