by Paige North
By the time I get inside, he’s already shut the door to the main bedroom, leaving me with the other one for the night.
Abandoning me and my slowly breaking heart.
The next morning, Owen is as distant as I expected he would be as we quietly leave the hotel and fly back to New York City on his jet. He’s knee deep in business already, holed up in the back of the plane, and I don’t see him again until we take the limo back to his home.
Even then he’s withdrawn, and he has the driver drop me off at the front stoop of the brownstone, only to continue on to his office.
Oddly, when he returns that evening, we fall right back into our routine as if nothing happened. But that’s my job, isn’t it? To pretend that nothing is wrong and make him happy?
We eat dinner, have a conversation about the upcoming “date” with Dr. Earl and his wife, and then he takes me up to my room where he seduces me, making me come and scream and plead for more.
Then a funny thing happens during the next couple of days—in spite of both of our apparent fears and our discomfort with each other, we really do seem to be getting closer and closer.
I’m almost fooled into thinking that anyone could mistake us for a real couple.
My god, I’m truly falling in love with him, but his troubled past is still a closed book to me. I know something happened to him to make him so closed off, but I’m hesitant to ask him again to share it, and he never volunteers anything.
When the night of our dinner with Dr. and Mrs. Earl finally arrives, I’m a mess of nerves. As we wait at our white linen covered table in the very swanky Le Bernadin, I keep smoothing down my navy open back designer gown and toying with the subtle organza bow at my neck. I’ve worn my hair up in a bid to look sophisticated, but I’m not sure I own the part.
Hostess. Girlfriend. Significant other.
Right.
But Owen can’t take his eyes off of me. He’s got that look again—almost tender and definitely attached in some way.
I don’t get him at all.
“Don’t be nervous,” he says smoothly.
I whisper across the table. “They’re definitely going to know that I’m not actually your girlfriend.”
“Will they?”
His cryptic words give me pause, and when he stands from his chair in a formal manner, I look toward the distinguished couple coming toward us, escorted by the maître d.
“Dr. Gregory,” says the fortyish man with the big grin and prematurely silver hair.
“Dr. Earl.” After they shake hands, Owen greets Mrs. Earl, who’s already smiling at me.
She’s much younger than I expected—possibly in her mid-twenties—and she’s blond and slim in her own designer dress. Owen introduces us, and she takes my hand as if we’re already old friends.
“Please tell me you’re into the theater,” she says as she sits down next to me. “I was hoping to see at least one Broadway show while I’m in town, and that silver fox workaholic across the table couldn’t care less.”
Oh, so she has a workaholic, too. We’re going to get along just fine.
“I’m on board with that,” I say, totally relieved that she’s so open and fun.
She starts talking about the production set design program for international students she runs every summer back in Nevada. Meanwhile, Dr. Earl listens raptly to his wife, clearly adoring her.
I catch Owen’s eye. His gaze holds something even more intense than what I’ve seen in him before, and warmth spills through me, because the emotion isn’t lust. It isn’t haunted in any way.
Owen is proud of me tonight, almost as if I really am his significant other.
Chapter 19
The next day, while Owen and Dr. Earl work in the Gregory Medical Innovations office uptown, I hang out with Rachel Earl at the Met so we can ooo and ah together over the paintings, sculptures, and artifacts that we both love. Then, before we attend a Broadway matinee musical, we lunch at a trendy, bright restaurant that caters to her vegetarian lifestyle.
All the while she entertains me with her sparkling personality, telling me about her life as a budding theater actress before she met her husband. We share our adoration of music and the arts, but when she asks me how Owen and I met, I dance around the subject, hoping she doesn’t notice.
She doesn’t look suspicious about what I really am—Owen’s elite escort—and on the following day, when she and I have breakfast together before her and her husband’s afternoon flight, I’m not sure she would care even if she did find out the truth.
Of course, I’m not about to enlighten her, and after our driver takes us back to her hotel where she’s dropped off, we promise to keep in touch.
I’m humming a song from the musical we went to see yesterday when I enter Owen’s mansion. Nat quietly intercepts me.
“If you’re headed for the den, Miss Hope,” she says, “Dr. Gregory is already in there.”
“He is?”
My heart shimmies. Whenever Owen comes home early, it’s because he can’t wait to see me. But he’s here much earlier than ever before. What does that mean?
Has he finally realized that he can’t live without me?
I can only cross my fingers.
I start off toward the den again with a smile over my shoulder for Nat. “By the way, it’s Juliet, remember? You’re always so formal with the ‘Miss Hope’ thing!”
“Juliet!”
Her voice startles me, and I turn all the way around because of her apparent urgency. I didn’t pick up on this initially, but…
Is Nat nervous about something?
She fidgets with her dark skirt. “You should know that Dr. Gregory came home this morning from the office after receiving some…news.”
This sounds ominous. “Okay.”
“He’s…in a mood,” Nat continues, lowering her tone.
“Why? What happened?”
She peers around as if there are ears in the walls. Is she frightened?
Did Owen get angry with her about something?
“Nat,” I say, walking back to her, “what’s going on?”
“I can’t tell you very much.” She shakes her head and corrects herself. “I shouldn’t tell you anything. But there are issues…”
She keeps trailing off like that, and I grip my purse. I think about Owen’s behavior some nights, plus the dark clouds that take over his gaze every so often.
“Nat, do these issues have anything to do with Owen’s nightmares?”
She presses her lips together as if that will keep her from spilling everything to me.
“Because I know about those bad dreams,” I say. “And when I see him wake up as if he’s choking or fighting something off, I ask him what’s wrong. Can you tell me what it is?”
“He wouldn’t want me to say anything,” she whispers.
I feel as if I’m closer than ever to finding out Owen’s secrets, and I’m not about to give up. “Please, Nat. Maybe there’s something I can do for him.”
She shakes her head sadly. “I’m afraid not. This is how it’s always been with him, Juliet. He’s overcome so much since he was young, but his family…”
She fades off once more.
“His family what?” I ask.
But she’s already backing away from me, shaking her head again. “I only wanted to warn you about his mood, and you’re probably the only one he can tolerate right now. Nobody is as good with him as you are, so perhaps you can make his night a little brighter, just as you’ve done since you’ve gotten here.”
“Nat—”
She’s already hurrying down the hall. I can see the cloth that she always keeps in her skirt pocket in case she finds smudges or dirt around the mansion, but something tells me that every time she tried to wipe away whatever is ailing Owen today, she was unsuccessful.
But she just told me that I have a chance to make things better.
Even as a spark of happiness lights me up because she noticed how things have changed b
etween Owen and me, I turn around, inhale deeply, toss my purse into a chair, then begin to walk toward the den.
The farther I go, the more my pulse snaps inside me, as if trying to create more light and sparks. I can improve this mood he’s in.
As I approach his den, I see that he has only one light on.
The weak illumination seems eerie.
Trying not to make a sound, I gulp, then walk into the contemporary room with all its pale, chrome-lined furniture, modern art, and the view of the patio. Owen is sitting behind a huge desk dressed in only a white button down, his tie-less collar open as if he was choking and needed air. His head is bent while he reads from his electronic tablet on the desk’s surface, and it seems as if he’s been running his fingers through his black hair because it’s so disheveled.
Even though my entrance is soundless, he looks up as if sensing me. When I see the devastation in his eyes, I know that he really is profoundly disturbed about something.
“Hi,” I say softly.
He looks at the sunny yellow Chanel dress I’m wearing, and it’s as if he can hardly stand any kind of brightness, because the next moment, he goes back to his brooding by looking down at his screen.
If he wants me to go, I will, but he hasn’t told me to scram yet. I’m not surrendering just because he’s sullen.
Once again, I take courage from Nat’s words. Maybe you can make his night a little brighter, just as you’ve done since you’ve gotten here…
My heart warms as I walk closer, as if approaching a predator that’s bound to attack just when I’m least expecting it. “Mrs. Earl—Rachel—and I had a great time today with each other at breakfast. How was work with Dr. Earl?”
“We did what we needed to get done before he had to get ready for their flight.”
He speaks. That has to be a positive sign.
I feel a little nudge of triumph, so I continue. “I’m glad to hear that you two were productive. Did you do everything you needed to for your project?”
“Fuck the project.”
Even with his acid words I venture closer to his desk. “Are you okay?”
He chuffs, then gives a tight push to his tablet as if whatever is on the screen disgusts him. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“Something has gotten to you. I’ve never seen you like this before.”
I gesture toward his disarranged hair and shirt. His jaw clenches at my persistence. But pain darkens his eyes, and I go the rest of the way to his desk, bracing my hands on it as I lean toward him.
“Tell me, Owen,” I say softly but firmly. “What’s wrong?”
“Are you a therapist?” He bares his teeth. “Do you think that fucking me qualifies you to solve all my problems?”
Flinching, I straighten up then cross my arms over my stomach as if he’s just landed a blow there.
“Goddammit,” he mutters, shaking his head and digging his fingers through his hair.
He’s full of regret, and from the way he’s looking at me now, he wants to take what he said back. But I don’t think he knows how to.
“Well,” I say, my voice quivering. “I guess I’ll just leave you alone now. But let me know if you need to work it out in the bedroom later on, Owen. After all, that’s why I’m here.”
I begin to rush out of the room before he can see me cry once again. Dammit, why can’t I hold back the tears at least until I’m in the elevator?
“Juliet…”
He’s got that commanding tone in his voice, but there’s a hard plea there, too, as if he can’t stand to see me go.
And I can’t stand to hear him so ripped apart.
I stop walking, but my throat still burns, and my eyes are still filled with tears. I dig my fingernails into my skin to get myself together.
It sounds as if he’s standing from his seat behind the desk. “Do you really want to know what I’ve been working on here for much of my day? I’ll give you a hint—it’s horrifying. You don’t want to know. Believe me.”
So he was working on whatever this problem is on his tablet when I came in. Is that why he looked so livid while staring at it?
“Yes,” I say, wiping my cheeks and turning around. “Tell me. What’s going on, Owen?”
It’s a demand, not a question.
After a moment that’s saturated with tension, he tilts his head, never taking his destroyed gaze off of me.
“All right,” he finally says in a low, torn voice. “You really want to know about my life? Because there’s no going back, not after you see what I have to show you.”
“I want to know.” Fear shakes me, but I’m not about to back down. “I’m not scared of you or your past.”
“Okay then, Juliet. You’re going to get your wish.” He laughs bitterly, and there’s real pain behind it. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 20
Everything is a grim whirlwind after Owen books a helicopter and we fly out of New York City.
We disembark at a tiny airport with a helipad. It’s late afternoon, and we’re seemingly in the middle of nowhere as he drives us in a relatively low-profile rental car the short distance to our final destination.
In the black, cataclysmic mood he’s in, he doesn’t tell me much—only that we’re going to meet his parents and that he grew up in the home that we’re about to visit.
Everything else remains a mystery as he turns the music up loudly and keeps his gaze on the road until we pull up to a faded brick house in a leafy suburb. The lawn is dry, and the trees and bushes haven’t been trimmed in ages. There’s a broken porch swing that hangs by one chain. The windows are curtained, and the garage door is flaked with white paint.
The place is downright creepy.
Every other house in the neighborhood is middle-class and neat, but this one stands out because of its sadness and shabbiness.
Are his parents poor? Is that his big secret?
A million questions attack me as we get out of the car and I glance at Owen. He must be seeing something in the house that I don’t, because it’s as if he’s looking at the materialization of one of his nightmares.
What’s inside that has him so anguished?
He shuts his car door then merely stands there. He looks so out of place here in his fancy suit, a prodigal son who clearly didn’t want to come home.
He finally looks over at me. “You’re no doubt wondering why my parents don’t live in a mansion since I’ve got enough money to manage that.”
“I’m ready to listen to anything you want to tell me.”
“You need to see for yourself.”
He stalks toward the porch.
I follow him with a sense of isolation, as if I’m only an observer in the bad dream he’s walking through.
When we arrive at the door, he looks down at me. His gaze is steely, but not because he’s angry. He’s protecting himself from something by hiding behind a sterile, immovable wall, and it’s more fortified than I’ve ever seen it.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says.
Then he knocks.
It seems to take hours for someone to answer, but when whoever it is starts to open the door, I prepare myself for Owen’s mother, whom I’ve pictured as a pretty, middle-aged woman. Or maybe it’ll be his father, who must be a big, burly handsome man with a strong resemblance to his son.
But the halfway-opened door only reveals a bent, elderly lady wearing glasses held together by a piece of tape. Her skin is pale and sickly, as thin as parchment that exposes the veins underneath. What I can see of her housedress is stained.
For a moment, I think that maybe this is Owen’s grandmother.
Then her dark eyes light up as she smiles up at him. She’s missing a tooth.
“My darling son!” Then she turns behind her as she holds onto the door, blocking the view inside. “Look who’s here, Daniel!” She turns back to Owen, looking as if all she wants to do is rush forward and hug him.
But Owen isn’t even remotely
approachable.
“Mom,” he says civilly.
It’s as if he’s restraining himself; he wants to embrace her, but there’s something holding him back.
He’s beyond tense, almost to the point of being horribly pained.
His mom steps outside, wringing her hands as she anxiously keeps her distance from Owen. Then someone else emerges from the house. He’s limping terribly with a cane and has a scruffy, long, white beard. He looks as if he was once a tall man like Owen, but he shrank down several sizes. He’s just as sickly as Owen’s mom.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” says the old man. “We weren’t expecting you.”
Owen looks as if he only wants to escape from his parents and this house, but he’s been cornered.
He addresses them without any more niceties. “Liam called me today and told me the news. I thought it best to stop by so we can take care of this once and for all.”
No one says anything for a moment, and it’s all I can do not to show how stunned I am by everything that I’m seeing. These are the last people who should be Owen’s parents. It’s as if we’ve entered the wrong town and we’re standing in front of the wrong house.
After the awkward moment passes, his dad finally laughs, then falls into a fit of coughing. He waves his wife’s attentions away. “Don’t listen to anything your brother has to say, Owen. He and your other brothers already tried to lecture us, but we’re fine.”
“That’s what Liam said you’d tell me.”
Owen stiffly looks around. His expression hints that he somehow feels contaminated.
But his parents don’t seem to notice that. They only look at me with bright eyes.
“And who’s this?” his mom asks.
“Juliet Hope,” Owen says. “Juliet, meet my parents.”
“Oh, isn’t she just a doll!” Mrs. Gregory doesn’t seem to mind her soiled appearance—the blemished dress, the slightly off-putting smell I’m detecting. As she extends her hand to me, I notice there’s crusted dirt under her long, ragged nails, but I accept her greeting, then his dad’s.
Meanwhile, the house’s door has creaked all the way open, showing me what’s inside.