by Olivia Dade
She tried to picture doing what he’d suggested. Receiving what she wanted so desperately, but at such a steep cost. Seeing the knowledge in Dale’s smug face that she’d once again had to recruit people richer and more powerful than she was to thwart him, that she hadn’t been able to stymie him on her own.
Could she make that sort of compromise when her entire career wasn’t at stake?
She didn’t know. She just…didn’t know.
“Let me think about it,” she finally said.
Until recently, she’d considered herself a decisive person. But now, with Martin in her life, decisions no longer seemed separated into right and wrong halves, the division crystalline. Instead, right and wrong flowed into one another, amorphous and impossible to decouple.
Martin didn’t insist on a clearer answer. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her nose—he loved her freckles, as he’d demonstrated the previous night—and sat back in his chair. Cell phone in hand once more, he gave her time.
One last blini remained on her plate, and her stomach churned at the sight of it.
“Do you want this?” She pushed the plate in his direction. “I’m done.”
“Are you sure? Because those were amazing.” When she didn’t change her mind, he popped the little pancake into his mouth and swallowed with a look of utter bliss. “Rich-person food is the best. I had no idea what I was missing.”
Wait. Did he think she was rich? Or just that she ate expensive food?
“You realize I’m not actually rich, right?” She waved a hand around the open kitchen area. “I mean, look at my house. It’s not precisely a villa in Tuscany.”
His face creased in confusion. “Well, I know you weren’t rich growing up. But given what I’ve seen of Alfred and Annette, your ex-husband is definitely wealthy. From what you wear and what you eat, I assume you received a decent amount of money in the divorce settlement.”
She had to laugh. “I didn’t take a penny from Barton in the divorce. Not even when his parents badgered him into offering me a good settlement.”
For a moment, those blue eyes just blinked at her, and then he heaved a groan. “Pride.” He dug two fingers between his eyebrows. “Of course. Of course you didn’t take any money from your obscenely rich and apparently dickish ex.”
As far as she remembered, they’d never talked about her marriage. His either, for that matter, except in the most roundabout terms.
Now she was the one confused. “How did you know he’s a dick? I mean, he is, but how did you figure it out?”
“First of all, he let you go.” He held up a finger. “Which means he’s either a fool or a dick, and you wouldn’t marry a fool. I wouldn’t have thought you’d marry a dick either, but it’s easier to disguise dickishness than foolishness, at least long enough to trap a woman into marriage.”
Another finger. “Second, while you were in the bathroom at Milano, Alfred said something that implied his son tried to change you. Once more, I have to err on the side of dickishness. Although one could also argue that only a fool would want to change someone so amazing, and only a fool would expect you, of all people, to change for a man. Even your husband.” He nudged her hand on the table. “Don’t worry. I made certain Alfred didn’t say any more than that. You’ll tell me whatever you want me to know about your marriage in your own time.”
God, she could love this man. Maybe already did.
She didn’t need to keep secrets, because he’d keep them for her.
“Do you want to know what happened?” She got up to put the plates in the sink. “I’ll tell you. It doesn’t bother me.”
Anymore.
“Of course I want to know.” He raised his brows in emphasis. “But only if you want to tell me.”
Her desire to share everything with him…it disoriented her. But she couldn’t deny the urge, just as she couldn’t deny the relief she experienced afterwards. “I had no idea you thought I was rich. So it’s probably good for me to explain some things.”
As always when she spoke about anything personal, he offered her his complete attention. Cell turned off and pushed away, eyes on her and nothing but her.
She kept it snappy. “I met Barton when I was in the master’s program for American history at Marysburg University. He was getting his MBA. Mom had just”—she took a sip of water, hiding her face for a moment—“died, and I was kind of…lost. And that’s when Barton swooped in.”
Without even knowing the full story, Martin cringed a bit at that.
“At first, he thought I was rich too,” she said.
Martin nodded. “Because of how you carry yourself.”
“I have a talent for finding quality clothing at thrift stores. Mom did too.” On weekends when her mother didn’t work, they’d take the bus to wealthier neighborhoods and comb through secondhand shops for hours, searching for undiscovered treasures. “I was also very well-educated by that point, and I made a point of sounding like it. I didn’t have any desire for people to know where I’d come from or judge me for my upbringing.”
His mouth opened, and then he shut it again. Kept it shut.
“But at some point, I told him about my past. I thought he’d be horrified, but instead he was…” The memory of the avid glee on Barton’s face made her squirm, even now. “He was excited. I thought because he wanted to help me, wanted to give me everything I needed. Social polish. The tools to make sure no one ever looked down on me again. I still thought that after we both graduated and got married.”
She controlled her exhalation. Made it slow.
Martin was suddenly crouching by her side. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. You don’t have to talk about this.”
“No. I want to.” After she’d tugged him upright, she didn’t let his hand go. “You need to know this to understand me.”
He settled back into his chair, mouth tight with concern. “Okay.”
“He had Annette and Alfred assist in teaching me what to wear for different occasions. How to eat. What to say in different types of company.” She didn’t want Martin to get the wrong idea about her former in-laws, so she hurried to add, “They did it because they knew I needed that knowledge in their social circles. So-called upstarts were mocked and insulted even as people smiled to their faces and accepted their dinner invitations. It had happened to Annette and Alfred, and they didn’t want it to happen to me. They were trying to protect me.”
He gave his empty blini plate a vaguely accusing glance, as if it were responsible for such polite viciousness. “That sounds terrible.”
“Their social circles are not for the faint of heart.” Her lips tightened. “The two of them also knew I’d always wanted an impeccable appearance and flawless manners, and they actually cared about my getting what I wanted. Unlike Barton.”
Trepidation weighted his next question. “What did he want?”
“He considered himself the Pygmalion to my sculpture. The Henry Higgins to my Eliza.” She smiled without an ounce of humor. “In short, he wanted to mold me. Form me. Pare away the excess clay and sculpt me into his preferred shape. Which was fine in the beginning, because I’d always intended to take that shape one way or another.”
Martin let the story play out, the hand not holding hers curled into a fist on the table.
“But then I’d changed as much as I wanted to. I was the person I’d intended to become. If he pared away any more, I’d lose my essential form. My structural integrity, I guess.” She rolled her eyes at herself. “Sorry to belabor a metaphor. Anyway, once our goals no longer aligned, I slowly realized he’d never wanted to help me. Not really.”
Martin’s jaw could have been used as a carving implement itself, it had become so sharp. So stony. And all that outrage—on her behalf, always on her behalf—helped her finish the story.
“He wanted to control me.” That simple truth had taken her a ridiculously long time to see. “Once I was the perfect hostess, the perfect dinner companion, he started talking about my size. The weight
-lifting I did wasn’t enough, because he suddenly wanted me thin, not strong.”
Martin dropped his chin to his chest. Stared down at the table, that iron jaw working.
But his hand held hers as if an ounce too much pressure might fracture her.
“He started complaining about all the time I spent at school and all the time I worked at home planning and grading, because he’d only ever seen my teaching career as a conversation piece. Something to indicate our humanitarian impulses, rather than an actual job.” Now they were getting to the best part of this particular tale. “At some point, I had enough. I told him I wanted out. And oh, God, Martin, he accused me—”
She choked back a laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob, and Martin’s thumb stroked the back of her hand.
After a moment, she regained control of herself. “He accused me of marrying him for his money. I told him to keep it. I’d already gotten everything I wanted from him.”
Martin didn’t let that stand.
His voice was as soft as her silk comforter. “Not everything.”
“No, I suppose not.” She swallowed back the thickness in her throat. “I wanted him to love me.”
“I know,” Martin said. “I know you did.”
Seventeen
The morning sun streamed through her bay window, bathing them both in warmth as she let her emotions settle once more.
“What happened after the divorce?” Martin finally asked.
“I haven’t heard from Barton since, except concerning necessary legal matters.” That wasn’t the painful bit, really. Rose had never missed her actual ex, just the possibility of what she’d once thought him to be. “I tried to keep in touch with the few people I considered my friends. But maintaining relationships with a teacher’s schedule is tough during the school year. You know that.”
He spoke quietly. “I do.”
“Besides, our lives were so different suddenly. I couldn’t go on vacations to Europe or Bermuda. I couldn’t pay thousands of dollars for a table at a charity dinner. I didn’t have time, I didn’t have money, and I didn’t have the same interests. So those friendships faded. And others…” After so many years, it still stung. “Most of them weren’t really my friends at all. When Barton and I split, they spread rumors about me. Said I was a gold-digger and Barton had found me fucking the gardener. Someone of my own class, as they put it.”
She’d known almost from the start that they’d use her childhood poverty as a weapon against her at some point. But knowing that hadn’t stopped their malice from hurting.
“They watched everything I did and judged me for it.” She lifted a shoulder in a carefully nonchalant shrug. “At that point, I stopped trying to fit into those circles. The only people still in my life from that time are Annette and Alfred, because they refused to let go.”
Not that she hadn’t tried to discard them, her grief and anger blinding her to their sincere sympathy. To the love they’d always, always shown her.
Time to wrap up story time and return to her initial point. “I’m not rich. At all. I have nice clothes because I take good care of the wardrobe I acquired during my marriage. I have a nice but aging car that Barton deemed too old to be of any interest to him in the divorce. I eat nice food because I enjoy it, and I don’t spend much money on anything else. I don’t have a child, unlike you, so I don’t have to save for a college fund.”
She waved a hand at her sparsely decorated living room. “Even decorating the house doesn’t cost much, because I’m only willing to buy good-quality pieces I absolutely love and can afford without too much scrimping.”
As usual, he waited until he was sure she’d finished before speaking.
“A lot of things make much more sense now.” He raised her hand and pressed a kiss on her palm. “Thank you for telling me all that.”
This morning-after could use a bit of levity.
“I can’t be your sugar mama.” She flicked his earlobe. Leaned forward to lick it, then whispered in his ear, “I hope you’re not disappointed.”
For once, he didn’t respond to the overture.
Instead, he drew back but kept her hand in his. “My story is a lot less dramatic than yours.”
Apparently, they were covering all their combined rough ground today. At long last, she’d discover whether she needed to locate Sabrina Krause and make that woman regret ever laying eyes on Martin. Because if Sabrina had hurt him like his family hurt him, a supernova’s explosion would seem quaint in comparison to Rose’s fury.
“Sabrina and I met in college. She was my first girlfriend, and my last.” He squeezed her hand. “Until you, that is. We were never a particularly passionate couple, but I loved her. I thought she loved me. We liked and respected one another.”
Rose braced herself for the inevitable but.
“But at some point, that changed. For her, not me. She hated the long hours I spent at school. Hated how often I brought home grading. Found any discussion of my teaching boring.” His throat worked, and he looked down. “She found me boring. Full stop. And all the little comments about how serious I always looked, how I cared about my students more than her, how I had no sense of humor, didn’t feel affectionate anymore. They weren’t jokes. They were jabs. But I didn’t see that until this past year.”
From her conversations with Bea, Rose suspected his daughter had recently experienced a similar revelation. And others, too—about her parents’ marriage, about the kind of father she truly had, about the sort of respect he deserved.
All long-overdue insights, in Rose’s firm opinion.
Her anger, however, she reserved for Martin’s ex, the adult in the situation. The woman who’d vowed to love and honor her husband, and then proceeded to rip him to shreds for being the sort of man he’d always been. The man she’d chosen to marry.
Martin was still talking. Still offering up a ragged wound, one that clearly continued to pain him, for Rose’s inspection.
“I would have spent a lifetime like that, probably.” The admission sounded reluctant. “Then about three years ago, I accidentally spotted some text messages she’d exchanged with a college friend of ours. I filed for divorce the next day.”
She waited, but that seemed to be it. The end of his story.
Jesus, this man could break her wide open.
He’d left so much unstated. How the blow of his wife’s infidelity must have staggered him. What immense strength must have been required—from Martin, of all people, a man whose family had denied his worth again and again—to tell himself he deserved better. To leave, instead of blaming himself for his wife’s disdain and betrayal. To watch as his ex got engaged and moved his beloved daughter halfway across the country, and then uproot his entire life for one more year with that daughter.
How he could sit there by Rose’s side, holding her hand, full of so much love and kindness, she had no idea. He’d somehow managed to keep his heart open, even as the people he loved proceeded to damage it, one after the other.
He had to know. She had to say it.
“You’re a marvel, Martin Krause,” she told him. “Look at you. So many people you loved didn’t value you like they should have, but you’re still whole. Still loving and vulnerable and...amazing beyond words. A marvel, like I said.”
She was more than ready to elaborate, more than ready to listen if he wanted to share more. But in typical Martin fashion, he took the compliment and turned it around. Made it about her, when he deserved so much more recognition than he’d ever received.
Leaning forward, he shook her hand gently. “But that’s exactly what I wanted to say earlier. You’re so sure people will judge you for your past, and I don’t get it. Look at you.” His gaze caressed every inch of her, from top to bottom. “Everything you are, you made yourself. I don’t understand why that isn’t a source of pride for you. Why you wouldn’t expect the people who matter to admire you for it, not criticize or judge you.”
Her back snapped straight in s
tartled affront. “I am proud of who I am. What I’ve become.”
“But you don’t trust anyone else to feel the same.” His brows rose. “Is that it?”
Somehow, he really had turned this conversation around on her. And not in the sweet, safe way she’d originally envisioned. Now she was scrambling for answers, for justifications, for anything that would nudge this discussion back into calmer waters.
“I trust Annette and Alfred. I trust some of my college friends. I, uh”—she forced out the words—“trust you.”
That admission didn’t seem to be as big a revelation as she’d expected it to be. It certainly didn’t distract him from his intended point.
He gave his head a little shake, and his lips firmed in determination. “Then come to prom with me, Rose. Make our relationship public. Trust me not to hurt you. Trust me not to expose you to the judgment or ridicule of others.”
And there it was. They’d circled back around to the topic she’d been dreading. The topic they’d both carefully avoided, for fear of cracking a still-fragile connection.
It seemed that avoidance had ended.
Unfortunately, she still had no idea what to say.
When she didn’t respond, he continued. “If that’s asking too much right now, trust your own ability to handle scrutiny and brush off any unkindness you might experience. Especially since I’d have your back the entire time. I promise.”
Words. She needed words.
“I want…” Jesus, why was a direct statement about her emotions so fucking hard? “I want you. I want a relationship with you. More than you know. I’d just prefer our colleagues not find out about it.”
“For how long?” He wasn’t backing down, and she respected that, even as she feared what it meant for her. For them. “At what point would you be sure enough to risk exposure?”