First Impressions: A Stand Alone Enemies-to-Lovers Romance by Dee Palmer

Author:Dee Palmer [Palmer, Dee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: novel
Publisher: Dee Palmer
Published: 2020-03-18T16:00:00+00:00

Cash

I manage to pull all the clothes she had tucked in her arms and place them on the floor, encouraging her back into the kitchen. She moves with hesitation and suspicion, wide-eyed and skittish like prey, and I have to confess I’m holding my breath waiting for her to bolt once more.

I fucked up on a biblical scale.

She’s right. I knew exactly what Valerie was up to. Even if I did stop it, I let it play out too far. I’m responsible for this shattered person before me. A small part of me was curious how she would rise to another challenge outside of her comfort zone. I was a fucking idiot to think anyone with an ounce of humanity could have endured such cruelty. It turns out Harlow doesn’t have an ounce; she has a shit ton. She wouldn’t be here right now, giving me a second chance, if she didn’t.

My gut churns, and an invisible shudder charges through me. What if I had ignored her silence and my unrest and jumped straight in the shower? I would’ve missed her trying to flee. What if she wasn’t planning on staying at Michael’s place? What if she was heading straight to the airport? The question pops in my head before I can quash it. Why does it matter? An answer, of sorts, echoes uncomfortably in my head: I don’t know why; I just know it does. She matters.

Lifting her to sit on the stool. I hold my finger up to stop her when she starts to open her mouth.

“Nah, I’m going to make you a nightcap. It’s guaranteed to make you feel better. Trust me.” She swallows when our eyes meet, blinks, and drops her gaze before she can witness my brighter smile. A wasted attempt to lift the cloud that’s settled heavily around us both.

“And how does it do that, exactly?” She sniffs, and her expression is flat as I place two crystal glasses in front of her.

“It’s sixty-five percent alcohol. It makes you forget pretty much everything, from your name to your zip code.”

“In which case, I’ll take a triple.” She tries and fails pull off a full smile. I admire the effort even if it crushes me that I’m the reason she can’t. I pour two fingers of whiskey and then the same amount of orange liqueur, add one large ice cube, and give it a swirl before I hand it to her. She lifts the glass and sniffs, wincing at the hit of alcohol-laced fumes. Wrinkling her nose, she takes a tentative sip, followed by a much larger, face-scrunching gulp.

“I don’t understand. I wasn’t a date,” she remarks after the third gulp, huffing from the potency of the alcohol. The glass is almost empty. I top it off and take the first sip from my own drink. Watching her every facial expression, I note the signs as she begins to relax, as subtle as a bloom in the first rays of the morning sun.

“Maybe it was.”

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