Spring Tide (Coastal University Book 1)

Something leads me to believe that Harper is an actual woodland fairy.

The front door to her fourth-floor apartment is wrapped in muted pink wallpaper. Tiny sparkling lights are tucked along the frame, with her unit number scrawled in painted gold script across the middle. It’s a stark contrast to the stained gray carpet beneath the soles of my shoes.

If Harper hadn’t already texted me the number, I think I would’ve inherently known this was it. The girl lacks subtlety. It’s not an intrinsic personality flaw—and I certainly don’t fault her for it—but it sure does raise a red flag.

I’m beginning to think this was all a terrible idea; enlisting Harper’s help was an ill-fated decision made out of pure desperation. She’s not the type of person who can harbor a secret from her friends. She hates lying. Or, rather, she won’t admit that she’s willing to deceive others for personal gain.

Unfortunately, she’s my last resort.

My hand is poised to knock, knuckles tucked tightly against one palm, when the door swings open in my face.

“Oh!” Harper’s brows scrunch together. “I’m so sorry, Luca. Are you okay?”

She takes a step closer, gently brushing one thumb across my jawline. Her fingertips caress my chin as she tilts my face to examine the damage. Left. Right. Center. My head rests entirely in her open palms now. Her tongue peeks out between her lips, and a steady look of concentration fills her gaze.

I clear my throat, resisting the urge to flinch away from the featherlight touch.

“Harper,” I mutter gruffly, jaw clenched against her small palm.

Those blue-gray eyes widen, a sense of panic washing over the last ashes of a fire. I picture the gears ticking away inside her head. It’s like she’s suddenly realized exactly where she is and what she’s been doing for the last few moments, as if she needed a verbal reminder to maintain personal boundaries.

“So sorry.” She takes a timid step backward. “Are you—did I hurt you? I mean, your face looks completely fine. Good, even.”

The corner of my lip twitches. “I’m fine.”

“Great! Well, you should come in.” She motions toward the open doorway, and I take her lead. “My roommate, Stella, she’s still at work right now. Actually, she waits tables down at the Surfbreak Grill. You may have seen her there. Beachy blonde hair, wildly beautiful, about five foot nine or so?”

That must be the same waitress from the bonfire. I recall spotting the two of them drunkenly stumbling down the beach together. They were wrapped up tightly in each other’s arms that night. And now, safely tucked inside this apartment, dozens of their pictures line the walls.

My gaze flits across the gold-framed photographs. Stella and Harper are smiling wide in every shot—happily embracing, nuzzling close, gazing fondly at one another.

“You two are open?” I ask, brows knit in confusion.

“Open?”

“In an open relationship?” I clarify, smoothing a hand over my forehead. “You agreed to tell your friends we were dating.”

“Oh! Stella and I aren’t together like that.” Her lips curve into a full-out grin. “She has a girlfriend, actually. Lai’Lani. They’ve been dating for a few months now. But Stell and I are just best friends. Well, not just. Our friendship is really important.”

“Yet you’re completely fine with lying to her?”

“I mean, I’d really prefer not to.” Her grin fades, fingers twisting into an errant strand of hair. “Not with Stell, anyway. So maybe I could just tell—”Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.

“No, Harper,” I harshly cut in. “This was our deal. Your secret for mine. No exceptions.”

She’s bouncing on the heels of her feet, gaze nervously shifting from my face to the wall of picture frames behind me. “But Eden and Stell, they already know about the miscommunication with Professor Gill. They know that you and I aren’t actually together.”

“Then tell them you came clean with me and we’ve started talking.” There’s a heavy note of exasperation in my voice. “Tell them I asked you to spend time with me, and one thing led to another. I don’t care what story you make up, just as long as it’s not the truth.”

Her shoulders droop. “I’m a bad liar, Luca.”

“You can solve that problem,” I insist impatiently. “Just stop telling yourself that you’re doing something wrong.”

“But it is wrong.”

Her gaze meets mine. In an instant, I’m swept up by the raging swirl of emotion in her eyes. The minor hints of color—all the various hues of blue—seem to fade away, revealing the thick, gray clouds of a thunderstorm.

“Tell me right now, Harper.” I push the harsh words past the sudden lump in my throat. “Are we doing this or not?”

She breaks eye contact, fidgeting with her fingers in silence. “Yeah, we’re doing this. I said I’d help you, Luca. I won’t go back on my word.”

The lump clears. “Then it’s case closed.”

“This is Harper St. James, officially locking her lips now.” She mimes the action with her hands, tossing away a fictional key. “Come on, let’s go to my room, and you can take your pants off.”

“What?” I sputter.

“I need to properly examine the muscles and joints in your leg.” She grasps tightly to my wrist as she drags me down the hallway. “Those bulky jeans are in the way.”

My fingers involuntarily clench together. “I’ll just roll them up past my knee.”

“Won’t work the same.” She drops my wrist, pressing both hands flat against my back. With one solid push, I’m shoved inside her open bedroom door. “Come on, it’s all good. This is strictly professional.”

“Fine.”

“I’m just gonna grab a few things.” She sweeps an arm out, wildly gesturing toward her unmade bed. “Take a seat and make yourself at home.”

As she bounces out of the room, my eyes hopelessly trail across her floral bedspread. She has a queen-sized mattress set on top of a white wrought-iron frame. Her bedding is chaotic, with twisted cream sheets, a tangled duvet, and more throw pillows than one person could possibly require.

Sitting amongst this mess feels like an invasion of privacy.

“Okay!” she chirps, bounding around the corner. “I’ve got my goniometer, some ACE wraps, and . . . you’ve still got your pants on.”

“Right.” My gaze dips, the tips of my ears tinging with heat. “I didn’t . . . did you want me to take them off now?”

“That would be great.” She sets a few items on the dresser by the door, slowly shifting around to make her bed. “Sorry, I’ll just fix this up, and then you can sit down.”

“Okay, so I’ll just—” My fingers are fumbling, thumbs awkwardly tugging at the button on my jeans. “—get undressed, then.”

She smooths two hands across her duvet, patting down the wrinkles and fluffing her pillows in size-descending order. “Would you like me to turn around? Or I could step out and—”

“Yeah, if you could just give me a minute.”

“Sure, of course.” Her cheeks tighten with a gentle smile, eyes soft as they flit across my face. “Just let me know when you’re ready.”

The door lightly closes behind her. Taking a deep breath, I unfasten the button of my jeans and hastily tug them over my hips. Now I’m standing here half-naked in Harper’s bedroom. It’s a vulnerable place to be—alone in my boxer briefs and T-shirt—bruised knee ready and waiting for exposure.

At least now that the bed is made, smoothed over and situated, it feels slightly more acceptable to sit on. It takes me a few long moments to finally position myself, though. I shift my hips once or twice, going from the middle edge to the far corner and back again.

Once I’m mildly comfortable, I loudly clear my throat. “You can come in now.”

“Okay, great.” She swipes a measurement tool off her dresser. I sit back as her eyes sweep over me from head to toe, just once, before she takes a few steps closer. “We’re all set, then. Could you please describe your pain to me, level and type, while I take a few measurements?”

“It’s about a six out of ten.” I wince as she settles in beside me, the sudden offset in the mattress jolting my knee. “At this specific moment.”

“Okay, and at its worst?”

“Could be an eight or nine. Honestly, it feels like my entire shin is ready to dislocate at any moment. The pain is dull and aching at times; other times, it’s a constant throb. Feels like one wrong move could send me reeling to the ground.”

“I see.” Her fingertips gently brush against the side of my thigh as she lines up her plastic tool. “This is a goniometer. I’m just gonna use it to quickly measure your range of motion, so could you please extend your knee for me?”

I carefully kick my shin out, eyes pinching shut as I fight through the pain. “That’s end range,” I mutter through gritted teeth.

“Okay, thank you.” She sets the goniometer behind us. “I’m gonna need to palpate the muscles around the joint, so this part may hurt.”

“Go ahead.”

Her index and middle fingers carefully press against the knotted muscles on my inner calf, slowly stroking their way past the top of my thigh. A moment later, the pressure increases. There’s an instant jolt of pain like nothing I’ve ever felt before, so profound that my vision turns hazy.

Sweat breaks out across my brow. My hand shoots out, grabbing hold of her wrist before I can stop myself. “Fucking hell, Harper.”

“I’m sorry!” She withdraws both arms, frantically shaking them in front of her chest. “I’m all done now.”

My spine stiffens, eyes downcast. “Did I hurt you?”

“No! I was just surprised. Did I hurt you?” Her voice is low, frantic, and stilted as she rambles on. “Shoot, that was a silly question. Of course I hurt you. Um, is there . . . is there ever a time when the pain disappears for you?”

“Directly after an ice bath, when everything else is fucking numb.”

“Hmm,” she murmurs.

“Look, I did my own research, and I’m fairly certain this is just an MCL tear.”

“You’re right, Luca.” She flashes me an impressed smile, one brow slightly raised. “It’s definitely an MCL tear, probably a grade two partial. You’ll need to tread lightly for at least three more weeks.”

My head snaps up, determination steeling my resolve. “Not possible.”

“If you don’t, you could end up needing surgical intervention.” She’s shifted away from me now, hands stuffed under her pockets. “Then you’d be out for, like, six months.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I know this must suck, Luca.” Her shoulder twitches, and I know she’s itching to reach out. Harper uses physical touch as a source of comfort, that much is clear. But she’s trapped her hands beneath her thighs now—almost as if she needs a physical reminder, a clear-set barrier, to stop herself tonight.

“Yeah,” I mutter.

“I honestly can’t imagine what you’re going through. Unfortunately, this is just the reality of the situation. I’ll help you with your rehab, but you need to take it easy, or there’s not much I can do.”

“I need to keep showing face at practice.” A heavy sigh pushes through my lips. “And I need to be on the field to generate a top-quality highlight reel.”

“Okay, how about this: when it’s not practice or game time, you just stay off your knee completely.” She pulls her hands free, eagerly clasping them together as if she’s made a grand discovery. “Then you can rest and rehab whenever you’re off the field.”

“That’s all well and good, but I also have to go to work.”

“Luca, you can’t have it all. You have to give up something here and—”

“No.”

She pushes off the bed, hands perched on her hips as she stands before me. “No? Just no?”

“I can do this. All of it,” I insist. “Give me the exercises and your recommendations. I’ll make everything else work.”

Her eyes narrow as she assesses me. There’s a long silent pause, a soft shrug, and then, “Okay.”

“Where do we start?”

“For tonight, we’ll do some massage and gentle stretching. Then I can write you a tailored home program and just . . . just do your best to rest when you can, I guess.”

“Then let’s get started.”

“Could you please lie on your back and bridge your knees?”

An odd feeling passes through me at her request. There’s a sudden realization that I’m sitting alone on a woman’s bed in my underwear, but I push through my discomfort and carefully lie back. This is what I asked for, after all.

As I shift my hips, awkwardly wriggling into place amongst her sea of pillows, Harper manages to flash me an easy grin. For some inexplicable reason, her complete lack of concern puts me at ease. She barely bats an eye as I release a strained moan, the pain in my knee reverberating through my body.

“Okay, Luca.” She moves into place beside me. “I’m going to press my hand against the side of your hip here”—her fingertips graze my outer thigh—“to massage your TFL.”

“TFL?”

“Tensor fascia latae,” she clarifies, kneading her thumbs into the thick tissue.

“Oh God.” A deep, involuntary groan rolls out from the back of my throat. “Why does it feel like that?”

“You’ve been overcompensating, using the other muscles in your thighs to pull tension from your knee.” Her thumbs continue to press deep into the muscle belly, and it’s so fucking incredible I could cry. “Basically, your entire back and lower extremities are wound up tight. Seems like you’re desperately in need of release, in more ways than one.”

My brows shoot up, fists clenching at my sides. “Harper,” I warn.

“Oh, not . . . not that kind of release.” She’s avoiding my gaze, cheeks flushing the lightest shade of peach. “Although, that might not hurt, either. Just maybe don’t top anyone for a while. Could be bad for your recovery.”

“Harper, stop,” I finally manage to grit out.

“Oh, sorry,” she murmurs, continuing her assault on my upper thigh muscles. “I didn’t . . . are you uncomfortable talking about this?”

“With you?” I barely suppress another groan. “Yes.”

“It’s okay, Luca.” Her voice takes on a matter-of-fact tone. “It’s actually part of my job to advise my patients about safe positions and post-injury intimacy.”

“I’m good.” My body is both stiff and relaxed. Conflicted and subdued. I want to melt into this fucking bed, but Harper’s line of questioning is seriously rocketing my heart rate. “We don’t need to . . . let’s just not go there.”

“Okay, sure. Just know the conversation is always on the table, though, in case you have any questions later.”

“Great,” I mutter.

Her hands gently slide across my thighs, slowly caressing and pressing against the overworked muscles. I can’t help the small, satisfied groans that slip from my lips as she massages away the pain. And I certainly can’t help when my eyelids flutter shut, Harper’s gentle hands lulling me to sleep on this perfect, flowery bed of mismatched pillows.