“You love me, right?”
“Of course.”
“But you have no reservations about pulling the plug on this and going our separate ways in two months …”
“Look, this wasn’t supposed to happen.” She rolls to her side, propping herself on her elbow as she studies me. “You talked me into a date and then you talked me into another date and then you told me you loved me and all of this is happening so fast … and don’t get me wrong, I’m loving every minute of it, but now you’re asking me to walk away from my dream so you can live yours? Do you really think that’s fair?”
“I know it isn’t fair,” I say. “But when you look at the logistics of it, you can find a design job anywhere in the country. I’m not going to find another thirty-five-million-dollar football contract so easily …”
“So your dream is more important than mine.”
“No.” I rub my eyes, gathering my thoughts. “This is all coming out wrong.”
“Yes it is.”
“I’m just trying to be rational about this. Logical. Whatever.”
“Talon …” Irie traces her fingertips along my bare chest, sighing. “We can’t be logical with an emotion that knows no logic.”
She’s right.
“I’m sorry. I had to ask.” I take her hand in mine, lifting it to my lips and kissing her delicate fingers. “Can you blame a man for wanting it all?”
“It’s an impossible decision. Either way, one of us loses,” she says. “And we both have too much at stake to gamble with something that isn’t …”
Her voice trails into nothing.
“Isn’t a sure thing?” I ask.
She doesn’t confirm.
She doesn’t deny either.
“Nothing in this life will ever be a sure thing,” I say. Silence consumes us, both of us lost in our own thoughts for a moment. “What do you want out of this life?”
Without hesitation, without giving it an extra thought, she answers, “A home of my own. A nice family. Stability. Meaning. The priceless things most people take for granted.”
And there’s my old friend, irony, showing his face once again.
I lean down, kissing her forehead. “Same, Irie … exact same.”
Chapter 37
Irie
I sleep in Thursday morning, buried under Talon’s covers as he rushes out the door to catch an eight o’clock workout at the student fitness center. While I admire his dedication and discipline, we’ve been staying up until the wee hours of the morning every night all week and I could use an extra hour of shuteye.
Only the second he’s gone, my phone buzzes on his nightstand.
I reach across the bed, swiping it with an exhausted groan, and I flip the screen to find a text from his mother.
CAMILLA: Good morning, Irie! Brunch at 10 today? The Gilded Ivy?
I tap out a quick “sounds good … see you then!” before realizing I completely spaced off telling Talon his mom had reached out to me earlier this week. It’s not a huge deal though. I’ll just have to tell him all about it afterwards.
Flinging the covers off, I grab my things and head out, locking up behind me with the spare key Talon gave me. Within minutes, I’m making my way back home to shower and get ready, all the while contemplating the perfect outfit.
Camilla is stylish and polished, and a place called The Gilded Ivy requires more than a pair of faded jeans and a cute top from the back of my closet. I realize it’s ironic … wanting her to like me when I’m only going to be her son’s girlfriend for the next two months, but it is what it is.
The second I step foot inside The Gilded Ivy, it reminds me of the kind of chic eatery one might find on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. Everything is either gold or marble, but nothing about it is ostentatious. It’s a tasteful kind of glamorous, and I give myself a mental pat on the back as I make my way to the hostess stand.
“I’m meeting Camilla Masterson,” I tell the woman with the bun slicked so tight it gives my scalp sympathy pains.
Her magenta lips curl into a reserved smile. “Right this way, Ms. Davenport.”
I follow her to a private room in the back, the kind people generally reserve for larger parties.
Camilla rises the instant she sees me, a pink boucle Chanel suit covering her trim body. “Irie, hi. So glad you could make it.”
I take the seat across from her as a server appears from out of nowhere to fill my water glass and hand me a gold-leafed menu.
“Don’t you look lovely,” she says, eyeing my outfit. I opted for wide-leg black-waisted pants and a fitted white blouse, finishing off the look with simple gold hoops on my ears and a red statement lip—a look not unlike the one Kira Kepner was rocking the first time I met her.
“Thank you,” I say. “I love your suit. Such a classic.”