Ooof.
Grace touched my arm. “Alright well, you have to come to dinner this weekend. We’re celebrating Troy’s wins and…I think August just got a new… account or something?” she glanced back at her suited son for confirmation.
“Congratulations, August.” I offered as his eyes finally met mine.
“Thank you.” His tone was different. Almost humble, yet stern. And there was no hint of that grin I’d gotten so used to.
“I’m actually working on something too, this weekend,” I clutched my sketchbook.
August glanced down at it and frowned like he was disappointed.
“But thank you for—”
“Sweetie, listen to me,” Grace placed her hands along my forearms. “I know it’s difficult to be around people right now and you probably just want to be alone, but it’s just one dinner with some old friends and people who…” she looked around her family and my heart clenched, “can make you feel at home again.”
I felt my eyes well and I stepped back gently, releasing myself from her firm hold. “Sounds great.” I turned against the wind to dry my eyes and then looked back.
Troy smiled and tossed his arm around me. “That’s a lovely idea, mom. We’d love to have you over Harp.”
“Harper,” I corrected. If only to counter the rage I felt to shake his arm off me.
When he finally removed it, August’s jaw relaxed. “Right. Of course. I did miss that spunk.”
“Take a step back, Troy,” Robert warned, sensing my unease.
“Yeah, that sounds good, here, why don’t you jot down your address and I’ll try to be there.” I handed Grace a pencil and flipped to the back of my book.
Heat settled in my chest as I paced my living room later that night. I’d barely touched my cheeseburger when Frankie and I ordered at the sports bar near the stadium.
The enraged look on August’s face was unsettling to say the least.
Was he always this cold? It could have just been the game and maybe tomorrow he’d be a little more…dare I say welcoming?
What if he didn’t want me there and it was going to be awkward? What if without the façade, August Hartman wasn’t the sweet, gentle, funny man I thought he was. Not without the mask of his brother he hid behind.
In my opinion, he was much better looking. They weren’t identical to me. If I were to never study August’s face again, I’d still know him apart from his twin miles away.
That would never change.
I’d finally fallen asleep last night when my heart stopped racing and my brain thinking of ways to get out of this dinner. I settled myself as being paranoid from the scarring I’d dealt with after prom night and fought against the gnawing feeling in my chest that August didn’t want to see me in that capacity. That he wouldn’t hate every minute of spending time with me around his family.
When I woke the next morning, I gave in and texted August. After all, I did have his number, why hold back?
Harper:Great game last night. Hope you don’t mind about tonight.
It killed me to commend Troy last night on his game when the three of us knew damn well who played and won. And since I doubted I could tell August—the real hockey star—this tonight. I texted it instead.
The text came as read a minute later, but nothing came back for a good twenty minutes.
August:Did you get anything good out there?
I tried not to respond within the first thirty seconds. But I couldn’t help myself.
Harper:I would say so.
There was no response for another few minutes. Then a ping.
August:Why would I mind?
