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“Because they’re assholes?”
I shoot her a disgusted look.
“She plays for the whole event?”
“Yes.”
Now I understand what Freddy referred to by her being late.
“Briggs, we could fill a novel with all the things her family has said, done, and not done to her over the years. What kills me the most is that they hold their love for her over her. They don’t freely give it; it’s conditional, and I’m not sure she sees this is wrong. We’ve tried to tell her that this is messed up, but she wants to make them happy. Like any person, she wants to be loved by her family.”
Leaning against the wall, I think about what Emma has said and take Goldie in. She’s obviously stunning in her black dress and the way she so eloquently moves when she plays the cello, but between the songs when her brown eyes search to find mine, it’s then that I see everything Emma was talking about. I see the hurt and the anger, the crushing sadness, and the resoluteness as she knows with her family she will never be anything more. I think many of these emotions are ones I’ve felt myself with my own family, so I let her see me too. There’s a reason that I’ve felt drawn to her, even if I didn’t want to admit it. It turns out this is one of the reasons. I understand her, and she understands me.
And my heart aches for her.
Breathing in, I try to tamp down the debilitating fury I feel racing through me, not only for the people in this room and how her family thinks so low of her, but for the people who’ve treated me less than I am, too, just because I choose to make cider rather than manage billions of dollars that belong to other people.
I pretend I’m back on our mountain and think about the cool, clean air, the smell of dirt, and the smell of freedom. I pretend I can still smell her too, as I know she smells like citrus and floral. And it’s with this thought I wish I was allowed to walk over there, pull her out of the chair, and crush her in my arms while I bury my head in her neck.
I want to protect her from these people, not that she needs it. I know she can take care of herself, and now I understand her extreme level of independence.
I’ve never been the type of guy who is touchy-feely, but lately, the need to have my hands on her and my arms around her has been overwhelming. I’ve never had these feelings before, not even with Adele, but with Goldie, they consume me.
I don’t date.
I don’t do relationships.
I haven’t wanted to. Adele was the only exception, and for a while now, I’ve had zero interest in pursuing that type of commitment with anyone else. I wasn’t looking; I was working on the orchard and chasing a dream, but with Goldie, there’s something about her. One day, she wasn’t there, and then the next, she was. Each time I see her, and every time I’m around her, it makes this need I have for her worse and amazing at the same time. I’m in awe of her. She’s strong, funny, kind, wildly independent, but most of all, she’s easy to love.
And I do.
Love her.
And the overwhelming love that I have for this amazing woman screams at me to get her out of this fucking toxic place.
Right now.
Pushing off the wall, I take a step toward Goldie, but Emma grabs my arm.
“Briggs,” she pleads, silently begging me not to cause a scene, but Clay gently takes her hand off me and pulls her into him. He knows. His eyes lock with mine, and I know he would do the same thing.
As the song ends, she lowers the bow, then raises her eyes to find mine. Usually, a murmur picks up between songs, but this time, it’s dead silent as people watch, and I now stand right in front of her.
“Cora. Let’s go,” I say to her, holding out my hand.
She glances at it and then at me. I’m certain my anger is visible as it radiates from every pore.
“But the party isn’t over yet,” she says, looking around at the people watching us.
“It is for us.”
Her eyes come back to mine, and there’s a desperate panic in them. She’s not sure what to do, but I do. If this scene were in a movie, I’d tell anyone who gets in our way, nobody puts Goldie in the corner. I grab the cello from her and gently return it to the stand sitting in the corner.
“Briggs. No,” she whispers sternly.
Leaning down so my face is directly in front of her, I swallow hard to keep from snarling with how angry I am.
“Cora, you are a star that shines so bright. You absolutely should be admired. But you are not the hired help. Ever,” I tell her quietly, and her eyes turn glassy.
