He shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”
Jessica switched to view mode and with growing frustration started deleting all the beautiful pictures she’d already taken, all the while calling him worse in her mind. He was being completely unreasonable. She toyed with the idea of keeping one or two, trying to hide them from him, but then figured why bother. When she looked up, he held out his hand.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she muttered, taking the strap off her neck and putting the camera in his hands.
He scrolled through, appeared to be satisfied, and handed it back.
“Thank you. You can leave now.”
Her cheeks flared at being so readily dismissed. She shoved the camera into her tote, fuming. He hadn’t even offered his name when she’d introduced herself.
She met his gaze. “For the record, you didn’t have to be so rude.”
Then she swept by him. She was only a few feet away when she thought she heard him say, “Yes, I did.” But when she looked over her shoulder, he was standing with his back to her, looking out to sea.
She hurried on, but when she got to a curve in the property, she turned back. He was still standing in the same spot, looking angry and lonely and lost.
She reached for her camera and took one hurried shot, then scurried back to the gate.
* * *
Bran sensed when she was completely gone, and let out a low breath.
Solitude. All he wanted was solitude. For people to leave him alone. The months of pretending in New York had taken their toll. He’d lost himself in his grief, only pulled out occasionally by his best friends, Cole and Jeremy. There’d even been times when he’d smiled and laughed. But then he’d gone home to the reminders of the life he’d once had, the one he’d been on the cusp of having, and he’d fallen apart. Every. Single. Time.
When he’d started to self-medicate with alcohol, he’d known he had to make a change. At first it had been just beer, and in the words of his grandmother, “it’s not alcoholism if it’s beer.” He’d used that for a long time to justify his overindulgence. But when he’d graduated to Scotch, and then whatever alcohol was available, he’d known he was in trouble. He needed to sell the brownstone and get away from the constant reminders. Get his act together.
Jennie would be so angry to know that he’d resorted to alcohol to cope. And so he’d thrown out all the booze, because Jennie’s memory deserved better.
The house in Nova Scotia was damned near perfect. Sometimes Jeremy and his new wife were close by, providing him with the odd company to keep him from transitioning from eccentric to downright crazy. No one knew him here, or if they did recognize his name, they didn’t make a big time about it. He had groceries delivered to the house. Couriers delivered anything he could buy online...there wasn’t much shopping nearby anyway. He spent hours staring out at the sea, trying to make sense of everything. Wondering how to stop caring.
Wondering if he’d ever be able to write again.
The one downside was the stupid lighthouse. In the beginning, it had been an incentive to buy. It was interesting and unusual, and he’d liked the idea of owning it. What he hadn’t counted on was the foot traffic, skirting his property and solitude with cameras and picnic blankets and... He shuddered. At least once a week he found a condom on the ground. It wasn’t so much the idea of it being the site for romantic trysts. He could appreciate a romantic atmosphere. But heck, would it be too much to ask for people to pick up after themselves?
Today he’d seen the reddish-blond head, and he’d had enough. The moment she’d pulled out her camera and started taking photos, he was ready to put on his boots. But when she turned to take a picture of the house? That was the clincher. He valued his privacy far too much. So far reporters hadn’t found him, as they had in New York. But it was only a matter of time. She didn’t seem like a journalist or a paparazzo, but he couldn’t be sure.
He watched a gull buffeted by the wind and sighed. She was right; he’d been a jerk about it. And part of that was because she’d been trespassing, and the other part was because he’d immediately realized how pretty she was. Early thirties, he’d guess, with blue eyes that had golden-green stripes through the irises, making them a most unusual color that deepened when she got angry, as she’d been with him when he’d demanded she delete her pictures. A dusting of freckles dotted her nose, pale, but enough that it made her look younger than she was. But there were shadows there, too. And the fact that he’d been curious at all set him on edge.
He started back to the house, turning over the encounter in his mind. Jessica Blundon, she’d said. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he wasn’t sure why. Maybe she was a reporter.
Once inside, he went to his “den,” a round-shaped room on the bottom floor of the house with windows all the way around. There was a fireplace there for when it was cold or damp, as it had often been during the end of the winter when he’d moved in. A huge bookcase was near the door, the shelves jammed with a mixture of keepers, books on writing and stories he had yet to read. The furniture was heavy and well-cushioned, perfect for curling up with a book. He picked up his laptop and hit the power button, then started an internet search.
It wasn’t difficult to find her. The first hit was her website, and the second was for a gallery in Chicago. Her site had her picture on a press page, but also a catalog of her paintings. He wiped a hand over his face. She was good. Really good. The gallery page brought up a press release from a showing she’d done...nearly two years ago. He flipped back to her site. It didn’t appear to have been updated recently.
Had she not been painting all this time? Or had she been secluded away, working on something new?
Something sharp slid through him, and he recognized it as envy. He wasn’t sure he’d ever feel whole enough to write again, and his agent had got him an indefinite extension of his contract, with his publisher saying he could turn in a manuscript when he wanted. Hell, at this point his publisher had more faith in him than he did in himself. The only thing keeping him from paying back the advance and killing the deal was that he was in his thirties. What else was he going to do with his life? At least with the open contract, there was something left ahead for him. More than just picking away at his trust fund, and existing.
And here she was, with her messy hair and bright eyes and pink cheeks, living life and standing up to the ogre.
Because that was surely what he’d become, and he hated himself for it.
But he was certain he didn’t deserve any better.
He lowered the cover of the laptop and set it aside, then picked up his coffee and took a cold sip.
He’d stopped drinking. But nothing else had changed. And that scared him to death.
* * *
Jessica looked around the gardens of Jeremy and Tori’s house and let out a happy sigh. The property didn’t have the wild restlessness of the one with the lighthouse, but the scent of the ocean was strong and the burgeoning perennials added bursts of color. Tori had invited her to dinner, and now they sat outside, listening to the ocean and having tea. Tori held her three-week-old baby in her arms, the tiny bundle making small noises as she slept. Jessica held back the spurt of jealousy. She’d had a chance at a husband and family once, and had blown it. She’d been all of twenty-four and had wanted to travel and paint and not settle down yet.
He hadn’t waited. Broken heart number one.
Now she was in her thirties with no relationship on the radar. She’d started to accept that a partner and family was not in the cards for her. It seemed that everyone important in her life always picked up and left in one way or another, and after a while a heart got tired of taking all the risks and never reaping the rewards.
It didn’t stop her from getting wistful and broody around Tori’s newborn, though. And when Tori asked if she’d hold the baby while she popped inside for a light blanket, Jessica had no
choice but to say yes.
Little Rose was a porcelain doll, with pale skin and thick lashes and a dusting of soft, brown hair. Her little lips sucked in and out as she slept, and she smelled like baby lotion. Jess cradled her close, looking down at her face and marveling at the feel of the warm weight in the crook of her arm. She did like babies. A lot.
When Tori came back, Jess held out her hand for the blanket, unwilling to give the baby up just yet. “She’s comfortable here and it’ll give you a break.”
“You mean I’ll get to drink my tea while it’s hot?”
Jess chuckled. “Exactly.” She tucked the crocheted blanket around the baby and leaned back in the chair. “Thank you again for asking me to dinner. The food at the inn is lovely, but a home-cooked meal was very welcome.”
“It wasn’t anything fancy.”
They’d had salad, grilled chicken and some sort of barley and vegetable side dish that had been delicious. Jeremy was now inside, catching up on some work while they enjoyed the spring evening.
“It was delicious. Besides, I was hungry. Someone made me angry today, and I went for a run on the beach after to burn off some steam.”
Tori leaned forward. “Angry? Who? Not one of the staff, I hope.”
Tori had resigned her position at the Sandpiper Resort, but she was still close with the staff and popped in on occasion to help with events or answer any questions the new assistant manager had. That was how Tori and Jess had met, and they’d ended up chatting and then sharing lunch on the resort patio.
“No, not staff. You know the lighthouse you told me about? I went to see it. Get some pictures...it’s gorgeous, just like you said. I got that tingly feeling I haven’t had in a really long time. And then the owner showed up. Man, he was a jerk.”
She expected Tori to express her own form of outrage, but instead her eyes danced. “So you met Bran.”
“You know him? Like, personally?”
“He’s Jeremy’s friend.”
Jess lifted an eyebrow. “You might have warned me. What an ogre. Hard to imagine him being friendly to anyone.”
Yet even as she said it she recalled the flash of vulnerability in his eyes. And while his hair was in major need of a haircut, it had been thick and wavy, a rich brown tossed by the sea breeze. Roguish.
“Bran’s been through a lot. He just moved here in February, too. The house is lovely, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t get to see much of anything. I took some pictures of the lighthouse, and then he stomped out and growled at me and made me delete all the photos I’d taken.”
Tori frowned. “He’s usually not quite that grumpy.”
“He was downright rude.” She sighed. “That lighthouse was it. I got the rush I get when I’m particularly inspired. If I could have kept one photo, I could have at least started a sketch.”
Except she did have one photo. The one she’d taken of “Bran,” now that she knew his name. Facing the ocean. She’d looked at it after her run, and had felt his loneliness.
Something else jiggled in her memory. “You said his name was Bran?”
“Short for Branson.” Tori leaned forward. “Do you want me to take her now?” She held out her hands for the baby.
“She’s asleep and fine here as long as you’re okay with it.”
“Are you kidding? When she’s sleeping I get to relax.” She sat back in her chair. “I just don’t want to take advantage.”
Jessica turned the name over and over in her mind. Branson. The dark hair, the eyes...
“Branson Black,” she said, her voice a bit breathy. “That’s him, isn’t it? The author?”
Tori frowned. “He keeps a very low profile here. No one in town really knows who he is.”
“Of course. It’d be like having Stephen King as your neighbor.”
Tori laughed. “Not quite. He’s not that famous.”
Jess tucked the blanket closer around the baby. “He’s pretty famous. And he hasn’t published anything since—”
She halted. She remembered the story now. Since his wife and infant son had died in a car crash.
It all came together now. His isolation. Desolation. Growling to keep people away. He was buried in grief, a feeling she could relate to oh, so well. A pit opened in her stomach, a reminder of the dark days she’d had after Ana’s death. And a well of sympathy, too. How devastated he must be.
She met Tori’s gaze and sighed. “It was in the news.”
Tori nodded. “I don’t want to betray a confidence, you understand. But yes, he’s been struggling with his grief.”
“And values his privacy. I understand now.” And her frustration melted away, replaced by sympathy.
“Do you?” Tori’s eyes were sharp. “Because he’s one of the best men I know. He’s one of the reasons Jeremy and I are together.”
Jess stared into the flickering fire. “A few years ago I lost my mentor and...well, the best friend a person could have. I’m just now starting to paint again. So yes, I get it. Grief can destroy the deepest and best parts of us if we’re not careful.”
Silence fell over the patio for a few minutes. Then Tori spoke up. “I’m sorry about your friend. And I agree with you. Which was why I sent you over there in the first place.”
Jess’s head snapped up. “You did?”
Tori nodded. “He needs someone to stir him up a bit. Looks like you did.”
Jess wasn’t too sure of that. But her heart gave a twist, thinking of what he’d lost, what he was suffering and how alone he must feel. Because she’d been there. And she’d come out the other side.
He hadn’t. And that made her sorry indeed.
Copyright © 2020 by Donna Alward
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ISBN: 9781488064975
Falling for Her French Tycoon
Copyright © 2020 by Rebecca Winters
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Falling For Her French Tycoon (Escape To Provence Book 1) Page 16
