Until I Saw You (Until I Saw You #1)

by Dianna Roman

I never paid attention to how long it takes her to get ready until I had nothing to distract me during the wait. That’s all I seem to do these days—wait like a piece of carry-on luggage, idly standing by an occupied traveler.

I respond with a grunt from the doorway like a good piece of luggage. I can get myself ready just fine, but it’s one argument I’ve learned to avoid.

My buddy, Rob, said because we’d been dating for eight months at the time, that should have been a red flag—code for moving in. I still owe him twenty bucks, but fuck if I’m owning up to that oversight.

I think there’s some universal rule that says you’re supposed to cherish people who have hope in you, but it’s not really hope in me. Is it? It’s just hope that I won’t be a helpless liability anymore.

It’s hope that I’ll be the guy who can tell her she looks beautiful, the guy who can fly her through downtown on my motorcycle instead of the one she has to buckle into the passenger seat of her Prius.

I hate that fucking Prius, and if I ever find that vanilla air freshener she has in there, I’m pitching it out the window on the freeway. The only acceptable vanilla ...

“Oh, yeah. Forgot about that one. Um, didn’t you get me a black one too?” “What is it with you and black?” she grumbles. “It’s like you exude mortician. What part of Spring says death?”

“What is it with you and black?” she grumbles. “It’s like you exude mortician. What part of Spring says death?” Oh my God.

Oh my God. We live in Chicago. It’s so windy it never feels like Spring. Plus, my stomach is literally eating itself from all the bird food she’s been force feeding me, and she wants to argue over seasonal swatch choices? Seriously, I haven’t had a pizza in like two weeks, and I fucking know she lied about us being out of Better Cheddars. Her dist...

We live in Chicago. It’s so windy it never feels like Spring. Plus, my stomach is literally eating itself from all the bird food she’s been force feeding me, and she wants to argue over seasonal swatch choices? Seriously, I haven’t had a pizza in like two weeks, and I fucking know she lied about us being out of Better Cheddars. Her distas...

“Hi, Riley! How are you doing?” Jill says three decibels louder than necessary because, don’t you know, when you lose your sight, you lose your hearing too. “Great! How are you?” I yell back.

​Depressed? I’ve never been depressed a day in my life. Sad, on occasion, like when my grandpa died two years ago. Annoyed, sure. Daily. Why the fuck is she telling people I’m depressed? There’s nothing wrong with being depressed. It happens to people, but depressed isn’t me.

My dick works just fine, but there’s something about feeling molested in the dark by the fashion police that makes it not want to stand up and do its job the way it used to. Jerking off in the shower? Not a problem.

​“Yeah. Tell me something though. What color is this shirt?” ​“The shirt you’re wearing?” Rob asks, sounding confused. ​“Yeah.” ​“Uh…it’s kind of a pinkish-peach color, I guess.” ​Mother. Fucker. I live with the devil.

“Alright, so I know a guy,” Daniel says, leveling a sage look at me. Has he lost his mind? “What? Like a hitman? You can’t be serious.” “No, a paramedic who comes into the bar, but I think I like your idea better.”

Daniel gently draping himself over me in a delicate hug is both another blow and a desperately needed comfort. “I am so fucking done with all of those guys,” he whispers. “Him and his whole crew. The next time I see them in the bar, I’m going to take a club to his head.”

The sound of the dart needle connecting with a thunk sends a rush through my blood. I sunk another one. I’m the king of the world. I haven’t had this much fun in months. “What did I get?” I ask Rob. “Uh…you missed.”

That care worker had to go. She smelled like my great aunt Linda…at her funeral.

“Riley? What’s wrong?” “There’s a woman in my apartment. She looked sweet at first, but it was probably just the plate of cookies. Rob didn’t know any better and let her in.” “Riley, I’m watching the game,” he grumbles.

Even my best friend thinks I need help? Of course, I need freaking help, but he’s supposed to be the one person who still thinks I’m just regular old Riley, the Riley who knows when he’s got spaghetti sauce on his walls.

“Rita?” “Yes, Riley?” “What’s the word for a fear of being alone?” “Monophobia, or autophobia, is the fear of being alone.” Huh. I guess it actually is a thing. That’s not reassuring. If it exists, it can happen. I’m not there yet. I just…wondered. I mean, this can’t be it.

“Where the fuck did Val put my cane?” I’m sick of hitting my toes on shit. With my luck, she probably threw the damn thing away. Fuck it. Feeling inside my closet, I find an alternative. And here I thought I’d never swing a baseball bat again. Who knew?

Riley Davenport wasn’t supposed to have incredibly handsome golden skin, floppy sun-streaked hair, the most perfectly kissable lips I’ve ever seen, and captivating green eyes. I swallow a self-pitying groan. Either homelessness and starvation or a perpetual hard on are in my future. The man in front of me is everything I’ve sworn myself off forever.

“You got the goods?” “The goods?” “Yeah. I asked for three boxes of Better Cheddars.”

“You’re not from Fresh Farm?” “No. My name’s Harper Reid. I’m here to…” “Do you have any snacks?” “Snacks?” “Yeah. Snacks. Chocolate dream cakes. Funyuns. Oh! Or maybe those little donut packs, but not the crunchy coconut ones. Those things are an abomination to all things snack related.”

“I…think I might have a granola bar in my backpack.” The entrancing green eyes narrow in my direction as though I’ve spoken blasphemy. “Granola?” A word has never been uttered with such contempt. I’m doomed. He takes a step back. A second later, the door slams in my face.

“What kind of granola bar?” I’ve never been so relieved to have a questionable snack in my gym bag. Dropping to a knee, I unzip my backpack, trying to remember which pouch I put it in. “Uh, I think…it’s fruit and nut.” Glancing up to see if my token will meet his approval, I’m met with a curled upper lip. “No chocolate chips?” Shit. Is this really happening? “No, sorry.” My shoulders sag, feeling every ounce of the weight of his sigh. The door slams shut again. I stare at it stupidly with my inadequate granola bar in my hand.

Scrambling to my feet, I shoulder my duffel bag and backpack, following him into the apartment. Baseball bat slung across the back of his shoulders, wrists hooked over each end of it, you wouldn’t think he has vision issues by the way he sizes me up as he leans against his kitchen counter.

“What? Are you worried I’ll fall? Wait…did you think I was going to jump?” “No! I mean, no,” he adds with more calm, kind of the way you would address someone who you think was about to jump.

There’s that sweet sugar cookie scent I caught when I let him in yesterday. No fucking granola bar in the world smells like that. It must be him.

The agency could probably send another VRT over that might be even more qualified now that I know I can request someone with that background, but something tells me this shy, cookie-scented, homeless man is the one.

How come Val had to leave shit all over my apartment if she was also occupying my guest room closet like a hoarder? And who moves out and doesn’t take all their shit? No wonder she keeps texting me to get together. Was she thinking I’d ask her to come back? Over my trash panda ass, she is. I’m Leigh Ann Davenport’s son. I know how to clean house.

“Fool a trash panda once, shame on you,” he mutters, stuffing a purse into the final garbage bag. “Fool a trash panda twice, shame on your Louis Vuitton.”

Amazing how a piece of machinery can make you feel alive. The urge to move, to grasp onto more of that sensation, takes hold. The kickstand flips up behind my boot through another muscle memory motion. “Um, Riley?” Harper calls. “What…what are you doing?”

“But I…don’t know how to drive a motorcycle.” I have to bite my cheek to fight a smile. He’s just too easy. “Well, there’s only one way to learn.”

“Oh my God. I’m going to throw up. Please, Riley. You could kill somebody or hurt yourself.” “Not as long as you be my eyes. Ready?” “Fuck no!” he barks, but it’s cut off when I hit the gas, and we launch forward. “Good. Here we go.” I laugh over his terrified howl.

“Tell me when to turn,” I remind him, starting to worry a bit myself. The guy’s face is practically ducked into my neck, paralyzed in fear. “Turn! Turn!”

Get a dog. Check. De-scaredy-cat Harper. Check. Today is full of purpose, and it’s still early.

I tried to warn him that he couldn’t just walk out of here with a dog. That look on his face, the way his bottom lip is pressed into the top one, as the facility’s manager explains the process to him is heart sickening. It shouldn’t be. He’s a grown man.

We’ll take him,” he declares. ​“Pardon?” the manager says at the exact moment, I croak, “We will?” ​“Yeah. We can’t let him be put down just because he’s a class drop out. He could be the next dog Einstein.”

“Just because he’s not useful like everyone else doesn’t mean that he has nothing left to offer,” he says, no trace of his effervescence to be found. The rise and fall of his chest, the color in his cheekbones, I know deep inside he’s not talking about Larry.

“I’m sorry, but I think Larry…er, Jedidiah, is possibly the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen.” “Are you shitting me?”

“Don’t worry, Zeke,” I tell the dog, ruffling his ears. “He’s just jealous.” “Zeke? What happened to Jedidiah?”

I’m touching another man’s face, something I don’t recall having ever done to anyone, but circumstances have changed. I don’t care what anyone would think. I can only imagine so much. Imagination isn’t reality, and Harper’s the first new person in my life who I give a damn about enough to want an accurate depiction of him.

“I was worried maybe you were secretly still pining over Dallas, so…this is better. Totally fucked up, but better.”

The man has style the way he lets me keep my dignity. Plus, I kind of don’t mind going anywhere with him. It’s like being at summer camp and making a new friend, but a summer camp that doesn’t suck.

“They have cheddar bites?” I ask, perking up. Why is he just telling me this now? “Dude, give me an order too,” I tell barista guy. “No,” Harper corrects. I’m about to throat punch him and tell him both his employment and our new friendship is over, but he adds, “Just one please. The ones I ordered are for him.” Oh. He ordered me cheesiness of his own accord. Ten points to Harper.

My texture lessons are paying off. Not that it’d be difficult to tell the cup is marked. The writing is…gritty. Did he fucking use a glitter pen? Damn it. That shit’s going to be everywhere.

I’m annoyed with the glitter barista. Why am I annoyed with the glitter barista?

The more I think on it, all I can come up with is this is my Harper. He can go get his own.