bills, correspondence, not exactly my strong suit,” he says, rubbing his fingertips along his jaw line. “But you, on the other hand, are the textbook definition of organized. And to do this renovation, I need someone to help me stay organized with contractors, ideas, paint samples, everything. And double bonus for me—you have an artistic eye. You could really help me turn this house into a showplace, Kylie.”
“Is that a hockey term?” I ask.
Harrison furrows his brow.
“Huh?”
“Double bonus,” I say, smiling proudly at him. “See? I know more about hockey than you think I do.”
Suddenly Harrison roars with laughter.
“What?”
“That’s a basketball term,” Harrison explains, his expressive eyes dancing at me. “But I’ll give you a point for effort, Kylie Reed.”
Oh God. I’m really out of my league with Harrison Flynn, in more ways than one.
“Anyway, mislaid sports terminology aside,” Harrison says, “you could work with me a couple of hours a week, on weekends, whatever works for you. And once you see the house, you can calculate a rate for yourself based on what you would put into the job, and I’ll pay you accordingly.”
“Harrison, it’s for charity,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ll do it for free.”
Harrison stares at me, almost as if he’s awed by what I just said. “You really would, wouldn’t you? You would do this for my charity— for me —and not expect anything out of it?”
I realize what he’s getting at. I’m sure Harrison is used to everybody wanting something from him at all times—his money, his attention, a photo, his autograph—and he’s really not used to someone like me, who would simply do it because it was a good cause—nothing needed in return.
Except, of course, to simply spend time with the man I know as Harrison Flynn. Just Harrison Flynn, a Ginger Boy from Boston. That , I think, swallowing hard, is more than enough for me.
“That’s really generous of you, Kylie, but I’m going to pay you. I insist.”
“What if I insist you don’t?” I challenge. “What if I won’t accept those terms?”
Harrison laughs again, and his eyes crinkle up in the corners in response. “Then perhaps I won’t accept you as my collaborator.”
My collaborator . I believe those two words are the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard in my life.
“All right, you drive a hard bargain—”
“I can be quite stubborn,” Harrison interrupts, lifting an eyebrow at me.
“However,” I say, laughing, “your red-headed stubbornness aside, I shall accept the offer on your terms.”
“Really?” Harrison asks. “You’ll really do it?”
“I’ll absolutely do it,” I say, smiling happily. “I can’t wait to get started, actually.”
“You want to go see the house?” Harrison suddenly asks.
He wants to take me to the house in Highland Park! I mentally count to three, as multiple quizzes advise never looking too eager to reply to an offer, and then calmly answer him.
“Yes, I would love to.”
So I pick up my purse and we step out. I lock up, and then we exit the building and head out into the steamy Dallas night.
The sunsets are late at this time of year, and even though it is near eight-thirty in the evening, the sun is just starting to set in the Texas sky. Harrison stops at his Range Rover at the curb and opens my door.
“Hold on for a second,” he says.
Then I watch as he shovels a reusable water bottle, a pair of hockey skates, a book, and other assorted items to the backseat of his car so I can have a seat.
“You do need me,” I say without thinking. Oh crap. I quickly realize that didn’t sound right and I try to back backpedal. “I mean, you need me to organize is what I was trying to say and—”
Harrison turns around and stares at me.
“Sometimes,” he says softly, “you don’t know what you need until you find it.”
My breath catches in my throat as I gaze back at him. I can’t explain what is happening
“Is that a hockey term?” I ask.
Harrison furrows his brow.
“Huh?”
“Double bonus,” I say, smiling proudly at him. “See? I know more about hockey than you think I do.”
Suddenly Harrison roars with laughter.
“What?”
“That’s a basketball term,” Harrison explains, his expressive eyes dancing at me. “But I’ll give you a point for effort, Kylie Reed.”
Oh God. I’m really out of my league with Harrison Flynn, in more ways than one.
“Anyway, mislaid sports terminology aside,” Harrison says, “you could work with me a couple of hours a week, on weekends, whatever works for you. And once you see the house, you can calculate a rate for yourself based on what you would put into the job, and I’ll pay you accordingly.”
“Harrison, it’s for charity,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ll do it for free.”
Harrison stares at me, almost as if he’s awed by what I just said. “You really would, wouldn’t you? You would do this for my charity— for me —and not expect anything out of it?”
I realize what he’s getting at. I’m sure Harrison is used to everybody wanting something from him at all times—his money, his attention, a photo, his autograph—and he’s really not used to someone like me, who would simply do it because it was a good cause—nothing needed in return.
Except, of course, to simply spend time with the man I know as Harrison Flynn. Just Harrison Flynn, a Ginger Boy from Boston. That , I think, swallowing hard, is more than enough for me.
“That’s really generous of you, Kylie, but I’m going to pay you. I insist.”
“What if I insist you don’t?” I challenge. “What if I won’t accept those terms?”
Harrison laughs again, and his eyes crinkle up in the corners in response. “Then perhaps I won’t accept you as my collaborator.”
My collaborator . I believe those two words are the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard in my life.
“All right, you drive a hard bargain—”
“I can be quite stubborn,” Harrison interrupts, lifting an eyebrow at me.
“However,” I say, laughing, “your red-headed stubbornness aside, I shall accept the offer on your terms.”
“Really?” Harrison asks. “You’ll really do it?”
“I’ll absolutely do it,” I say, smiling happily. “I can’t wait to get started, actually.”
“You want to go see the house?” Harrison suddenly asks.
He wants to take me to the house in Highland Park! I mentally count to three, as multiple quizzes advise never looking too eager to reply to an offer, and then calmly answer him.
“Yes, I would love to.”
So I pick up my purse and we step out. I lock up, and then we exit the building and head out into the steamy Dallas night.
The sunsets are late at this time of year, and even though it is near eight-thirty in the evening, the sun is just starting to set in the Texas sky. Harrison stops at his Range Rover at the curb and opens my door.
“Hold on for a second,” he says.
Then I watch as he shovels a reusable water bottle, a pair of hockey skates, a book, and other assorted items to the backseat of his car so I can have a seat.
“You do need me,” I say without thinking. Oh crap. I quickly realize that didn’t sound right and I try to back backpedal. “I mean, you need me to organize is what I was trying to say and—”
Harrison turns around and stares at me.
“Sometimes,” he says softly, “you don’t know what you need until you find it.”
My breath catches in my throat as I gaze back at him. I can’t explain what is happening
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