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His eyes examine mine in the dark.
“Don’t listen to her,” I say. “My dad broke her heart. She’s worried you’re going to break mine.”
“I would never.” He cradles my face in the warmth of his palms, a light trail of cologne wafting from his wrists.
I breathe him in. “I know.”
“I promised her I’d take care of you.”
“What’d she say?”
“She hung up on me.”
I laugh. That sounds exactly like something she’d do. Whenever she’s upset about something, silence is her primary response. Sometimes it’s a relief, knowing the argument is over. Other times it’s terrifying, wondering what she might be thinking or if it’s tearing her up inside.
There’s more weight in the things people don’t say than what they do say.
“Don’t let her get to you,” I tell him. “I’m an adult. She can’t tell me who to be with.”
He rolls me to my back, pinning me beneath him. His hardness presses between my thighs as he kisses my neck. “Enough about her.”
If he doesn’t care, then I won’t either.
Tonight, it’s us against the world.
Twenty-Nine
Sophie
Present
The Westcott mansion comes to life shortly before sunrise the next morning. The scent of coffee and eggs permeate the air the closer I get to the hustle and bustle of the kitchen. When I pass the main foyer, a woman in a gray uniform arranges a fresh assortment of flowers in an oversized vase. I offer her a nod and a quiet, “Good morning.” She nearly does a double take before offering me the same.
I get the sense Trey isn’t the closest with his staff. The way he’s always coming and going probably leaves little time for small talk or pleasantries.
I won’t be like that.
Trey woke over an hour ago, leaving me to sleep, nestled deep in the silky, imported linens tousled across the vast expanse of his enormous bed as he hit the shower and selected a dark gray suit and silky black tie from his closet.
I read in a Westcott newsletter interview once that he doesn’t like patterns or busyness when he dresses for work. They distract him, pull him away from his zone. I’m sure there’s a whole world of particulars when it comes to him. And with time, I’ll become familiar with them.
One of his staffers is supposed to give me a tour today, taking me to the fourth floor, which I’ve yet to see, except for the night he took me to the conservatory.
“Coffee, Ms. Bristol?” One of the housekeepers asks when I wander into the butler’s pantry. I was going to help myself, hoping to stay out of their way. But if she’s offering …
“Yes, please,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Mr. Westcott takes his in the drawing room,” she says. “He’ll be in shortly.”
I don’t know where that is …
As if sensing my hesitation, she points behind me. “Fourth door on the left, just down that hall. Do you take cream and sugar?”
“A little of both would be perfect. Thank you so much,” I say before adding, “I don’t think I caught your name?”
Her eyes sparkle. She reminds me of my grandmother. “Eulalia. I’ll have your coffee for you in a moment. Breakfast will be served shortly.”
“There you are.” Trey finds me settled near the head of the table and takes the chair beside me. The windows along the wall display the back of his mother’s rose garden.
It’s sweet that he’s maintained it all these years.
And that he’s been saving his father’s beloved cigars.
“Sleep well?” he asks, sipping the coffee Eulalia has just delivered. She steals a glimpse of the two of us together before disappearing.
I nod. “It was like sleeping on a cloud.”
Out of nowhere, more staff begin laying out an elaborate breakfast spread, enough to feed a small gathering of people, more than the two of us could possibly eat. Scrambled eggs with parsley. Fresh-cut melon. Pastries galore. Buttered toast.
“Do you always feast like a king?” I ask.
He laughs through his nose. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I had them prepare a little bit of everything. When you get a chance, you can meet with my head chef and let him know what you like. He’d be happy to prepare a personal menu for you.”
Westcott dabs the corners of his mouth with a pristine cloth napkin when he’s finished. I’m mid bite when he places a red velvet ring box on the table.
“I hope this will suffice.” He slides it to me.
I swallow my toast, wipe the crumbs from my fingers, and prop the lid up.
A triangular-shaped diamond glimmers at me, almost too perfect to be real.
“It’s a trillion cut,” he says. “Each point represents past, present, and future. Three flawless carats, ethically sourced and hand-selected by my family’s personal jeweler.”
The diamond pendant Nolan gave me when I was eighteen was three carats—past, present, and future, though it was a brilliant cut … round to signify eternity.
