Harper spent the rest of the afternoon in a state of panic.

The marquee had a hole in it. The seating chart was missing. The whole manor smelled of chemicals post-fumigation. Absolutely nothing was ready for the wedding next weekend, and she hadn't the faintest clue where to start. She almost wished that Griffin was here to blow the whole place up; that would have only improved the décor.

No wonder Diana was stressed.

She wandered into the library, spraying a bottle of lavender-scented water. This was partially under Diana's direction to "cleanse" the house, and partially, Harper thought grimly, to hide the smell of bug-killing gas. This whole manor needed a good air-out. ASAP.

Lawson was sitting in an armchair, a book propped open on his lap. Flames crackled in the grate, casting odd shadows across his cheekbones. His dark hair was damp from the shower. He was also, Harper noted in amusement, wearing glasses; there was something oddly endearing about the way they kept slipping down his nose.

Harper climbed a ladder, still brandishing the bottle. Lawson looked up.

"What," Lawson said calmly, "are you doing?"

Harper sprayed. "Cleansing."

"Cleansing?"

She sprayed again. "Don't ask."

"Ohio," Lawson said. "Put down the bottle and take a seat."

"Up here?" Harper examined the towering ladder, her voice mild. "Seems kind of dangerous, don't you think?"

Lawson whistled. "That almost sounded like something I'd say. Things must be bad." He rose, pouring a healthy splash of caramel-coloured liquid into a glass. He set it down next to the couch. "Here. Drink this."

Harper frowned. "What is it?"

"Sustenance."

She turned back to the bookshelves. "I'm busy."

"Ohio." His voice was stern. "Sit down and have a whisky. Before you hurt yourself."

Harper sighed. Lawson was looking up at her, his arms folded across his chest. He'd been helpful today, organizing bedrooms and seating charts and parking spaces. The least she could do was have a whisky with him.

Even if a drink with Lawson did seem a little dangerous.

She climbed down the ladder. Lawson reclaimed his seat by the fireplace, ghostly flames reflected in his glasses. His long fingers swirled a glass of caramel liquid, sending light dancing across the walls. He looked like a photograph, Harper thought: Man with Whisky, June 2022. But for the first time, her hands didn't itch for a camera.

Oddly, she wanted to keep this moment just for herself.

She took the seat across from him. Lawson's gaze was fixed on his drink, his dark brow slightly furrowed.

"What?" Harper asked.

He took a sip. "Did you mean what you said before?"

"Which part?"

"To my father," Lawson said. "About university."

Harper blinked. She hadn't realized he was still thinking about that. "Well, yeah. I'm starting at the University of Colorado in September."

"Why?"

"Er." Harper paused. "Because I want a job one day?"

Lawson leaned forward. "As what?"

"I'm not sure yet." She ran a finger along the rim of the glass. "Something in HR, maybe. I've always liked people."

"You know," Lawson said, "I've worked with dozens of photographers over the years. Mum's always hosting things. Charity galas. Fashion shows. Most of them charge an extortionate fee for their time." He held her gaze. "Mum told me that she offered you a salary, but you turned her down."

There was a question in his voice. Harper shrugged.

"It was a favour," she said.

"I know."

"What are you trying to say?"

Lawson's green eyes reflected the fire, twin emeralds forged in flame. "You're really talented, Ohio. Give yourself a chance."

She swallowed. "I'm not..."

Talented. Special. Good enough. A dozen words came to mind. She could work a camera, sure, but so what? Everyone could take a picture with their iPhones these days. It wasn't exactly a unique skillset.

"What?" Lawson prompted. "You're not what?"

There was something fierce about his voice. She looked away.

"I don't have any credentials," she said.

Lawson was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost drowned out by the crackling flames. "You don't like things getting messy, do you?"

"What?"

"You don't like taking risks," Lawson clarified. "You want an office job. You want the tidy family and the picket fence and the American dream. There's nothing wrong with that," he added, seeing her expression. "I even admire it, in a way. I'm just saying that it doesn't leave much room for mess."

Harper frowned. "I wouldn't say that."

"Wouldn't you?"

Harper looked away. It wasn't, she thought sourly, that she was waiting for her Disney prince to come riding up on a white horse; she wasn't that sort of romantic. But she'd seen the type of love that she wanted. Photographed it over the years. It was a fiftieth wedding anniversary. It was his-and-her slippers on arthritic feet. It was comforting and distinctly un-messy. Was that so much to ask for?

"You see?" Lawson sat back. "That's my point."

"What?"

"You want a perfect romance," Lawson said. "But romance isn't perfect; that's what makes it romance."

Harper swirled her whisky. If it was anyone else, she would have been offended; but there was nothing triumphant about Lawson. His voice was very matter-of-fact, as if he was explaining the weather forecast. And besides, this was Lawson.

Harper was beginning to feel like they could tell each other anything. Which was exactly why she said, "And how would you know?"

He arched an eyebrow. "Know what?"

"What romance is like," Harper clarified. "You don't think Griffin's told me stories over the years? About what your dating life is like? You look for messy, Lawson. You prefer it that way." She leaned forward. "I bet you've never found anything that you want to hold on to."

"Well," Lawson murmured. "I wouldn't say that."

His eyes glittered with dark humour, and Harper's breath caught. She was suddenly very aware of how close they were sitting. Of how Lawson's knuckles were bloodless on his whisky glass, as if he was gripping it very tightly. Heat fanned her face, deliciously sedating, and she swallowed. Lawson's eyes tracked the movement.

They were teetering on the edge of something dangerous. She could feel it.

And then Harper yawned.

The spell broke. Lawson leaned back, setting his whisky glass on the table. When he rose, any trace of desire was gone, wiped away so quickly that Harper wondered if she had imagined it in the first place.

"I've kept you up," he murmured.

"I don't mind."

"We should get to sleep," Lawson said. "Guests will be here early."

It was a fair point. Still, Harper couldn't help but feel reluctant as she rose, draining the last of the whisky.

"Alright," she said, setting the glass down. "Lead the way."

Hello lovely readers,

I'd say that I'm sorry for the cliffhanger, but I'm really not ;)

Question of the Day: what's the prettiest book you own? I love a good Penguin cloth-bound classic, although the hardback version of "Rule of Wolves" is gorgeous too (like the red cover with the silver tree on the front — does anyone know what I mean?)

Affectionately,

J.K.