I’m letting go of the past and letting the cards fall where they may.
I’m going to take care of the present and let the past take care of itself.
When I’d found her in the garden after that phone call, the seed of thought had sprouted and grown into a vine. A vine that wrapped itself around me. And under the roof of the dilapidated folly, with grass in her hair and that damp T-shirt sticking to her, I’d wanted to drag her out into the open, strip her naked in the rain, and claim her. To see the water cascade from her curves. But the vine gripped me tight for a reason. It held my arms to my sides as I used my mouth for something other than the worship of her.
I told her, “I see you.”
I see her for who she is, not the version she wants me to see or the version she wants other people to see. The woman she pretends to be. I see the woman who’d go to the pains of hiding a fucking statue so as not to bring a woman she cares for more trouble than she already has on her plate. I see the woman my nephews dote on. I see the woman who has inspired the kind of loyalty in just a few weeks that might take lesser people years. Yet none of this matters because without all the goodness in her, I know I would still want her because she’s so much more. She’s funny and quick-witted and despite the trials she’s suffered, she’s still willing to take life by the horns and fucking ride it. The bottom line is, no matter what life throws her way, she isn’t afraid to try. Except when it comes to me.
And I want her to try because I love Holland Harper. And I can’t even tell her, not yet. Because I need this night to be over. I need her to feel what I feel when Griffin tells me she’s his. When Van suggests he’ll treat her better than I can. I need her to see the risk of losing me to someone else.
Frankly, I can’t think of another way. We don’t have a lot of time left.
So, yes, out at the folly, I’d been more than disingenuous. I’d lied. Because how could I ever admit to being able to walk away from her?
I can’t admit this is over. I won’t.
Not when I remember the way she’d looked up at me, rain bedraggled, her hair in disarray, her heart pouring from her eyes. She’d looked so honest and beautiful, and in pain. And days later, I still suffer a frisson of sensation when I recall how she’d leaned into me as though willing me to take her in my arms.
“There she is.” My sister beams, our little circle of people widening as Holland approaches. “My goodness, what a stunning dress!” Isla’s gaze isn’t the only one sweeping the length of her as Griffin’s eyes practically fall out of his head. I tighten my grip on my glass as an alternative to slapping him across the back of the head.
I don’t need to look. I drank my fill as she’d floated down the stairs, even if I wasn’t the only one watching. But it’s fine. I’ll be the only one watching as her dress slips to the floor at the end of the night. If everything goes right.
“You look gorgeous, love.” Griffin rests his hand at the small of her back. The hand I imagine snapping off at the wrist.
“Whoa!” I’m not sure that’s the response any of us had anticipated as Holland holds up her hands as though to shield her eyes. “I have no idea what you just said, Griffin. I couldn’t hear over the noise of your pants.”
“What?” Griffin’s gaze dips to his tartan trews as Isla and my companion—the girl Van eventually brought along despite his complaints; the girl Holland has yet to make the acquaintance of—begin to titter.
“I think Holland is trying to tell you your outfit is a little loud,” I murmur. The glance that passes between her and me is more than a little conspirative. What was he thinking? Red and green tartan trousers—not even the family tartan—a matching vest, and a forest green velvet dinner jacket.
“Are those house slippers?” Holland asks, her eyebrows raised.
Of course, we all glance down.
“No, these are Italian,” he protests.
“Aw, look. Your Italian slippers even have silky little tassels to match your bow tie,” she adds.
“You look like you should be on a shortbread tin.” Isla chuckles as she throws back the remains of her second glass of champagne.
“He’s just hamming it up for the American audience, aren’t you?” Holland smiles so sweetly at him, but it’s all fake.
“Unlike you,” he mutters, his attention sliding to me. “Where’s your sense of Scottish pride tonight? Left it with your kilt at the dry cleaners, did you?”