Harris And Me Book Novels & Stories

I watched her disappear around the corner before heading in the opposite direction toward the supermarket. I was busy putting some items into my cart when a solid back collided with mine followed by an apology. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” “Danny?” I watched the recognition in his eyes. Danny looked more mature than the last time I saw him. He had maintained his good looks and was still wearing that charisma of a brazen, but friendly man. “Fuck me, Harper Bennett,” his surprised voice said. I laughed. “No, I’d rather not, Danny.”

Kayla Turi POV “Is everyone in this damn book insane?!” I slammed the four-hundred-page book onto the floor. The thud echoed in my tiny apartment, making the glass of water on my desk tremble. I stomped toward the dispenser, filled my cup, and hissed, “Aaaah!” as the hot water stung my index finger. I blew on it furiously. “Don’t tell me her bad luck is rubbing off on me now?” I just couldn’t wrap my head around how an author could enjoy torturing her main character with an army of side characters who lived only to crush her.

Clinton smiled spontaneously, focusing again on the data on the screen. Harris didn't take much notice of Clinton's anomaly, leaning his chin on his phone screen. Harris is being manipulated by the devil and opened the dating site yesterday. Harris then clicked on Mr.R's profile picture, which showed a beautiful, elongated hand holding a glass of wine. This photo is stolen, without a good angle, but still used by Mr.R. Last night, Harris was stroked and loved countless times by that beautiful hand. The blood in Harris's body rushed to his brain, and he forced himself to calm down. After five minutes, Harris clicked into the dialog box, and inside there was still a message containing the loca

The brunette almost crashed into Darrion in the work room—also just got back from delivery. “Whoops!” Both of them exclaimed. Darrion chuckled. “What’s that, Harris?” “Coffee! To energize myself!” Harris answered. Darrion smiled. “Your second cup?” He tried to guess. Harris shook his head. “Fifth.” Darrion whistled. “You’re gonna die if you drink two more.” Harris looked very interested. “Wanna make a bet?” Darrion clicked his tongue. “Definitely telling Gilbert to replace that with hot choco.”

Harris’s phone was still going to voicemail. My wolf was unsettled, which made me more anxious. He genuinely loved her. Fated mate or not, he would have pushed me to be with Esme. She was amazing—kind and caring to everyone and a hard worker. The motorcycle skidded to a stop, kicking up dust and debris. I sped through the cloud, taking the side stairs by threes. Thankfully, the door was open, so I didn’t have to tear it down. I met Harris coming out of the kitchen with an ice pack.

Harris turned his gaze toward Agatha, and the hardness that had lived in him most of his life softened in a single look. “Thank you,” he whispered, and his voice shook. “For making… my last days… happy.” Agatha bent over his hand, kissing his knuckles, unable to speak. Harris’s eyes drifted, unfocusing for a moment as if he was looking beyond the room, beyond the castle, beyond the war waiting outside the walls. “My children,” he murmured. “They’re waiting.” Agatha gave a sob that sounded like her ribs might crack from it. Harris’s eyes fluttered once, twice, then he looked at Xavier again, expression strange and peaceful.

Harris turned his hand upwards and wrapped his hand around Atticus' hand. “The only thing I know about your realm and your people are from books… I, I was wondering if you could tell me anything about your people and your world. I want to know more about you and where you come from.” Harris' stomach was in knots even though Atticus assured him it was okay to ask whatever he wanted. Harris' voice was soft and he nervously rolled the knife in his right hand between his fingers. “Oh, of course. What would you like to know? I mean, I was about 6 years old when everything happened. So anything I can tell you is through the eyes of a child.”

I turned to find a man standing beside me, his gaze fixed on the same painting I had been admiring. Dark-skinned, brown eyes sharp with intelligence. There was something about him—something unsettling, yet familiar. I nodded cautiously. “Yes.” He glanced at me then, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips. “You must be Mrs. Blackwell.” My pulse spiked. I forced a neutral expression. “And you are?” “Harris.” He extended a hand. “Just a man who knows the game.” The way he said it—the weight behind his words—sent a shiver down my spine.

A few minutes passed with our eyes glued together, both estimating the right time to speak. And when Mizu finally dropped it, I just felt my world shaken as if a disastrous earthquake had passed by creating a huge crack in my already broken life. “Harris got into an accident.”

I was reading through Harris’s numbers. They were a mess. A careful, deliberate, expensive looking mess. The kind that takes real effort to create. I had been sitting with them for two hours, and the more I looked, the worse it got, and I kept writing things down, and circling things, and feeling this low, angry heat in my chest that I was starting to recognise as what happened when I understood something I wished I didn’t. Harris had been stealing from this company in plain sight for years.