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“Regardless, I should’ve asked you what was going on instead of getting angry. I’ll do better next time.”
Molly frowns at my curt response. “Okay.”
Satisfied that she’s back at arm’s length, I dismiss her with a nod toward the door. “Well, go on, then.”
Turning my back to her, I reach for the decanter Reginald left behind, listening as her footsteps get closer to the door.
A knot rises above my throat.
Don’t say it. Just let her walk away.
“Molly.” Her steps halt as I pour myself another drink. “You should know it’s unlike me to lose control like that.” Somewhat awkwardly, I pause. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”
My pulse pounds as I wait for her response.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
When I glance over my shoulder, she scurries from the room like if she doesn’t hurry, I’ll hold her hostage.
And next time, I just might.
Chapter Fourteen
Molly
Days pass with little to no interaction from Rowan. He even rushed through dinner this evening, excusing himself early, and while at first I was relieved by his absence, now I’m wondering if there’s more to his avoidance than he’s letting on.
He seems to hardly notice me most days, leaving me to work with Dad, learn more of Danika’s cookie recipes, or walk the grounds with Britney and Jillian. But deep down, I know Rowan was right. We can’t tip-toe around each other forever.
I haven’t seen him return to the pool since our little incident, but thoughts of those hands, big and warm against my breasts, and the sensation of his thick thigh beneath me as his lips played across my neck, live rent-free in my mind. And while I lay alone in bed late at night, my hands wander, trying to rid my body of this insatiable yearning it has for him.
My heart races with a secret thrill remembering how I’d gotten off by grinding on him. I’d been swept up by his crazed desire, clinging to him, breathing him in as he staked his claim on me, and even though I shouldn’t have, I damn sure let him.
It’s just past ten o’clock at night, but I’m slowly losing my mind in this manor, and now that I’m putting in less hours at the shop, my pathetic social life has gone from barely breathing to deceased.
Unbelievably restless, I pass by the staircase, pausing beneath the vintage chandelier that hangs overhead. The wooden banister, recently polished, gleams in the warm, subdued light while the dark landing above beckons me to discover what secrets Rowan could be hiding up there.
Except, as tempting as that is, things between us are weird enough. Breaking his trust would mean not being able to help Dad, and that’s the reason I agreed to this whole thing to begin with.
When I reach the living room, I’m drawn to a maroon folder on the middle shelf of the bookcase that doubles as a secret door. The scent of aged paper is strong when I open it, revealing stacks of music sheets inside both pockets. Some are time-worn with songs printed on them, while others are beautifully composed with feminine handwriting.
It’s impossible to know who the folder belonged to, but I pluck a song I’m unfamiliar with from the mix and carry it with me to the bench in front of the grand piano.
I attach the song to the music rack, and press the first three keys, creating the first chord. Every piano plays a little differently, but it’s as if this one has known me my whole life. It’s soft when I want to play gently and has a particularly haunting edge when I move through stronger, more intense beats.
A comforting hum vibrates through my hands, and I inhale as I alternate between higher melodic chords and deeper, richer ones.
Each of my senses comes alive, bringing a wave of freshly polished wood and the lingering aroma of Rowan’s cologne to my nose. My eyes flutter closed as I abandon the song I was playing for Beethoven’s Für Elise.
Behind my eyelids, I picture a mass of swirling, colorful scribbles. I breathe deeper, and as the song changes pace, so do the swirling images in my mind.
I can practically taste the anticipation of reaching the bridge before diving into the final chorus, but I don’t rush. Instead, I lean into what I’m feeling: the sorrow of loss, the joy I find in working with Dad every day, and even gratitude for a broody billionaire who could have left me in the dirt that night of the auction, but chose to help me instead.
Goosebumps rise along my forearms as my pulse thuds in time with the music.
The scribbles in my mind morph into Rowan’s stoic figure, offering me a hand to dance. The notes reach a crescendo as he pulls me close, and then spins with me across the floor. There’s no awkward beats or missteps while he twirls me around at a dizzying pace, and we leave a trail of chaotic, colorful lines behind us with each step we take.
I play the final chords of the song, letting my hands lie limply on the final note, and Rowan’s figure instantly dissipates.
