Page 37 of Shattered Hearts
I’ve used up my entire supply of patience for the yearin these past four days alone. Splitting my time between home and the Gallagher estate—between being myself and pretending to be Harper—is the mostexhausting work I’ve ever undertaken.
My stress is only slightly alleviated after I receive a call from an unknown number and pick up to hear Harper’s voice. She sounds stressed and speaks quickly, barely letting me get a word in edgewise. She begs me to hold down the fort for now, saying she just needed a break.
After procuring my reluctant agreement to continue posing as her replacement—somehow, she guessed our father would force me to fill in for her without even being told—she makes me promise not to tell anyone that we talked. She tells me she’ll check in again soon and not to worry.
Then her voice turns soft. Wavers. “I hope you know I still love you and want you to be happy.”
She hangs up before I can reply.
What. The. Hell.
As I fall back onto my twin’s giant California king bed, trust-fall style, I curse her for forcing me into this situation. I also worry. It’s so unlike her to act like anything other than the perfect daughter and mafia princess that I’m still not convinced foul play isn’t involved somehow.
Likewise, Finn and my father aren’t sold on herI’m sorrynote. They’re both quietly putting out feelers to see if anyone knows anything.
But hey, at least I finally understand why she insisted our father buy this bed. Being Harper Brennan is hard fucking work. There really is no rest for the wicked. Or for the beautiful.
After impersonating Harper for four whole hours uninterrupted, I’m so fatigued, I know I’ll fall asleep any second if I don’t get up now, while I still have the willpower and a miniscule amount of strength.
I have to admit, though, the image of Finn waiting for me downstairs like an idiot while I take a nap up here inspires more of a smile than it should. But the image of Finn bursting in here, waking me up all angry and upset for making him wait, does not. The last thing I need is to be alone with Finn Gallagher in a room with a bed the size of a small European country.
Being around him is hell on earth. I wish I could go back in time and stop my teenage self from ever looking twice at him. Emotionally, mentally, romantically, I’m beyond over him.
Problem is, my body craves him. Those kisses? Those touches? He opened Pandora’s box. And I can’t get the lid back on to save my life.
Whenever he’s around, whenever he comes within twenty feet, my body reacts. He’s magnetized us, and now, whenever we’re close to each other, I have to fight the pull between our bodies. If I want to get out of this mess unscathed, I have to resist at all costs.
Sometimes Finn makes it easy on me.
Like when he says something naturally repellent.
Look. Relax. You’re taking this too seriously.
He gets angry that his decoy bride talks to his friends, something his real bride would absolutely need to do, and then has the nerve to insinuate that I’m overacting?
Heaving a breath, I hoist myself off Harper’s bed. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can get away from Mr. Frowny Scarface. I only came up here for reinforcements.
Many years have passed since I last stepped foot in my sister’s suite. Even before I estranged myself from the family, Harper and I weren’t exactly on fabulous terms. As a result, I haven’t been in here since our high school days.
Still, not much has changed.
Harper’s enormous bed, balanced by her tall, pastel, upholstered frame. While there’s only one window, it’s the size of two side-by-side garage doors. Two wingback chairs and a matching card table where we used to play chess as children sit in front of it. Her writing desk is long enough to lay on and dominates a single corner of the room.
Though I didn’t come here to snoop, I spend a few minutes rifling through my sister’s drawers. I’m hoping to find a clue as to her whereabouts.
When my search turns up empty, I shift gears and head for the closet.
On Harper’s wedding day, playing her proved easy in at least one way. The disguise wardrobe was provided. In the few days since, I’ve had to use my own clothes to improvise Harper-esque outfits. The issue is that my closet screams Woman on a Budget with a Day Job, and Harper’s screams Back to School at New York Fashion Week.
Since Sunday, I’ve gotten some strange glances from people at the mansion. That’s normal for me, but not for Harper. If Iprompt looks containing anything less than envy or lust, that means I’m doing a bad job.
In order not arouse any more suspicion or further tarnish my sister’s brand, I’ve broken down and decided to take clothes from her closet to wear.
Padding across Harper’s plush carpet, I head through the double doors that lead into her closet and brace myself for the mini-mall that awaits me on the other side. On my way in, I swipe a Gucci tote bag off the wall. It’s the size of a shopping basket and just what I need to carry my haul in.
Harper’s closet has enough space to park an Escalade. At the far end of the room, walled in by glass, shoes, bags, and jewelry line shelf after shelf. Wooden hangers covered in brand-new designer goods surround me.
I don’t bother with giving any of Harper’s clothes a good once-over. Instead, I start snatching items off hangers and tossing them in the tote. After all, it’s not as if impersonating her means I suddenly understand her sense of style. I just hope my choices come with enough fabric to preserve my modesty.