Waiting for Prince Harry (6 page)

I watch as his eyes widen. Then I can see Harrison is scanning everything—the vision board I have that takes up one wall, with my swatches, sketches, and photographs of sewing meticulously organized; the racks I have for hanging fabrics; the cubbies I have for my pencils, tape measures, and scissors; my desk with mesh file holder with color-coded tabs; the way I have photos of my friends and family all framed and hanging in a deliberate pattern on the wall . . .

I watch his face, and I already know, just
know
, he is doing an analysis on my personality.

Then Harrison turns toward me. “You’re Type-A organized,” he says slowly as he walks over to my designer vision board. “You don’t like when things are out of place. Out of control.”

I nod. “Again, a proper diagnosis, Psychologist Flynn. Are you sure this hockey player thing isn’t a façade? That you’re really a world famous analyst or something?”

He turns and stares seriously at me. “Kylie,” Harrison says softly, “you’re the only person who has ever thought that about me. That I’m smart enough to do more than play hockey.”

My breath catches in my throat. I feel this is a moment between us. That he hasn’t had this conversation with anyone else, not the starlets or models or gorgeous society girls he has been snapped with.

This moment
, I realize,
is something new. And just between us.

“I see you,” I say with all honesty, “as
Harrison
first. Not a professional athlete.”

His gorgeous green eyes flicker.

I’ve touched him. I instinctively know I have.

“That’s what makes you different, Kylie,” Harrison says in that soft-spoken voice.

We lock eyes again. My heart is just all over the place, fluttering in a way it never has before.

But as if the moment is too much, he clears his throat and turns back to my board.

“So are these all your designs? Your finished aprons?” Harrison asks.

“Yes, they’re all mine.”

“You’re a good designer,” he says, scanning all my sketches. “Wicked good.”

“Thank you,” I say softly.

“Why aren’t you a fashion designer?” Harrison asks, still staring at the photographs I’ve pinned of completed projects.

“It was my dream to study design at Parsons in New York,” I admit quietly.

Harrison’s eyes dart back to me. “Why didn’t you?”

I sigh. “Everyone in my family went to Southern Methodist University. I was expected to go there, too. No other option was ever discussed. I was told since I was a little girl I’d go to SMU and carry on the family tradition. And it worked out okay, it’s a great school and I got a bachelor of arts degree—”

“But it wasn’t your dream,” Harrison interjects softly.

I swallow hard. I’ve never said this to anyone, but as I gaze into Harrison’s eyes, I somehow feel safe enough to utter the truth.

“No,” I say. “It wasn’t.”

“But being a rules girl,” Harrison says, turning around to face me, “you complied.”

“How . . . how did you know that?”

Harrison grins. “The signs are kind of obvious. Organization, control, structure. Rules people like those things.”

“I take it back. You aren’t a psychologist. You’re a mind reader!”

Oh shit. If that’s the case, I really hope he can’t read the part of my mind that would love nothing more than to touch his ginger hair right now.

He laughs loudly and rubs his hand along his jaw. “No, but I’m pretty good at reading people. Comes in handy when I’m facing an opponent on the ice. If I can play a mind game with a defenseman, I can score a hell of a lot easier.”

“I see, so psychology is all part of your game plan,” I tease.

Harrison grins, flashing me that beautiful smile. “Perhaps.” Then he looks seriously at me. “So what’s your business plan?”

I furrow my brow. “What business plan?”

Harrison jerks his head in the direction of my vision board. “For launching your design career.”

I feel my face grow warm again. “Oh, God, no, I can’t do that. I could probably sell some on Etsy,” I say, referring to the selling site for artisans, “but I couldn’t possibly make a career out of it.”

Harrison studies me, as if his mind is trying to get inside my head again.

“Oh, I think you can, Kylie,” Harrison says, folding his arms across his chest. “The question is, do you have the courage and belief in yourself to follow it?”

I anxiously pull at my hair. “But that takes a business mind. And more than that, financial backing and—”

“I think,” Harrison says, keeping his eyes on mine, “I have a way for you to do it. I have a proposition for you.”

Oh God. I will
die
if he wants to be my financial backer. I don’t want that from him. I’m not trying to get into his pockets! I have to stop this train of thought right now.

“I don’t want your money,” I blurt out.

“What?”

“No! You barely know me, and I will not accept money from you.”

Harrison looks stunned. “Oh, no, no, I’m not talking about handing you a check.”

Oh fuck, now this is humiliating.

“Oh, well good,” I manage, wanting to die.

“Rather, I have a business proposal for you. I need your help with something, a collaboration, if you will, and I can pay you for it. And you can use the money to back your apron line if you want. That is, if you’re interested in working with me, Kylie. Would you be?”

Chapter 7

The Pop Quiz Question:
Is working together good for a relationship
?

A) Yes. We can grow closer together in the process.

B) No. Working together is too much togetherness and stressful on a relationship.

C) It depends on the collaboration . . . and the collaborator . . .

I feel my breath catch in my throat as I stare back at Harrison, stunned at his offer.

“You . . . want to work with me?” I ask.

Harrison’s eyes remain intently on mine. “Yes. I recently purchased a home in Highland Park,” he says slowly. “It’s an old home, built in 1937. It’s gorgeous on the outside, and has lots of potential on the inside, and I want to completely renovate it. My goal,” Harrison says, “is to sell it for a profit, and turn that money into a sizeable donation for the Flynn22 Foundation.”

If I didn’t have a huge crush on him before, that story just pushed it into a whole new level. He wants to renovate a home, one of the coolest things ever—at least to me, because I’m obsessed with decorating/renovation shows like the
Property Brothers
.

And he wants to donate the money to charity.

I know swooning hasn’t been a relevant term in a long time, but I really feel like I might if I don’t focus quickly on the conversation and ignore how I feel my heart rate spiking.

“How do I fit into this project?” I blurt out, trying to refocus.

Harrison flashes me a big smile. “Easy. You’re organized. I’m not. I’m a mess. Papers, 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 here, as I know we’re destined to be friends, but why do I feel like that sentence alludes to something deeper than that?

Harrison clears his throat, and I realize the moment is over.

“Let’s go see the house.”

“I can’t wait,” I say, climbing up into his car.

Harrison shuts the door after me and walks around to the driver’s side, slipping behind the wheel.

“I think you’ll love it,” Harrison says, turning the key in the ignition. As soon as the engine starts, music comes blaring through the car. “Shit, sorry,” Harrison says, instantly turning it down.

I smile at him. “It’s okay, I like Muse.”

He turns to face me as the song “Madness” fills the air.

“
You do?
”

I can’t help but laugh at the shocked look on his face. “Yeah, I do. This is my favorite Muse song, actually.”

“Wow, mine too,” Harrison says as he eases into the street. “With ‘Hysteria’ a close second.”

We begin talking about our favorite Muse songs, compiling our top ten lists, and playfully arguing when we don’t agree.

And before I know it, Harrison is pulling up into a driveway of an elegant old home in Highland Park.

“Oh wow,” I gasp, staring at the two-story home. “Harrison, it’s gorgeous.”

I stare at the beautiful home, with its gray brick and black shutters and black roof. It exudes the charm from a period long ago, and I’m immediately drawn to it.

We get out of the car, and Harrison strolls with me up the long sidewalk, past a lush, manicured green lawn.

“Like I said earlier, it was built in 1937,” Harrison says as we walk. “It has been passed down within the same family for generations, until this last couple decided they wanted to move to something smaller and more manageable.”

“1937,” I repeat, gazing at the old home in front of us. “Can you imagine the stories this home could tell? The history it has seen?” I stop for a second, visualizing it from the sidewalk. “Just think of it. This home was built during the Depression. This family lived through World War II in this house. I can just see the women in their dresses, the hair rolled back, the red lipstick, listening to the war updates around the radio . . . then the 50’s when the economy was rebuilding . . . and the 60’s, with culture clashes and outfits like they wear on
Mad Men
. . . I really wish these walls
could
talk.”

I stop for a moment and realize I’ve been rambling like a crazy person. I feel embarrassment sweep through me as I notice a quizzical expression etched on his gorgeous face.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I . . . I get carried away sometimes.”

“You see things in a way most people don’t,” Harrison says. “Don’t ever apologize for that, Kylie. That’s what makes you different. Different in a
good
way.”

“You’re kind to say that,” I say quietly as we go up toward the front door, past mounds of colorful impatiens planted in huge flowerbeds on each side of the sidewalk.

“I mean it,” Harrison says, stopping me by putting his hand on my arm. The second he touches me, the second I feel his warm skin against mine, electricity ricochets through me with a force I’ve never known before.

“When you say something,” Harrison continues, his fingertips still on my arm, “I want to hear it. You have intelligent thoughts and unique interests and I’m never bored talking to you. You’re
interesting
, Kylie. One of the most interesting people I’ve ever met.”

I stare back into his eyes. My heart stops as I see nothing but sincerity shining in them.

“You’re being completely honest with me, aren’t you?” I say aloud, amazed that this man—this famous, intelligent, gorgeous man—finds me interesting.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Harrison asks, a confused expression filtering across his face.

And even though I know I shouldn’t do this—every quiz on relationships I have ever taken advises I
shouldn’t
—I’m going to say something that doesn’t exude confidence.

“My last serious boyfriend, he would drift off when I would talk,” I say, having never told this to anyone before. I look down, as I’m too embarrassed to look at Harrison as I say it. “I could see it in his eyes. That he was going somewhere else in his head, that he didn’t get me or what I was talking about. I . . . I thought it was him just being a guy. Or that I was boring him,” I admit.

Suddenly I feel Harrison’s fingertips on my chin, and he gently tilts my face up so I’m looking at him. “Your ex wasn’t being a guy,” Harrison says, looking me firmly in the eyes. “He was being an
idiot
. Because you’re endlessly fascinating to me. And I pity anyone who doesn’t think so.”

Could he make me fall for him any more than I have?

Harrison smiles at me, the full on, flashing-grin smile. “Now, because I find you endlessly fascinating, I want to see what you think of my new acquisition.”

Harrison puts the key in the lock and opens the door, letting me inside.

I step in and he flips on the lights, and I’m immediately stunned at the beauty of the old home.

“Harrison,” I breathe, walking across the hardwood floors, “this . . . this home . . . it’s
beautiful
.”

I instantly begin investigating it, moving around the living room, examining the fireplace, the detailed crown molding . . .

“The family that lived here has not updated since the 70’s,” Harrison says, following me. “The floors need work, and obviously the dark paneling needs to go. There are places where the walls could be knocked out to expand the living space, stuff like that. But I want to stay true to the original home in every other way.”

I smile happily at him. “I’m so glad you’re going to do that. This home has so much history and charm, and I’d hate to lose it.”

Harrison rubs his fingertips along his jaw. “No, no, we’ll stay true to that vision.”

We. He just said “we.”

“Anyway, let me show you the whole house,” Harrison says.

So we go through every room, talking about what could be updated, modified, or changed. Finally we end up back in the kitchen, which right now has dated dark cabinets, older appliances, and a floor that has seen better days.

“I have a whole folder of kitchen ideas,” I say, running my hand across the countertop, which will be ripped out. “I have a zillion different ideas for this room alone. Like countertops, backsplashes, reclaimed hardwoods for the floor, brightening up the nook—”

“You have a folder of kitchen ideas?” Harrison asks, interrupting me. He leans across the countertop from me, folding his arms across it. “How come?”

I feel my face go warm, and I anxiously run my hand through my hair. “Um, I have all kinds of folders for the future. You know, like how I want to decorate when I have a house.”

“Do you implement any of those ideas now?”

“Are you analyzing me?”

Harrison bursts out laughing. “Maybe.”

I laugh. Then I decide to tease him. “I know you claim to listen to me, but I did just say folders for the
future
. Not now.”

“Oh,
touché
,” Harrison says, flashing me a smile. “However, why are you waiting for the future? Why not decorate your apartment kitchen
now
?”

“Because I won’t be there forever,” I say.

“So what? Why not live in the now?”

“Why not wait for the future?”

Harrison chuckles. “You’re going to cling to that future premise, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I admit, laughing with him.

“I think I might have to get you to change your mind on that,” Harrison says, tugging on his baseball hat. “But speaking of the future, we should probably go. It’s late now.”

Oh God, I didn’t even realize the sun had completely set. I peer outside and it is dark. Then I glance down at my watch and it is already past ten o’clock.

I nod, although my heart feels like I could stay here talking to him until the sun came up again.

I decide to tease him. “After all, you have to get your rest for the big fashion show tomorrow. Laurel will want you looking fresh.”