Only child. Loving and dutiful daughter. Noted.
“But you like living here in the city?”
“I love it. My friends are here. I love the restaurants and the hustle and bustle. There’s always something exciting going on. I’m really going to miss it.”
I silently receive this information the way a patient receives news that his test results came back normal and file it away for later.
“So why not move him east to be with you?” I ask.
“I’d love to, but he’s got his business and employees. He’s a landscape architect. He’s too young to retire when he loves it so much and too old to rebuild it all from the ground up somewhere else. So…” Rueful shrug. “That’s that.”
“Huh,” I say, not liking her answer.
Not liking it at all.
Not that it’s any of my business. But I can’t stop myself from looking for loopholes that might keep her here on the East Coast.
Where I live.
“Tell me about your estate,” she says, shifting in her seat to face me. “I’ve seen pictures in Architectural Digest, but I’m sure they don’t do the place justice. What’s it like?”
I shrug and try to keep it moving before the shadows start to collect over my mood. This is not the sort of thing I want to discuss with her.
“It’s beautiful, yeah. Your father would love the gardens. Lots of roses and hedges.”
“So you spent weekends and summers there?”
“Yep,” I say tightly.
She nods, giving me a shrewd look. “I’m sure it was very cool, but I’d think it would be kind of lonely for three little boys.”
“Yep,” I say again, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “Especially when their mother takes off without a backward glance and hooks up with their father’s best friend. And then gets herself killed in a car accident.”
“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories.”
“It’s fine,” I say. I’m having a tough time with the compassion and warmth and those brown eyes as she looks at me, so I turn to stare out my window. I don’t want her pity. I don’t want her to see me as weak. Anything but that. “Ancient history.”
“Well, you win,” she says glumly. “You had the worst childhood. There’s no way I can keep whining in good conscience about all the times my father forced me to help him weed our vegetable patch. I hope you’re happy.”
I break into startled laughter, my sour mood lifted in the blink of her gorgeous brown eyes. Caught up in the moment, I allow myself to do something truly stupid.
I face her again.
Our joint laughter converges into something deliciously electric. I feel it shiver across my skin and ache inside me, in my chest and my gut. I feel it as an absolute truth that goes way down deep.
Bellamy and I are not done with each other. Not by a long shot.
Maybe a smarter man would take the time to digest his feelings and formulate a plan without blurting the first thing that comes to mind. But that’s the thing about this new phase of my relationship with Bellamy.
There’s no place for logic here. It’s all about feelings.
“Did you forget?” I ask urgently as our smiles fade.
She hesitates, her eyes widening. “No.”
The fact that she admits it gives me courage.
“I know we said no regrets,” I tell her, my words spilling out like water over Niagara Falls. “But I regret agreeing to this bullshit arrangement. It’s not working for me. You’re all I think about. I hear your voice. I feel you on my skin. I taste you in my mouth—”
Her breath hitches.
“Griffin…”
“Don’t tell me you don’t feel anything. Don’t do that to me.”
There’s something hopeful enough in her expression as she opens her mouth that I experience a wild surge of excitement. But then she hastily turns away and reaches for that damn briefcase again, producing a legal pad this time.
The only thing saving me from abject despair is the slight tremble in her hands that makes the paper flap.
“I won’t force you to go through the seating chart,” she says in her professional office voice. “But we have a couple of cancellations. You definitely want to hear about those.”
“Absolutely,” I say, slumping against my seat and somehow swallowing my impatience even though I now feel sick inside. Sick. But this is not all about me and what I want. Bellamy is uncertain. I can’t blame her for that. She needs time. I can be patient. The thing I cannot do? Let this go. “As long as you understand that this conversation has to happen. Sooner or later.”
7
Bellamy
He watches me as I descend the main staircase in my floaty yellow gown ahead of the event that evening, making me glad I decided against the standard little black dress I brought as a backup. As a staff member, I’m not required to wear a showstopper tonight. As a woman, I wouldn’t dream of letting him see me in anything less. He stands in the foyer below me, strikingly handsome in his fitted black tuxedo. Arrested, he lets his drink hover near his lips. I have no idea whether he’s just taking a sip or means to take a sip. None of that matters. All I know is that the touch of his attention is every bit as arousing as if he’d slowly trailed his fingers up the inside of my arm.
And that tonight promises to be magical.
By some miracle, I don’t teeter over in my sky-high heels and make it safely to the base of the stairs as he meets me there, having abandoned his brothers and leaving them staring after him with keen interest. Maybe it’s my imagination or some trick of the chandelier and candlelight, but his glittering eyes seem brighter than usual tonight.
“Shame you didn’t clean up for the reception, Forest,” he says for my ears alone. “I was kind of hoping you would.”
“What can I say?” I respond, feeling breathless. Dazzled. “My boss has extremely high standards. I wouldn’t want to disappoint.”
There’s no mistaking the desire in his smoldering gaze.
“I doubt he’s ever been disappointed in you. He may be a beast, but he’s not an idiot.”
The B-word catches me off guard, especially at this moment, when I’m the recipient of all his laser focus. I wonder who ratted me out and if I’m about to get my ass handed to me. But he doesn’t seem upset. He seems amused.
“Wow,” I say as nonchalantly as I can. “What a harsh nickname. Wonder who gave him that?”
He represses a smile. But not those amazing dimples or the telltale crinkles at the outer corners of his eyes.
“I think you know. How do you like your room?”
I’d fully expected to be placed in some austere and windowless room in the servants’ quarters, wherever they are, or maybe in some distant carriage house reserved for annoying relatives when they visit during the holidays. Instead, I’ve been placed in some insane suite with a balcony overlooking the ocean and flooded with bouquets of fat yellow roses.
“I love it. It’s amazing.”
“That’s appropriate,” he says, dead serious. “An amazing suite for an amazing woman.”