Connectivity

by Aven Ellis

  My heart leaps. “And where might that be?”

  “I am going to Rupert’s house for Sunday dinner with his family,” he says slowly, his laser eyes focused on mine, “and I would like for you to go with me. Will you go, Mary-Kate?”

  Chapter 16

  I can hardly believe it is already Sunday.

  The rest of the week went by in an incredible blur. I sat in on high-level meetings at Connectivity during the day, learning so much about all the different departments and how they ran. Every night was spent at William’s place, making dinner and watching TV. Sometimes he would work while I took out my iPad and drafted articles for my blog. It was so funny, both of us working side-by-side on his sofa, yet it felt like we had been doing this routine our entire lives rather than just a week.

  Yesterday, I spent the whole day sightseeing by myself in London. William had a lot of work to catch up on, but we both knew it would not be good for me if we were spotted together. So I did the next best thing. At every site I stopped at, I took pictures and texted them to William with the caption ‘I am here. MKG!,’ and then he’d respond with some fact about the place or a suggestion of something else to see.

  Of course, he would text me back the same picture of his office at his penthouse, papers all about, with the caption of ‘Bloody Hell, I am still stuck here. WC,’ which I found rather funny.

  William was most amused, however, that I spent a good chunk of my day in the Harrods food department, which I found endlessly fascinating and the subject of my next blog.

  And now I am sitting next to him in his Aston Martin, heading to Berkshire to meet his brother, Rupert, sister-in-law, Claire, and their two children for Sunday dinner.

  I steal a glance at him while he’s driving. He’s impossibly handsome today, dressed in a pale red and blue cotton plaid shirt, leather jacket, and jeans. He has his aviator sunglasses on, as it is a sunny day, and I find it hard not to stare at him as we head into the countryside.

  I glance down at the bouquet of flowers I am holding in my lap. I stopped to get them before we left today, since I always think it is important to bring a hostess gift.

  Even more so when the hostess is William’s sister-in-law.

  “I hope Claire likes these,” I say, glancing at the rustic bouquet I had a street vendor make. I had him put sunflowers and lavender and other wild flowers together and then he tied them up with some raffia.

  “Are you kidding? She will love that you are so thoughtful,” William says, reaching over and putting his hand over mine and squeezing it. “It’s perfect, Mary-Kate.”

  Warmth fills me the second his hand wraps around mine. I still can’t believe I am here, with William, headed out to meet the most important people in the world to him.

  I swallow hard. I know in my head William and I will never have much more than what we have now. My head tells me this is just a dinner, with people I will probably never see again, and William would like a date for a change. Or he doesn’t want me to have to dine alone on a Sunday night. That makes sense.

  But my heart, my heart tells me something completely different.

  My heart is talking over my head. My heart tells me William would never bring me to Berkshire if I weren’t important to him. My heart tells me he would never involve his family with us if he didn’t feel something for me as I am starting to feel for him.

  “We’re almost there,” William says, interrupting my thoughts. “Are you ready for this?”

  I draw a nervous breath and, without thinking, blurt out what is in my head. “I hope they like me.”

  “What?” William asks, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “Why wouldn’t they like you? I mean, unless you break Claire’s tea service, which is always a possibility, they are going to love you.”

  “William!” I cry, embarrassed, “I won’t break anything!”

  William laughs loudly. “Mary-Kate, do not make promises you know you only have a 50 percent chance of keeping.”

  “You take that back!” I say, laughing.

  “I only take back things I am wrong about.”

  “I will start calling you Mr. Cumberland again,” I mock threaten. “And if I do, I think it is most appropriate that you do not kiss me later this evening.”

  “Oh, Ms. Grant, are we resorting to blackmail now?”

  “Indeed.”

  We drive into the most charming town I have seen, with quaint shops lining each side of the narrow road. William stops as an elderly woman crosses the road and rubs his hand sexily over his mouth.

  “Hmmm, not kiss you or take it back,” he says slowly, as if he is gravely debating this matter. He turns toward me and brushes his thumb sensually over my lower lip. “I suppose, Ms. Grant, I shall take it back because otherwise it will ruin my plans for you at the end of the evening. And I do have plans, Ms. Grant. Very detailed ones.”

  Is it wrong I want William to pull this Aston Martin over right here, rip through the buttons on his plaid shirt, feel him up right now, and make out with him?

  Okay, not an option. One, we’ll be late for dinner, and two, I’d look like a hot mess and a slut upon arrival, so I’ll have to save that thought for later.

  So instead, I compose myself so I can give a smart reply, which I know is one of William’s turn-ons.

  “Yes, that would be a most appropriate choice, William, because I am very intrigued by your plans for later this evening.”

  And although I cannot see his eyes behind his aviators, I know the expression underneath them. The intense sexy gaze is there. I can feel it.

  “Well played, Mary-Kate. Well played indeed.”

  Suddenly we hear a car horn blaring. Obviously the driver behind us isn’t as interested in our flirtatious banter as we are. William waves his hand up in error and we go, winding through a quaint village. We pass an amazing old church, one that has to be from at least the nineteenth century. Everything is green and lush and spacious . . . God, England is beautiful! It’s so different from anything I have ever known.

  As is the man driving me through it.

  William makes his way down a road and before I know it, he is turning into the drive of a glorious white Georgian-style house. I nearly gasp out loud at sight. The two-story home is that stunningly oh-so-English and beautiful.

  The house has is set back from view on several lush green acres. I see an arbor over the door, gorgeous windows, and even what appears to be a glassed-in conservatory on the right hand side of the home.

  William drives up to the house and brings the car to a stop. I unfasten my seatbelt.

  Before I can even get out of the car, the front door opens, and two dark-haired children come flying out the door and down the sidewalk.

  “Uncle William!” a little girl cries, running toward the car.

  I hesitate. I watch as William gets out of the car and five-year-old Emma, as William has told me all about her, leaps into his open arms.

  “Hello, love, how are you?” William says, kissing her on the cheek as she wraps her tiny hands around his neck.

  My heart pounds as I watch this scene. I slowly open the door to get out. I can’t take my eyes off William and Emma. This is the William only his family, and now me, gets to see. And watching him with Emma . . . oh God, it puts thoughts into my head that have never been there.

  Like this man would be a wonderful father someday.

  To my children.

  “Uncle William!” another voice cries, interrupting my thoughts.

  I watch as Charlie, his three-year-old nephew, rushes toward him and attaches himself to William’s legs. William is still holding Emma, but he takes one hand down an affectionately ruffles Charlie’s dark brown curls.

  “Charlie! How are you?” William asks, grinning at him.

  �
��Did you bring us anything?” Emma asks.

  “Emma! You don’t ask Uncle William for things, remember?” a male voice chides.

  I turn and see Rupert coming down the walk. He is the physical opposite of William—average height, more athletic build, and as he walks toward me, his face broadens into a beautiful, welcoming smile.

  I almost laugh. Rupert is the exact opposite of William in that way, too. Where William is careful and assessing and shows zero emotion upon first meeting, Rupert is walking toward me with his a huge grin and his arms open.

  “Welcome, Mary-Kate!” he says, pulling me into a hug. “It is so good to meet you. We have heard a lot about you!”

  Yes. Very opposite of William!

  I hug him back. “Likewise,” I say.

  “Let’s see, did I bring you anything?” William says to Emma. “Well, yes. I brought Mary-Kate here from America. Can you say hello to her?”

  Emma looks at me with disappointed brown eyes.

  “Hello, Emma,” I say softly. “It is so nice to meet you.” I drop down on one knee to meet Charlie. “And, Charlie, it is nice to meet you, too.”

  Emma giggles. “You talk funny!”

  “Emma!” Rupert says, sounding exasperated. “That is not a nice thing to say.”

  “It’s all right. I think her accent is funny, too,” William says, shooting me a flirty grin.

  “I know I sound different,” I say, smiling at her as I stand up. “But you will get used to it, just like your Uncle William did. And you know what, Emma? I think your Uncle William has something you will really like in the trunk of his car.”

  “Boot,” both William and Rupert say at the same time.

  I feel myself blush. “Right. Boot.”

  William takes Emma and Charlie around and I see a woman walking down the sidewalk toward me. She is in her early thirties, and just stunning, with long, curly dark brown hair and ivory skin. She is wearing a pair of fitted jeans, flats, and a lovely pink cardigan and shell that plays up her coloring.

  “And you must be Mary-Kate,” she says, smiling at me as she makes her way toward me. “I’m Claire. Welcome to our home,” she says, greeting me with a hug.

  I hug her back, thinking she and Rupert were so alike, so warm, so open, so welcoming.

  “These are for you,” I say, handing her the bouquet. “Thank you for inviting me to come here today.”

  “Oh, these are just lovely,” she says, her eyes lighting up. “Why don’t we go put these in a vase and let the boys supervise the children for a bit? They could use some outside time anyway.”

  I glance back at William, who is holding up a Peppa Pig doll and pretending to talk to Emma with it.

  And once again a phrase that I had never thought of until today rolls through my head.

  The father of my children.

  “Coming, Mary-Kate?”

  I snap out of my thoughts, a sick feeling attacking my stomach. I smile and nod at Claire, walking with her up the sidewalk, trying to understand what I am thinking. I know William and I will never be together. I know he’s coming back to England in a matter of months. I know he doesn’t want anything remotely like marriage and children.

  Which would eliminate William as the father of my future children, wouldn’t it?

  “So here we are,” Claire says, opening the front door and ushering me inside.

  I am immediately distracted by the sight in front of me. I step inside the living room with gorgeous pine floors, a big fireplace, bookcases filled with all kinds of books, an Oriental rug on the floor.

  “Oh, Claire, this is gorgeous!” I say honestly, looking around.

  “Thank you. This is the living room,” Claire says. “I love books and have a million more on my Kindle. Would you like something to drink, Mary-Kate?”

  “Yes, please,” I say.

  “Let’s go on back to the kitchen,” she declares.

  I follow her down the hallway, the old wooden floor creaking under my feet. I pause as I notice beautiful photographs of Emma and Charlie and Rupert lining the hallway. Some are black and white, others are in color outside, all capturing the essence of love and joy.

  I stop to take a closer look. “These are incredible,” I say out loud.

  Claire stops and turns over her shoulder. “Oh, thank you. I took those.”

  “Wow,” I say, turning to her. “You’re very good.”

  Claire laughs. “I hope so. I used to be a photographer before I had children.” She pauses for a moment. “I admit I do miss it sometimes, but I love being home with the children right now, you know?”

  She begins walking and I follow her, my heart freezing in my chest. Another woman who gave up a fabulous career to stay at home and raise her children. I bite my lip. Does it always have to be that way? Granted, I really want to focus on my career for a while, and then get married and have children but will I have to make that choice to be a good mother?

  God, what is wrong with me? Why am I thinking of marriage and children and, Jesus, William being the father of my children?

  “Would you like wine?” Claire asks as we enter the kitchen.

  I don’t respond at first. I can’t speak. Literally, I am speechless as Claire has led me to the kitchen of my dreams.

  It is a farmhouse kitchen, one I have designed in my head since I was, like, ten years old. The cabinets are pine and rustic. There is a fireplace in the kitchen. A beautiful English-style cupboard filled with all different kinds of patterned teacups and mugs. There is a table in-between the counter and the fireplace, and I could just imagine serving a cozy meal here with a fire roaring—

  Then I see the yard through the windows over the sink and countertop. There are beautiful gardens out back, but even more beautiful is the sight of William, running around and chasing Charlie across the green lawn.

  I am drawn to the window and walk right over to the sink so I can watch him. William is laughing and running and acting so absolutely carefree. My heart just melts at the scene before me. My God, William, I love who you really are—not the brilliant badass mogul the world knows, but the man who runs and plays with children without a care in the world . . .

  “Mary-Kate? Are you all right?”

  I turn around and feel my cheeks burn slightly. “Yes.”

  “Would you like some wine? I have a bottle of Chardonnay open if you would like a glass.”

  “Perfect, thank you.”

  I watch as Claire goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle. She opens a cabinet and grabs a wine glass and fills it for me.

  She hands me a glass and picks up hers. “Cheers, Mary-Kate. To being the first person William has ever brought here.”

  My pulse jumps. “Really?” I say casually, taking a sip of wine. I am trying to be cool but I really want to yell, Really? I am the first one? Tell me more, Claire!

  “Yes,” Claire says. “We were surprised when he called Rupert and asked if he could bring a guest to dinner. But Rupert and I both knew it was going to be you because you are the only person he talks about, Mary-Kate.”

  Oh my God. Why do I want to jump up and down and scream in delight at this tidbit?

  “Am I?” I ask carefully, trying to mask my excitement.

  Claire selects a pitcher that is in her cabinet and fills it with water. “Oh, yes, all the time. He goes on to Rupert about how brilliant you are, how you are so invaluable to him, that you make him laugh, you know, that kind of thing. We both knew you were the one coming to dinner before he said your name. This is a big deal to him, Mary-Kate.”

  I swallow as she slides the wrapping off the flowers and puts them into the pitcher.

  “It is a big deal to me, too,” I admit to Claire.

  She smiles. “I gathered that.”

&n
bsp; I watch as Claire begins pulling out bowls and recipe printouts and things out of the fridge and begins heaping them on the countertop. I bite my lip. There appears to be no organization to this at all, not like when I cook.

  Claire whips open a Jamie Oliver cookbook and thumbs through the pages. “Now where is this salad recipe?” she asks, flipping back and forth.

  Finally she finds the page and begins chopping things up.

  “May I help you in any way?” I ask. And I can’t help but notice her knife skills are horrible. She is butchering a tomato, just cutting it all wrong, and it is painful for me to watch.

  “Oh, no, you’re a guest!” Claire says breezily. “I think I have everything under control. The chicken has been roasting for several hours so I know it will be really done.”

  A warning flag goes up in my head. Hours? Oh, God, that chicken will be overcooked when it comes out! I say nothing and take another sip of my wine.

  “Bugger! I forgot to start potatoes!” Claire drops her knife and opens her pantry.

  I hear her rummaging around and I try not to laugh. Obviously Claire is a creative genius, but not a culinary one.

  I glance back out the window and see that William and Rupert are now talking. A big chocolate brown Labrador runs up to William with a stick, and he throws it, with the dog bounding after it.

  God, William, do I even stand a chance here today? Do I?

  “Oh bloody hell!” Claire drops the potatoes down on the counter with a thud. “These will take at least an hour to bake!”

  “You could mash them,” I suggest. “Peel, cube, boil, mash. You can get that done rather quickly if they are diced small.”

  “Brilliant!” Claire says, taking another sip of wine.

  “I-I could do them if you like,” I offer. “I love to cook, actually. So I don’t mind helping at all, if you don’t mind, that is.”

  “I could kiss you!” Claire cries. “Oh, God, please, that would be lovely.”