“What does that mean?” she asks.
“I needed to know that I knew who I was, who I am.”
“Which is who?” she presses.
“The bastard.” Now I look at her, now I let her see the real me in my eyes. I let her see who she just half fucked. “I’m him. I will always be him.”
“I have much I could say about that,” she comments, more thoughtfully than anything.
“I’m listening,” I say, certain this is going to be the moment she convinces me we’re of two different worlds, when right here, in this bed, we feel like we’re of one. I want her to convince me. I want her to give me every reason to get the hell out of this place, her included.
“You’re different than anyone I’ve ever met,” she says, running her hand down my ink and tracing one of the many rows of numbers on my forearm.
“Meaning what?”
Her eyes shift from my ink to my face. “You’re brave. It takes someone brave to be different and embrace it. I like that you’re the bastard but not for the reasons you might think.”
I’m remarkably on edge waiting for her to continue but she doesn’t make me wait long. She seems to know where she’s going and gets there quickly. “Because you embrace it. Because you don’t do what they expect. Because you do you, and most of us don’t even know what that means.”
“Meaning you?”
“Definitely me, but maybe I’ll get there. I’m trying. I don’t know why I just told you that. I shouldn’t have told you that.”
I reach up and twine strands of her silky hair in my fingers. “Why?”
Her cellphone rings, a muffled sound in the distance that has her eyes going wide. “Oh God,” she whispers, jerking away from my hand to sit up. “Oh God. I’m giving a speech. I’m late.” She scrambles off the bed and rushes to locate her clothes, dashing for the living room to dress.
I follow her and stand up. By the time I put my pants on and locate her by the door, she’s fully dressed. “I have to go,” she says, and I’m stunned at how much I don’t want her to leave.
I grab her and pull her to me, kissing the hell out of her before I release her and open the door because if I don’t let her go now, I won’t. But she doesn’t go. She seems to forget her speech, frozen in place, right here in the cottage with me. Those gorgeous blue eyes of hers fixed on me, and I want to know what she’s thinking, what she wants, because I want her. Time stretches for several more beats before she closes the space between us and kisses me. “I’ve changed my mind,” she confesses. “I really do hate that we didn’t have that condom.” With that, she rushes out of the door. I let her go, but fuck, I can’t walk away. I can’t really let her go. She’s why I’m still here. She’s why I’m not leaving. I’m not leaving.
I get dressed again, the scent of her, all sweet and feminine, on my skin, drugging me the way she seems to drug me. I need to see her again. I need to be inside that woman, and not just her body. I want to know why she feels insecure, and she does. I want to know why she’s here when she could be so many other places, like with me. It’s a crazy, out-of-character thought that I shove aside.
Nevertheless, I pursue her, walking down the path and find the party again. The crowd is still thick, the clusters of tuxedos and gowns gathered around a stage at the end of the pool, and there she is, Harper is on the stage. She’s standing next to my father and my asshole of a brother, with her look-a-like mother, who’s fifteen years my father’s junior, standing next to her. She takes the microphone and starts speaking about the business and the family and damn it, my father kisses her cheek and I know I’m wrong about her. She’s one of them. She’s not a reason to stay. What the hell was I even thinking?
I turn away and walk down the path to the cottage, pack my bag, and with her still on my tongue, I leave.
Forever this time.
CHAPTER FIVE
Eric
SIX YEARS LATER…
I’m sitting at my desk, in my corner office of the Bennett Firm, working on a buy-in on a sports team that’s sure to add a few billion in sales on the books for the company and myself. Which is my job. Make money. Grow the business beyond worldwide legal services. Repeat, with Grayson’s aggressive, but smart, stance on growth that works for us in ways it might not for other companies. I’m scanning the final contract when Grayson pokes his head in the door. “I have contract questions.” He taps his Rolex. “It’s seven o’clock. Let’s talk somewhere that isn’t here.”
“Here-here to that,” I say. “I could use a Macallan right about now.” I stand up and roll my sleeves down before I shrug on my jacket, which never quite covers my tattoo sleeve, but I really don’t give a shit. I’m long beyond giving a shit what anyone thinks of me. If they don’t like my ink, they can move on and hope to make money elsewhere. Good riddance and good luck.
“Mia doesn’t like clause eight,” Grayson says, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
Mia being his fiancée and a criminal attorney with the firm, who’s recently re-joined our inner circle and I’m damn glad she is back in his life after a year-long breakup. Whereas I’m a loner, a man without ties, Grayson needs Mia. I might not understand that kind of bond, but I understand him. “She’s right. I already told the team owners to go fuck themselves over that clause.”
He chuckles. “Of course you did, and probably not any nicer than you just told me.”
“Probably not,” I say. “I take it Mia has trial prep tonight?”
“She does,” he says. “She’s passionate about this woman she’s defending. She’s all in.”