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I halted at the base of the stairs.
Brant swore softly again and I heard the frustration in his tone. “God, why am I always apologizing to you?”
I turned, my hand on the railing. “Because you always revert back to acting like a knuckle-brained Neanderthal.”
He let out a short chuckle but then went serious. “You’re right.” He put his hands in his pockets and tilted his head, and for a second he looked so vulnerable that it strained my heart. Oh no.
“Think about it, Isabelle.” He walked toward me and my instinct was to back away, not because he posed a threat to my body, but because he was a threat to my sanity . . . and my heart. I was weak when it came to Brant. Oh, maybe I’d always been weak when it came to the dreams of my heart—so hopeful of realizing them that I leapt before I really looked.
Reckless, always so damn reckless.
I clenched my eyes shut for a moment, shaking my head. “What’s in this for you, Brant? I don’t get it.”
Brant reached me, putting his hand over mine on the banister. “I want to make you happy, Belle. I’d protect you. Graystone Hill would be ours.”
“If this is about Graystone Hill, I told you—”
“I don’t need Graystone Hill.” He shook his head. “I’ve built my own empire in New York. This is about you and me and an arrangement that just plain makes sense. We could live part of the year here and part in New York. It’d be perfect.”
“You’ve thought all this over.”
He nodded his head.
“And yet, you never asked me what I thought.”
He looked briefly puzzled. “I just—”
“You assumed. And I’m so done with
men assuming what I want. Go back to New York, Brant. Go back to your life. Leave a note or not. But no, I will not marry you. Now I’m tired and it’s my birthday and I’m going to take a hot bath and go to bed.” And with that, I turned, jogging up the stairs to my room, the heat of Brant’s gaze on my back.
Once safely behind my door, I leaned against it, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. I was angry and frustrated, annoyed and still shocked by the fact that Brant had returned tonight, much less because of the reason why. Marry him! As if. And yet, I hated myself for the shimmery excitement that lit my veins at the very idea of being Brant Talbot’s wife.
But not like this. Brant’s presence here—and this ludicrous idea that we should get married—was born of expectation, guilt, and false assumptions. I would not be reckless this time. I would not give myself away for an arrangement that made sense. I would not.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Brant
That had gone horribly. Fuck. Worst “proposal” in the history of the world. What was wrong with me when it came to Isabelle? It was like my brain deserted me, and all my base emotions took over, making me look like a total ass.
I rolled over, picking up my cell phone on the bedside table. 7:06 a.m. I sat up, squinting at the window where light shone in at the edges. I stood, making my way to the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping under the hot spray of the water.
A new day. A new chance to make this right. I was Brant Talbot—I always got what I wanted. I paused, the suds from the shampoo in my hair dripping down my cheek. So why did I feel so out of my element?
Because I cared about Isabelle. I liked her. And I didn’t just want to win her. I wanted her to want me. I leaned a hand against the shower wall, feeling overwhelmed and vulnerable, and like hightailing it away from here for the third time.
I expected more from you.
I needed coffee. Once dried and dressed, I headed toward the kitchen. When I entered the huge room, my father and May were standing as if to head out.
“Brant!” May sung out, clapping her hands together in happiness, her smile beaming. I smiled back and then looked at my father.
“You’re back,” my father noted, no emotion in his tone. And yet I swore something that looked like satisfaction shone in his eyes.
“You don’t miss a thing, do you, Harrison?”
“Oh, I miss plenty. You here to see me off?”
