Page 28 of His Vow

The clinking came without warning. A spoon against crystal, sharp, uneven. Rhys was on his feet, swaying, one hand white-knuckled on the back of his chair. His wine glass tilted in the other hand, the liquid rocking close to the rim.

"To my little sister." His voice was thick, the consonants blurring. He raised the glass higher. Wine splashed onto his wrist. He didn't notice. "The best person at this table. The best person in any room she walks into."

The table quieted. Camille's smile tightened. Hugh's champagne paused halfway to his lips.

Rhys blinked. His eyes were wet, glassy under the candlelight. "You don't know what it costs." He swallowed. His free hand gripped the chair harder. "You don't know what's in this house."

Silence. Soleil's hand tightened on mine under the table.

Then the grin returned — sudden, bright, snapped into place like a mask retrieved from the floor. "But you make it worth it, Sol. Happy birthday."

Glasses raised. Applause. Soleil was smiling, clapping, her eyes bright. She squeezed my hand under the table and leaned into my shoulder.

I reached into my jacket pocket. "I have something for you."

She turned. Her eyes dropped to the small wrapped box in my hand. It was flat, rectangular, and no bigger than a playing card. She took it, peeled the paper carefully, and opened the lid.

Inside, a silver bracelet. Thin, delicate, with a single charm — a tiny sprig of rosemary, cast in sterling, the leaves so fine they looked real. I'd had it made by a jeweler in Tribeca who specialized in botanical pieces. It took a week.

Her fingers hovered over it. She didn't touch it right away. Her lips parted. Her eyes went glassy.

"Nolan." Her voice was barely there. She picked up the bracelet and held it in her palm, the rosemary charm resting against her lifeline. She looked at me. "How did you — "

"You told me about the windowsill. The pots your mother kept."

She pressed her lips together. Blinked fast. She held out her wrist, and I clasped it for her, my fingers brushing the inside of her wrist where the skin was thinnest. She turned her hand over and looked at the charm against her pulse.

She leaned in. Her lips brushed my ear. Her breath was warm, and when she spoke, her voice was low enough that only I could hear it.

"I want to show you my room." Her fingers trailed down my tie, slow, deliberate. "And then I want you to lock the door behind us."

My hand tightened on my glass. The champagne trembled. I set it down before I cracked the stem.

She pulled back, her eyes holding mine, dark and direct with a dare underneath the warmth. She took my hand and stood. I followed her through the crowd, up the staircase, down a hallway where the noise softened to a hum. She pushed open the last door and pulled me inside.

The room was hers. Every inch of it. Paintings covered the walls, bold and uneven in a teenager's brushwork, learning its own language. Books stacked on every surface, spines cracked, Post-it notes bristling from the pages like tiny flags. A window seat overlooked the garden, the glass cold when I brushed it with my knuckles. Art supplies cluttered a desk in the corner — tubes of paint, jars of brushes, a palette smeared with colors that had dried years ago.

I was mapping the room, checking proximity to Hugh's study and the second staircase at the hall's end, when my eyes found the mirror above her dresser.

A letter was taped to the glass. Small, lined paper. Yellowed edges. A child's handwriting, the letters climbing uphill, the i's dotted with circles.

Dear Santa, I don't want any toys this year. Can you please bring my mommy back? I promise I've been very good. Love, Soleil, age 12.

I read it twice. My hand hung at my side.

Photographs surrounded the mirror. Soleil at six, missing her front teeth. Soleil at ten, paint-smeared, holding a canvas half her size. Soleil and a woman with the same dark curls, standing in a garden where rosemary bushes climbed to their waists.

"My family loves you." She was behind me. Her chin on my shoulder, her arms around my waist. "I can tell."

"They don't know me."

She turned me around, her hands flat on my chest. "You're doing that thing. Where you say something that sounds modest but feels like a warning."

"Maybe it's both."

She studied me, shook her head, rose on her toes, and kissed me.

My hands found her waist. Her back found the door. The gold fabric was thin beneath my fingers, the curve of her hips warm through it. She pulled my shirt free from my waistband. Her fingers found bare skin, and the contact jolted through my spine. I pressed her harder against the door. My mouth moved to her neck, the spot below her ear. She gasped. Her fingers dug into my back.