Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions Chapter 111

Gemma laughs and walks away, her focus shifting to some customers who’ve come in, while Harley leads me to the front of the store to a small seating area with a small coffee table. I then take a seat across from her, finally giving her a bit of space after our playful exchanges.

I can’t help but notice the subtle change in her demeanor as she looks over at the flowers again. Her smile is softer now, more genuine. The delicate petals shimmer under the warm light streaming in through the front window, and there’s a vulnerability in the way she looks at them, something tender that I don’t see often in the people that surround me on a daily basis. It’s refreshing.

“You really do have a smile that could light up a room,” I say, as I carefully watch her. My words are almost a whisper, but it’s a truth I can’t keep to myself.

She looks up at me, the softness still lingering in her eyes. “They’re just flowers,” she hedges, but her words come out with a tenderness I wasn’t expecting.

I lean in slightly, the corners of my mouth twitching upward. “You sure? They seem to be doing wonders for you.”

She lets out a soft laugh, but there’s a hint of something more, something vulnerable even, hiding behind her usual sharpness. In the short while I’ve come to know Harley, I’ve noticed the way she guards herself, keeps things close to her chest, not wanting to give too much away. It’s something I can relate to, but I also want to push her to let me in. To let *someone* in. If she’s planning on joining our world, she’s going to need someone in her corner who’s not her mate.

“I guess so,” she mutters, her gaze dropping down to where she placed our lunch on the coffee table between us, as if she’s trying to hide what just flashed across her face. Then, to change the subject, she asks, “So, what brings you to my humble little bookstore? Besides bringing lunch, of course.”

I let out a breath, glad she’s shifting the conversation, but not wanting to let go of the moment between us. “Well, I just wanted to make sure you’re getting along with your flowers.” I wink, and she gives me a half-smile, shaking her head in mock exasperation.

She then rolls her eyes halfheartedly, but the smile lingers on her lips. “You’re really hung up on those flowers, huh?”

“I’m just making sure they’re living up to expectations,” I reply with a playful grin. “You know, it’s not every day someone gets flowers, especially not from a guy who’s not exactly Mr. Romance.”

Harley huffs out a short laugh, and it’s clear she’s trying to downplay the situation. She shifts her weight and then starts pulling our club sandwiches from the bag, before she deadpans, “Well, I’m not sure I’d call it ‘romantic gestures.’ More like...a surprising level of thoughtfulness for someone who doesn’t exactly do this kind of thing.”

I lean back slightly, and my chair creaks under the shift in weight. The sunlight coming through the window to my right catches the edges of her hair and casts a soft halo-like glow around her. The contrast between her sarcasm and the gentle, almost vulnerable look she gets when she talks about Thane isn’t lost on me. “Fair point,” I say, my tone lighter now. “But you know, there’s something about that moment when you’re handed flowers—it’s not just about the gesture. It’s the feeling behind it, the fact that someone’s paying attention.”

She shrugs, looking down at her hands as she plays with the edge of the sandwich bag. I can see the change in her posture as her shoulders slightly sag, and the guard she keeps up slips just a little. The air between us shifts, and it’s subtle, but the tension that had been under the surface is palpable now. We’re not just talking about the flowers anymore.

“And living in the moment is one way to do it,” I add, leaning forward slightly, giving her a bit more space but also closing the distance in our conversation. “But I have a feeling that’s not all that’s on your mind.”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Her nails tapping against the table’s edge is the only sound that fills the slight pause between us. Her eyes flick to the window beside us, and her gaze is unfocused as she stares past the glass and into the distance as if searching for something that’s just beyond her reach. I can see the wheels turning in her mind, the hesitation before she speaks, the quietness she hides beneath the surface.

The silence stretches, and I let it, giving her the space to sort through whatever thoughts are pulling at her. But then she shifts again, the tiniest movement in her posture as she looks back at me. The guardedness is still there, but now it’s laced with something else—something raw.

When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter than before, but there’s a new depth to it, like she’s letting me see a piece of her she usually keeps hidden away. “This place…it’s mine. It’s a small business, with no glam and no big names—just books and coffee. People come in and out, but no one really knows much about anyone else. It’s the perfect disguise.”

“Disguise?” I echo, intrigued by where she’s going with this. My fingers tap lightly on the edge of the table now, my mind processing her words. “What do you mean by that?”

She lowers her voice even more, almost as if she’s letting me in on a secret she’s only now ready to share. “People think they know you, but they only know what they want to see. And it’s easier that way.”

For a moment, her words settle between us, hanging heavy in the air. The silence feels more intimate now, like we’re sharing something unspoken—something that’s exposed. She’s not just talking about the bookstore. She’s talking about herself. How she hides behind the walls she’s built around her life. It’s a carefully constructed mask. A mask, I suspect, she’s never let anyone truly see behind before now.

I break the silence with a soft, reassuring smile, my voice steady as I try to ease some of the weight around us. “You’re more than just what you show to others, Harley. Don’t forget that.”

She looks at me then, and her gaze softens ever so slightly. It’s almost imperceptible, but I catch it. Then she exhales, as if releasing a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and I feel the shift in her energy. But even as she opens up a little more, there’s a hesitation behind her words, a wariness about fully letting me in.

“What if I don’t want anyone to know who I really am?” she asks quietly, her voice tinged with openness.

I sit back in my chair, giving her the space she needs while still keeping my tone steady and grounded. “Then you don’t have to. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be open to the possibility of wanting more for yourself.”

I let the words hang in the air, knowing that I’m pushing her to confront something she’s been avoiding. But someone has to. Someone needs to help guide her while she navigates the things she’s hesitant to face.

But I’m patient, and I’ll give her the time she needs. One conversation at a time.

The tension still lingers between us as we start in on our lunch, but I can see the lingering conflict in her eyes—the flicker of curiosity beneath the walls she’s built up over the years. I don’t know if she’s ready to open up completely, but she’s already started.

And that’s enough for now.