“Lemons remind me of happiness.”
“Happiness,” Lucian repeated, as though baffled.
“I don’t know how else to explain it.” I shrugged with a small laugh. “I smell lemons, and I feel happy. Hopeful.”
He grunted.
The road opened up to a circular driveway. The main house lay in graceful repose. Part italianate villa, part hacienda, and all California. Climbing red and pink roses undulated over cream stucco and wound around wrought iron railings.
“It’s utterly stunning,” I said, gaping.
“Yes, it is.” For once there was a softness in Lucian’s voice, but he didn’t look at the house. He parked, then looked at his phone. His mouth pinched as he read. “Mamie had to run an errand, but she’ll be back in about an hour.”
“Mamie?”
“Amalie. I call her Mamie. My term for grandmother.”
“That is so sweet.”
“You’re trying to piss me off, aren’t you?”
“It’s so easy. At least make me work for it.”
Lucian’s gaze tangled with mine, and my breath caught, heat simmering low in my belly as I thought about all the ways he could do just that. Maybe he thought the same, because those wintergreen eyes weren’t cold in the least. But then he blinked, and any hint of sensual teasing left him.
Without another word, he got out and started unloading my bags. I followed, but he shrugged off any attempt to help him with them. Honestly, it was a little impressive the way he handled four big suitcases without any apparent effort.
“You’re in the Cyrano,” he said, taking a winding garden path crowded with draping palms, lemon trees, and climbing bougainvillea.
“As in Cyrano de Bergerac?”
“That’s the one. Mamie likes to name the guesthouses after notable names in French literature. The Dumas is almost ready. Then I’m working on the Baudelaire.”
“Cyrano is one of my favorite characters.”
“It only extends to the name. Not the decor.” He stopped at a bungalow house that looked like a miniature of the big house. “Don’t expect busts of big-nosed men or anything.”
“Now I’m highly disappointed.”
“You’ll live.” Lucian led me inside. I loved the arched doorways, cloud-white stucco walls, and dark wooden beams. A set of tall french doors let in the golden California light.
“Bedroom is there.” He pointed toward a door off to the side of the cozy living room. “Bathroom is en suite. You’ll find towels and fresh linens there. Kitchen is fully stocked. And . . . what else?” Lucian scratched the back of his neck while surveying the little bungalow with a critical eye. “Oh, there’s a list of numbers for Amalie and the main house on the dining table.”
“It’s lovely, Lucian. Thank you.”
He grunted. As expected. I fought a smile. The man practically vibrated with the need to retreat. I suspected being stuck with a stranger for over an hour and suffering through a migraine had pushed him to his limit.
I set my purse down on a cute Spanish-style armchair. “Jet lag is getting to me. I think I’ll take a nap.”
“I’ll get out of your hair. Just ring the house if you need anything. Sal will help you if Mamie doesn’t answer.”
I didn’t bother asking who Sal was. Lucian was already backing out of the house like it was on fire. I wanted to smile. “See you later, Lucian.”
He blinked, long lashes tangling with the long strands of his mahogany hair. “Have a nice nap, Emma.”
With that, he was gone. And the house felt oddly empty.
After helping myself to a glass of lemonade I found in the fridge, I headed to the bedroom and crawled onto the tall, big bed to call my friend Tate.
“You get in safe?” she asked without preamble. I’d cried enough times over the phone for her to be protective and worried about me.
“Yeah. Flight was fine. The estate is beautiful. I’m going to look around in a bit. Drive here was . . . interesting.” As soon as I said the words, I wanted to take them back. I didn’t want to talk about Lucian, but the imprint of him was on me, as fresh as if he’d actually run his hands over my body, and I couldn’t keep it contained.
As feared, Tate’s voice perked up. “Interesting how?”
I could lie or prevaricate, but I’d already opened my big mouth about him. “Where to start? I thought my driver was a fan trying to hit me up for a selfie.” Over her cackles, I told her the rest, grimacing at the memory. “He’s actually Amalie’s grandson.”
“He’s hot, isn’t he?”
“I never said that.”
“Which is how I know he is.”
Wrinkling my nose, I took a sip of lemonade. It was surprisingly good and fresh. “Okay, he is. But he’s completely guarded—”
“I don’t blame him, Miss No-Pictures.”
“You can’t see me, but I’m giving you the finger.”
“I’m kidding. Hey, it happens. You get in that self-protect mode, and everyone is viewed as a potential threat.” Tate was also an actress and starred on a long-running, highly popular cable sitcom. Her tone turned teasing. “Although I’ve never had it happen with a hot guy I’d be in close proximity to for the entirety of my vacation.”
“God. I feel like such a moron. He was clearly torn between wanting to laugh his ass off at me and running out of the airport.”
“Take it as a challenge. Once you show him the real you, he’ll be unable to resist.”
I already had been myself. And I certainly didn’t want to make a challenge out of Lucian—or any man.
“Doesn’t really matter,” I said with forced levity. “Men are not on my vacation to-do list.”
“Men should always be on the to-do list, Ems. At the very least, they should be doing you, especially on vacation.”
“I have no interest starting something. I’m still recovering from Greg.” Just saying his name caused my insides to clench uncomfortably. After I caught him, he’d been on the next plane home to LA. It had taken me a month to wrap things up in Iceland. And then I’d had nowhere to go, because Greg and I shared a house in Los Angeles, and like hell was I going to go back to it while he was there.
I needed to find a new place to live. I needed to get my life back in order. The desire to just hunker down and stay here wasn’t at all like me. I usually strode through life, determined to take it by the coattails and make it my own. But from the moment my grandmother told me about Rosemont, I’d grabbed on to the idea like a lifeline, something inside me insisting that was where I needed to be. Maybe it was foolish. But I was here now, and even though my interactions with gruff and far-too-hot Lucian Osmond had me jittery and anticipating our next collision, I felt good.
“Greg was a shit-burger,” Tate said, pulling back into the conversation. “But don’t write off all men because of it.”
“You know me better than that.” I frowned and plucked at my sundress. “It’s not that. It’s . . . this guy”—for reasons I didn’t want to examine, I couldn’t voice Lucian’s name just yet—“all but screams back off. I’ve never met someone with more walls around him.” And yet, he had flirted. I hadn’t imagined that. He’d flirted, but he didn’t like that he had. “And there’s no escaping him here. Can you imagine the awkwardness of the day after? No thank you. I’m going to sit back and enjoy my solitude.”