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Ella puts her hand on my arm, winning my attention. She takes her glasses off and wipes the tears from her eyes. “What the hell happened to your eye?” I ask, and she shakes her head.
I look around at all the men. “What’s happened?”
They all disperse, and I stand like a clueless idiot on the veranda in my wetsuit. Beau collects me and leads me to a table, sitting me down. “There’s something you should know.”
“What?” I ask, my attention split between her and everyone else, searching their faces, my uneasiness doubling. “What is it?”
“It’s Brad.”
My eyes shoot to hers, my worry very real, and there is nothing I can do to hold it back. “What about him?”
I hate the breath of bravery she takes. The swallow of dread.
“It’s Nolan. He’s Brad’s son.”
“What?” I look toward the doors where Brad just escaped. “He never said. He never—” Oh God. He never knew. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “He didn’t know?” She shakes her head, her eyes sad. “He just found out?” A nod. A swallow. “And everyone knew?” I ask, casting my eyes around the terrace. Everyone, it seems, apart from me and Brad. “How long? How long have you all known?”
“A week. The guys didn’t know when best to tell him.” I can see she’s torn. She wants to go to Brad, but she won’t. She’ll give him the time he needs to process this. And he will. He has no choice.
“Nolan’s twenty-one, Pearl.” She looks at me, as if willing me to connect dots that don’t seem connectable. But if Brad is thirty-five . . . oh. “Nolan’s the same age as I am,” I whisper, my heart breaking. That probably explains the look of disdain just thrown at me. I’m the same age as his son. Beau just nods, because what else can she say? And that look of distain? It wasn’t for me. It was for himself. I just hope he didn’t think I, along with everyone else, knew who Nolan was. “His son?” I whisper. His twenty-one-year-old son.
And that has compounded Brad’s problem.
And ended the only good thing that’s happened in my life. I breathe in the strength I need and face Beau. “Have you told anyone?” I ask. She shakes her head. Good. “Brad’s got enough on his plate right now. He doesn’t need a headache from you or the others about”—I swallow, beg the pain to fuck off—“about . . . me.”
She smiles, nodding, and I hate that she can see the hurt and disappointment I’m trying so hard to hide. I hate that she’s silently concluding that she was right. That I would be an idiot to expect more from the emotionally detached, fuck machine Brad Black. Because I’m young and naïve and stupid. I won’t correct her. I didn’t expect a thing from Brad. Not at first. I was simply answering to the chemistry that caught me off guard. He was the one who came back. He was the one who told me no other man would ever touch me again. He was the one who claimed me as his. And I was so fine with that.
My love.
So I am an idiot.
Because the bastard made me fall in love with the forbidden, dangerous, cold but passionate beast. He made me see past the shallow, cool-hearted arsehole who used women to scratch his itches. And I can’t even be mad with him for making me feel wanted. Because I wanted him to want me. I wanted him to want me so much, he would think twice about casting me aside—or worse—when he finds out who I really am.
“I’m sure he’ll come round,” I say, putting on a brave face and standing. Because, truly, I have faced worse than this temporary heartache. “He probably just needs some space to get his head around it.”
“I hope so.”
“He’ll be fine,” I assure her. I know they’re close. I know Beau worries about him. “I should get back. I want to wrap up on the—” What the hell do I need to do? “The architect wants some final details for the drawings on Winstable.”
“Sounds like things are moving in the right direction.”
“Yeah, and then we have to go through the permit application, and all that, so . . .” I blow out my cheeks. “Busy, busy, busy.” I turn before my face betrays me or my voice becomes wobbly. “See you at home.”
Home.
That’s what I’ll be leaving. The home I found here with people fucked up yet beautiful. Wrong yet right.
Where Brad was mine. Momentarily.
My legs take me to the changing rooms to get dressed, and then I manage to use words to ask to be taken back to the mansion. All the while, I beg my tears to stay back. For my heart to hold it together, just for a little longer. Because the moment I don’t have an audience, everything will fall.
My face.
My tears.
My heart.
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