Suddenly, I know exactly what I want to do: Give that ass a piece of my mind.
I grab my bag, stuffing a few stray papers that have escaped into it as well. Finally, I snatch up the business card and study the street address. Only a couple blocks from here—I recognize it from the night I hobbled around town looking for Mary Kate’s Tarts and Vicars fancy dress party.
The night that started this whole mess.
I stick the card into my pocket and throw on my coat.
“Hey, hey, where you going? I was just getting another round!” Patrick reaches for my hand again in an attempt to pull me toward the bar instead.
“Sorry, at my limit. Besides, I’ve got class in the morning.” I tap on MK’s shoulder, give her a wave to let her know I’m headed out.
“Text me to say you got back safe?” she shouts over the din of the bar room.
I flash her a thumbs up and nod at Nick and Patrick. Patrick, alas, is at the point of drunken stupor where he won’t be dissuaded that easily. He trails me toward the door as I go, leaning over to protest in my ear every step of the way.
“I don’t have to get another round, ya know. I would sacrifice that for your sake, love.” He presses a hand to his chest. “I’m a true gentleman like that. You need an escort home? Or maybe to my home?”
I can’t help laughing, though I do shove him aside. “Such a gentleman, clearly. Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Rain check then. Tomorrow night?” He winks.
I roll my eyes. “Good night, Patrick.”
“You wound me, Harper. But I maintain hope!”
“Good luck with that,” I call over my shoulder as I elbow my way out of the pub. The cool night air hits me like a breath of fresh oxygen. It should knock some sense into me, but instead it emboldens me.
I hug my bag tight against my side and march through the late evening streets. It’s a testament to how much better I’ve been getting to know Oxford over the past couple of weeks that I only take one wrong turn along the way. Before long, I’m staring at a row of townhouses, each one identical to the one next door, and comparing them to the business card in my hand.
I’m reasonably sure I’ve figured out the right house, though when I march up onto the porch, there’s no little J. Kingston plaque on the mailbox to reassure me. In fact, the whole place looks barren—no signs of decoration like the neighboring houses have donned (potted plants that dangle from porch roofs and wreathes of fall leaves over the door knockers).
I press the bell once and suck in another gulp of air for courage.
The house remains dark and quiet. Maybe I have the wrong address? But I check the card again, and yes, the numbers match exactly. I dare a peek inside the mailbox to see if there’s a letter or a newspaper that might be able to confirm the name of the house’s inhabitants. No such luck.
Then headlights illuminate me from behind. I freeze in place, even though I’m not doing anything wrong. Instinct, I guess. I spin around to squint at the street and watch a small black compact car park on the opposite side of the road. A familiar tall, lanky form climbs out of the driver’s seat a moment later.
Looks like I do have the right place after all.
I lean against the doorframe while he approaches. I’ve never actually watched him walk before—he has a calm, purposeful stride that’s both reassuring in how in-charge it makes him seem, and a little unnerving when you’re standing on his porch late at night uninvited after just arguing with him in a pub.
“Hi Jack,” I say when he hits the second-to-last step, so he’s only a little bit taller than me for a second. My heart throbs in my ears. I’ve never dared to call him Jack to his face before. But considering the fact that he fucked me on his office desk this morning, it seems weird to refer to him formally.
“Harper,” he replies. My heart skips a beat. Better than the snarky Ms. Reed I was expecting. It’s possibly the first time I’ve heard him use my name in a normal setting. When he’s not talking about said fucking.
I push that thought out of my mind.
I stormed over here, still angry from our confrontation at the pub, to ask him what the hell is wrong with him. Now that he’s facing me, his eyes shadows in the dim streetlights, my heart softens. He seemed angry before, in the pub. Hell, even before the pub. This morning, throwing me across the desk, taking me the way he did . . .
But now that I’m watching him, it doesn’t seem like anger. The way his shoulders sag and his head tilts to the side, like he’s too exhausted to hold it upright. The way even in this low light I can see his mouth twisted off to one side, not a frown but more an expression of defeat.