I just need to breathe. To talk. To be honest.
Even if it fucking kills me.
“It’ll be fine, bro,” Kian adds. “I’m sure the suit will help you engender trust. Everyone trusts a dude who looks like a banker.”
I glance at myself in the mirror.
“There’s not a banker alive who looks this good,” I say with my trademark wild grin, unfazed by his teasing.
I decide to leave the coat aside and just head downstairs in the pants and the crisp white shirt I’m wearing.
Kian gives me an approving nod. “Hey,” he says as I’m about to walk out the door. “Cheesy as this may sound… be yourself.”
I give him a wink. “I always am.”
* * *
I pause at the top of the curving stairs to survey the scene. The surface of the rear veranda is cobbled. It overlooks the garden below and offers amazing views of the lake. In the midst of it, the manor staff has set up a white-clothed table, per my instructions.
I honestly want Saoirse to see how beautiful this place is.
I want her to enjoy the view. I want her to be reminded of the existence of beauty again.
It’s not dead. It’s not gone. It’s not out of reach.
There’s still hope for her. For both of us.
She’s standing at the railing of the balcony when I walk down, looking out over the waters. I can’t even see her face, but my pulse quickens.
Her red hair looks like it’s been tamed just enough to be presentable. The curls have been combed back and arranged into a messy bun at the back of her head. Only a few loose strands of hair arc down her back.
She’s wearing a silky dress in an off-white color. The material has that wispy romantic quality about it and it clings to her body like a second skin. The thin straps that hold the top up snake down to her lower back and I can see the thin ridge of her spine.
She’s skinnier than she was at eighteen. But there’s a self-assurance about her that’s exactly the same as it was then. An inner fire.
All in all, the lone conclusion is obvious: the woman is an absolute fucking knockout.
As I step onto the cobbled veranda, she becomes aware of my presence and glances back over her shoulder.
Her face is framed by the setting sun. Gold light puts her features into high relief and even the glorious sky behind her doesn’t distract from her beauty.
She doesn’t appear to be wearing a stitch of makeup—but then, she doesn’t need it.
She turns slowly, and the first thing I notice is the thin white scar between her breasts.
The second thing I notice is the prominence of her collarbones, how severely slim her arms are.
I realize that up until now, she’s been pretty covered up. I haven’t noticed just how much she’s changed physically since we were last together.
She scowls. “The maid you sent to my room told me to dress up for this dinner,” she says stiffly. “But I kinda feel ridiculous.”
She fingers the fabric of her dress, but I notice her hands linger on the hem as though she doesn’t really want to let it go.
“Ridiculous?” I repeat softly. “No. You are beautiful.”
She blushes.
It’s such an immediate reaction that it takes me off guard. It seems to take her off guard, too, because she looks away immediately as though to hide the reaction from me.