Nothing catches me off guard until the hostess says, “Tell your brothers I said hello,” as she sits us in a cozy booth in the back of the restaurant and sets menus in front of us.
He said he was alone and yet, he is not alone at all.
Honesty matters to me and this hits me wrong.
I’ve only been serious with one man. He lied. About everything. That sounds excessive and it was.
Eli orders us a bottle of expensive champagne, my favorite bottle actually, and the minute we’re alone, he leans in closer, across the table, and says, “I know I told you I have no family,” he says as if he’s read my mind or perhaps my reactions. “They aren’t naturally-born brothers, but they are very much my brothers.”
Not naturally born. It’s a strange explanation that leads to my next question. “Adopted?”
“By each other,” he says. “Yes. I guess you could say that. I would die for them and them for me.”
There is something raw and real about the way he says these words, a fierceness even. Raw and real work for me. Raw and real is honest.
“Tell me about them,” I urge.
“You might as well say I grew up with Cam and Rocco.”
“Here in Denver?”
“The East coast,” he replies, “but work brought us here.”
“Security?”
“That’s right,” he agrees and the waiter appears with our champagne.
Soon the glasses are filled and hot bread is delivered, after which, we are finally alone again. “Do Rocco and Cam live here at the hotel, as well?”
“No. They both have homes nearby.”
“But you prefer it here?”
“For now,” he says rather vaguely.
“How does your security business work?” I ask, curious about Eli and his “brothers.”
“We’re private hire, consulting mostly,” he replies. “And we’re financially secure enough to be choosey about our customers. And you write books?”
“I do,” I say.
“For how long?”
“I’ve been published for about ten years. Paying the bills this way for seven.”
“But you hide your identity,” he says, letting me know he heard the entire conversation with Jacob. “Why?” he asks.
“It was my publisher’s decision,” I say, sipping my champagne. “I write paranormal thrillers and statistics show men buy thrillers from men.”
“Do you believe the statistics?”
“Things turned out pretty well for me, so whatever the case, I’m happy.”
He sips his champagne. “Did your parents get to see your success?”
“They did,” I say. “They were around for one of the seven books that hit the New York Times bestsellers list.” There’s a pinch in my chest. “But they saw one. That matters.”
“You were close to them,” he assumes, watching me closely.
“I was,” I say. “Very. And they, as I mentioned, were very much in love.”
“And yet, you’re single. Don’t they say humans mimic what they know?”
“Perhaps their love is just such a hard target for me to hit I don’t even try.”
“You’ve never been married?” he asks.
“Never.”
“Engaged?”
“Once,” I confirm. “Briefly. You?”
“I’m a widower,” he replies.
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “I’m so sorry. I—can I ask when and how? If you don’t want to answer-”
“Murdered. A random attack on our way home from her birthday celebration. And a very long time ago.”
I study him and while his expression is as steely as his eyes, and yet, I swear I can feel his pain. “You loved her.”
“With everything I am or will ever be,” he assures me and that raw, real quality is back in him. In his voice, his eyes, his entire being.
“You never remarried,” I say, and it’s not a question.
“No. I never remarried.”
“Ever come close?”
“Not even a little,” he says with no hesitation.
I find his love for his wife endearing, but also a bit intimidating. How can anyone live up to such love? Why would I ever want to try to take anything away from someone so special anyway? Of course, I wouldn’t.
The waiter arrives and I quickly grab the menu. A few minutes later, we’ve ordered, and Eli motions to my all but untouched champagne. “You aren’t drinking and driving tonight.”
If I want honesty, I have to give it, so I reply with exactly what comes to my mind. “And yet, I feel as if I am.”
His eyes narrow. “Why is that, Ivy?” he challenges softly.
“It’s all about you.”
“What about me?”
“I don’t know,” I say, but something hits me, something I should have recognized before now, that has me adding, “and yet—”
“And yet, what?” he prods.
“It’s silly,” I say, reaching for my glass to sip. “I know it sounds silly, but there is something about you that is familiar. Like we’ve met before.”
I expect him to laugh off the comment, but he doesn’t laugh. His eyes darken and there is a beat of dark energy about him as he asks, “What if we have?”
CHAPTER NINE
Ivy
The waiter appears and sets salads in front of us before topping off our champagne glasses. The minute the waiter leaves, I have every intention of asking him if we have met before, but he sideswipes me with, “Tell me about Jacob.”