I rinse my mouth and place my toothbrush in the cup between the faucets. “I win.”
She laughs, finishing. “Not everything’s a competition.”
“Obviously you’ve learned nothing about me.” I slip past her on the way to the door, stopping to rest my hands on her hips and deposit a kiss on the side of her neck, the spot that makes her toss her head back and give the tiniest of squeals.
While Sophie is forty chapters short of an open book, I’m slowly getting to know her better. I find the details are in the things she doesn’t say. She chews her nails when she’s nervous—which is rare, but it happens. She’s quietly fascinated by everything, often reading multiple books in varying genres at the same time. She’s adamant about being on time everywhere we go. And she’s got an impressive collection of vintage t-shirts she reserves for the weekends. She also prefers cheap wine over pricey, sunrises over sunsets, and she’s got a small but tight-knit group of friends. Sophie doesn’t bother with acquaintances or the lighter side of relationships. Like me, she wants it all or nothing. And she’s particular about whom she trusts.
She climbs into bed a minute later, dabbing lotion onto the backs of her hands before placing the bottle back on the nightstand. The sensual scent of Chanel floods the space between us.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” I say, “Next month we’re taking a trip to Martha’s Vineyard. That client I told you about? The one insisting I ‘settle down.’ He wants to spend a couple of days with us to make sure what we have is real.”
She laughs through her nose. “Weird, but okay.”
There are pockets of time I myself question whether this is real or not. There’s no way Ames won’t buy it.
“Yeah, he’s interesting in his own way … Anyway, I’ll send the dates to your calendar in the morning,” I say.
“You still need to meet my family.”
“And you still need to choose a wedding date.” I switch off the lamp on my bedside table. “I checked my schedule, and I can clear a week in September.”
“Why a whole week?”
“For the honeymoon …”
“Honeymoons are for lovers.”
I smirk. “And what would you call us?”
She rolls to her side, head propped on her hand, eyes shining in the dark like two endless pools. “Do we need a label? I mean, we’re engaged. We’re going to be married. But we’re not in love.”
“I’m aware,” I say. “But we spend every spare moment of every day together and we can’t keep our hands off each other. So what would you call that?”
“Not lovers …” Her lips pull at one side. “That word makes me cringe.”
I laugh. “Me too.”
“Partners,” she says after a minute of contemplation. “We’re partners. That’s what you called it the first time you pulled me into your office and made me this offer. You said you needed a partner.”
She isn’t wrong about what I said.
But we’ve evolved way past partners …
Exhaustion floods my veins, and I’m getting nowhere with her. Best to sideline this conversation for another time.
“I’d like you to choose a date tomorrow,” I say. “Sometime in September. Once we nail that down, I’ll have my assistant book a trip. Let me know where you’d like to go, and I’ll take you.”
Sophie lies back.
“If we don’t go on a honeymoon, people might wonder,” I add. “It’s part of the bigger picture, Soph.”
Her attention snaps to me. “Please don’t call me Soph.”
Frowning in the dark, I sigh.
For the longest time, I hated being called “Trey.” It was a nickname, meant to signify the fact that I was the third Pierce Ainsworth Westcott who ever existed. It made me think of the breakfast trays our staff was always delivering to my parents’ bedroom, and a kid at my prep school was always spelling it with an ‘a’ just to get under my skin.
Eventually, I learned to block out that noise.
“I think it’s a pretty nickname,” I say. I can understand not wanting to be called tray, but there’s nothing mean-spirited about Soph. “But I won’t call you that if you don’t want me to.”
“Thank you,” she says without hesitation. She rolls to her side, ending the conversation physically and otherwise.
Once again, she’s shutting me out.
One step forward, ten steps back.
I need to speak to Broderick in the morning. Since we’re fast-tracking everything, I want to ensure she receives her first payout sooner than the initial six-month mark.
She falls asleep in quiet, resisting increments. Her lips stir. Her eyes tighten. She adjusts her pillow again. And again. Part of me wants to pull her into my arms, slide my hands between her thighs, and get her out of her own head.
She can call this a partnership, but someday she’s going to realize it’s so much more than that. What we have is different. What we have is so much more than either of us bargained for. Maybe someday she’ll allow herself to see that. And I hope to God she does … because I want her.
All of her.
And I always get what I want.
Forty-Three
Sophie
Present
Mom sits straight in her chair, pushing her food, her gaze flicking across the table to Trey in the dinette of her home.
I wanted their first meeting to be here. Trey offered to host at his house, but my mother isn’t easily impressed and, if anything, the fanfare would’ve worked against him. She would’ve thought he was trying to buy her off, the way Nolan did a lifetime ago. While she appreciates his financial help over the years (and was never in a position to turn it down), she knows it came at a price.
And she knows men with money can buy anything they like …
“This casserole is delicious, Sybil,” Trey says, eyes smiling. He looks out of place in this humble home with his designer dress shirt, shiny shoes, and debonair hairstyle. But he doesn’t act it. He hasn’t stared at the stains in the living room carpet or the pile of clutter on the kitchen counter or the overwhelming scent of cheap cinnamon potpourri that hits you when you first walk through the door.
It may not be what he’s accustomed to, but it’s home to me.
I also want him to know that the woman he’s marrying is more salt-of-the-earth than corporate city girl.
Emmeline stares from her chair, taking careful bites, as if she’s self-conscious and doesn’t want to spill in front of him.
“So tell me, how did the two of you meet again?” Mom asks despite knowing the answer.
She wants to hear it from his mouth, I’m sure.
I deflect to him. I’ve been trying to get him to do most of the talking, that way they can get to know him better.
“We bumped into each other in the hallway,” he says, glancing at me with a twinkle in his hazel eyes. “Physically bumped into each other. But before that, I’d overheard her defending me to a couple of women who were saying some unflattering non-truths about me.”
Mom raises a pencil-thin brow. “Can’t say that I’m surprised. Sophie has always been one to speak up for others. You should have seen her in high school. Always protesting other people’s causes, always defending the underdog, always calling out bullies.”
“Is that so?” Trey shoots me a look.
“I’m surprised you didn’t already know that about her,” Mom says. “You two must know everything about one another if you’re ready to take that next step …”
“Getting to know your daughter has been half the fun. It seems like every day I learn something new.” He squeezes my hand under the table.
“Have you picked a date yet?” Emmeline asks. “For your wedding?”
Trey and I exchange looks.
“September seventh,” I say.
Mom takes a drink of her iced water, staring blankly out the window behind my sister. Even if she adored Trey, she’d still tell me we’re moving too fast. And I don’t blame her. She
’s protective. She’s seen me at my worst and doesn’t want to watch me go through that again.
She should really give me more credit …
“Where will the two of you live?” Mom asks, snapping back into the present.
“At my family’s estate,” he answers, “just outside the city, about thirty minutes from here. The two of you are welcome any time you’d like.”
“Trey’s going to put in a special entrance for you, Em,” I tell my sister. “And there are elevators. You’ll have no problem getting around.”
My sister lights. “I can’t wait to visit.”
“Mom, you have to see his art collection.” I place a palm on her forearm. “And his conservatory … he’s got the best view of the stars.”
“Our art collection,” he corrects. “Our conservatory. And yes, the two of you should stay the night soon so you can enjoy the night sky.”
My mother’s expression softens, but her posture stays rigid. She’s warming up to him, but we’re hardly past tepid.
“So tell me, Trey, what do you love about my daughter?” she asks. “Why are you in such a hurry to lock her down?”
To my mother, marriage is a prison sentence.
His gaze lands on me, and his mouth curls at the side. “Everything.”
“Such as?” she asks.
“It’s difficult to put into words, but I’ll try,” he says. “She’s the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning. The last thing I think about before I fall asleep. She’s beautiful, not just on the outside, but on the inside. She drops coins in charity jars when she thinks no one’s looking. She tears up at those ASPCA commercials they run on late-night TV. She happily snaps photos when someone recognizes me on the street. I’ve never met anyone as witty as her. Every conversation we’ve ever had has kept me on my toes. Some days, just when I think I’ve figured her out, she throws me for a loop, and I’m back to square one. Your daughter is a fascinating riddle of a woman. Strong-willed. Independent. And for all those reasons and more, I can’t lock her down fast enough.”
My heart gallops, my head dizzies, and my hands turn clammy.
I wasn’t expecting his answer to be so … heartfelt?
Mom leans back in her seat, her head angled, her stare less piercing than it’s been all evening.
“That’s so sweet,” Emmeline says. “Sophie, what do you like about Trey? I want to hear your answer.”
A heat flushes my cheeks as the spotlight moves on me. Nothing I can say will even come close to that—not because I don’t think highly of him, but because I don’t allow myself to think about all the ways he’s been wonderful to me this past month.
“Sophie’s always been private with her emotions,” Mom says.
“Yes.” Trey’s mouth forms a flat line. “I’m quite aware of that.”
I could say he makes me feel safe, desired. But I couldn’t tell them that I adore his honesty—that he’s been clear from day one that he only wants me for one thing—to make him a husband and a father. I also can’t tell them he’s as generous between the sheets as he is skilled. Or that I’m doing all of this because he’s offering me an insane amount of money.
Clearing my throat, I decide to wing it.
“Aside from the fact that he’s blindingly good looking,” I say with a teasing tone despite the fact that it’s true. “He’s the smartest businessman I’ve ever met. He’s ambitious. Driven. More sentimental than most people think. He’s honest. Curious …”
“Yes, but how does he make you feel? Obviously, Trey, we know you’re driven and successful or you wouldn’t be where you are today,” Mom says before redirecting her attention to me. “So what is it about him that’s made you throw everything out the window and marry someone you’ve only just met?”
She knows me too well. She’s starting to see through the thin veil we’ve created.
I’m going to have to do better than that.
Trey squeezes my hand under the table once again, a silent reminder that we’re in this together.
It hits me hard, the flood of reasons—real reasons—I admire him, and they have nothing to do with all those zeroes I stand to receive. It starts with his commanding presence, I think. The way everyone stands at attention the second he walks in the door, followed by the way my body melts with his touch. And when he looks at me, my breath hitches sometimes—but only when I let it. Last week, I overheard a conversation with his accountant where he mentioned he donates one hundred million dollars per month to various charities. That’s one-point-two billion a year that he could be funneling back into his businesses, but he chooses to do good things with that cash instead. And the fact that he’s never once brought that up to me tells me he does it out of the kindness of his heart, not because he wants recognition.
And he’s thoughtful. More than people realize. He had housekeeping change the laundry soap because it made me itchy. And after learning about my cantaloupe allergy, he ensured his chef permanently removed it from the shopping list. He’s detail-oriented and nothing gets past him. He can tell by the way I walk when my shoulders ache and he knows when I bite my lower lip I’m ready for him to pounce on me then and there.
He’s also respectful of my work ethic, never insisting that I quit my job so I can stay home and be a kept woman.
In all of my years, I’ve never met anyone quite like him.
So I say none of those things, because if I did, he’d know they were true. He’d know how I really feel about him. And that would open a door we’ve yet to walk through.
“When you know, you know,” I say before rising to clear the table. “Trey brought you gifts. Trey, you want to grab them?”
He studies me before excusing himself to retrieve the wrapped boxes we left by the rug at the front door. When he returns, he hands one to my mother and one to my sister. A minute later, Mom is holding up a vintage Pucci caftan that once belonged to Trey’s mother, and Emmeline is fawning over a signed and framed Fleetwood Mac poster.
“This is beautiful, Trey. Thank you.” Mom holds it up, and while I’ve no idea where she’ll wear that, the colors bring out the violet in her irises and the implication behind the gift doesn’t go unnoticed to me. It couldn’t have been easy for him to part with something that once belonged to his mother. The man has a box of his father’s cigars sitting on the corner of his grandfather’s desk. He could buy anything he wanted in this world, but those are the things he values.
When I’m done clearing the table, we make small talk for another hour before taking off. I hug Mom and Emmeline and take Trey’s hand as we walk to his SUV parked in the pitted concrete driveway.
“That went well, don’t you think?” he asks when we back out.
“I mean, I don’t think she hates you.” I chuckle.
“She’s very protective of you. I like that.”
“Protective is an understatement, but yes. She is. Sometimes it’s a little much.”
The next five miles are silent. I’m lost in thought, replaying pieces of conversation tonight like memorized clips. Analyzing them. Imagining everything from their point of view. But eventually Trey’s words slip somewhere between all of that.
He knows me better than I thought—yet there’s still that one thing he doesn’t know.
Every time I convince myself to come clean, he distracts me with a disarming smile or his hand between my thighs or the dizzying way he drinks me in after a long day, and I get caught up in the moment, the delicious escape he provides.
“I meant what I said earlier tonight,” he breaks the silence. “All of it.”
My thoughts freeze, but my body has a lot to say. Feelings are funny things, the way they crawl down your skin and tighten your chest and flip your stomach. It’s a bizarre rollercoaster of fear, anticipation, relief, and ecstasy. And I’ve never been a fan of rollercoasters.
“You’re sweet to say those things,” I finally respond.
“Don’t.” His voice is terse.
; “Don’t what?”
“Don’t downplay this.”
“I’m not downplaying anything. You said some nice things, and I appreciate that. So thank you.”
“I think you’re falling for me, Sophie. I see it in your eyes. I hear it in all the things you don’t say. And I think it terrifies you.”
If he only knew.
“We made a pact in Seattle,” he continues. “Do you remember that?”
I swallow the tight lump in my throat, sensing where this is going. “Yes.”
“We promised to speak up if this started feeling more than physical,” he says. “And so I’m speaking up. I like you, Sophie.”
Heat creeps up my neck. The words that should come, refuse. Stubborn. Like me.
I like him too.
“This is new for me,” he continues. “Unchartered territory.”
I clasp my hands in my lap, staring at the cherry red taillights in front of us until my eyes sting.
“You don’t have to say anything.” He takes the pressure down a notch, and I exhale. “Not tonight. But whenever you’re ready to have a conversation about this—a real fucking conversation—I’ll be ready.”
If I relent, if I tell him how I truly feel …
If I give myself to him wholly …
It’s only a matter of time before the newness wears off, things grow stale, and something shiny and new catches his eye. He might be superhuman, but he’s still only human.
“Can I sleep in a guest room tonight?” I ask when we get back to the estate. “Just for a little space?”
“No,” he says, avoiding my stare. “I’ll sleep in a guest room. You can have our bed.”
In that moment, the overwhelming urge to climb into his arms and kiss his mouth and inhale his sharp scent and pretend like everything is easy and physical again rushes through me, but I let it pass.
Now that he’s admitted he’s catching feelings, it’s never going to be the way it was.
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