by Ava Miles
“There are some details I’d prefer to discuss directly, not through email. Since you didn’t return my call and texting seemed a dead end, I had no choice but to show up here. Would you let me inside?”
She didn’t need to look down at herself to know that her navy lacy robe wasn’t exactly a professional outfit, and with Alice gone, she didn’t have a buffer.
“It’s important, Francesca. You’re going to be happy with what I’ve arranged. I promise you.”
She knew she could handle him, and now she was curious. But she was going to play her own move in this game he’d started. “Let me get dressed. You can wait out here while I do.”
His face blanked. “Oh for Christ’s— I’ve seen you in your robe before. Without it too, I might add.” Which was beyond inappropriate, but he’d warned her about his intentions, after all, and she’d admitted she still had feelings for him too. He grinned, looking so much like the carefree young man she’d fallen in love with. “Those are some of my happiest memories of you. May I say again that you look more beautiful than ever? Always did, even more so without makeup.”
She didn’t want to be charmed. “You may not. Stay outside, Quinn.”
She closed the door in his face, but rich laughter leaked through it. A smile snuck across her face. It felt good to hear him laugh again. This serious side of him hadn’t wiped out his sense of humor.
Hurrying to her bedroom, she selected something casual and yet professional: black wool harem pants and a loose white tunic. She wasn’t going to put on a full dress suit this early.
Checking her reflection in the mirror, she brushed her hair quickly and did a few things to her face to boost her usual professional image. As she applied lipstick, she remembered how often he’d told her that he loved seeing her without makeup, like he had only moments ago. He’d even talked her into letting him take a picture of her in his white dress shirt like that, which he’d immediately pronounced was his favorite picture of her.
Her hand froze, and she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Part of her wanted to come downstairs without any makeup on so she could see that look in his eyes again. Although she knew she was a beautiful woman, she’d never felt quite so sensual or powerful—or so loved—as she had with those heavy-lidded green eyes on her.
The pull of those days was as thick as the fog outside her window.
She’d take it one day at a time, she reaffirmed. Marouns didn’t dive into the deep end without a plan, without details. She would see how he was now, and how she was with him. The viability of their relationship would either unfold or it wouldn’t.
Alice would have her own sense too, and Francesca trusted her friend implicitly.
Feeling more empowered, she finished lining her lips with a pink nude perfect for morning and went down to open the door again.
This time, he was flanked by two silver room service settings at his feet. “Our breakfast arrived. Good thing the staff is discreet, although, man, I have a greater appreciation for how far they have to carry this stuff from the main lodge. Now that you’re dressed, how about you let me bring this in?”
He’d brought breakfast? “You planned this? You knew Alice was gone. Do I want to know how you managed it? Bribing the staff is the sign of low character, Quinn.”
“I didn’t bribe anyone.” He picked up the first tray. “Give me some credit. I checked in last night and got up early to see when Alice left.”
His laughter had her stepping forward, fire licking up her spine. “You spied on us? Dammit, Quinn.”
“Let me inside, Francesca. Your bread is getting cold, and trust me, you’re going to want to eat it.”
She stewed for a moment. They needed to establish some stricter rules, and now was as good a time as any. “Come in then and make it snappy. I don’t have all day.”
“Neither do I, but I’m making time for what’s important.”
He cruised past her, and she picked up the other tray to speed things up.
She was halfway to the kitchen and dining area when he reappeared, taking the tray from her. Since the door was standing wide open, she went back to close it before heading back. He was uncapping the silver trays, and her heart thudded at the sight of what lay beneath. Smoked salmon was arranged in a circle dotted with dill and crème fraîche, with an artful pile of sliced cucumbers in the middle. The other tray held two lobster salads with avocado and watercress. He’d already set a basket of fresh baguette off to the right, along with a crock of freshly whipped butter.
He’d recreated their favorite Sunday breakfast.
Her throat thickened, and she couldn’t stop her eyes from tracking to his. His mouth tipped up briefly and then fell again. She fought tears, remembering those happy mornings when they’d finally dragged themselves out of bed and filled their starving bodies after a night of marathon lovemaking.
“I thought our old breakfast might be a reminder of how good things used to be with us,” he said softly. “I understand why you want to take your time deciding about us. In fact, I’m here to tell you how I plan to support you in that process.”
He was going to support it? When she was nearly in tears over something as simple as an old meal, one she’d never had again after their time together had ended?
“I hope you don’t mind me bringing up some old memories from time to time. I can’t ignore the past.”
What could she say to that? “I’ll hear you out over breakfast. Alice will appreciate not having to cook.” That wasn’t true. She loved to cook. But Francesca had to say something. All the better if it justified her desire to stay with Quinn.
“Then sit and eat,” he said, pulling out a chair for her. “I’ll make coffee.”
Even in London, they’d both preferred coffee and not tea for breakfast. “I can—”
“I always made the morning coffee,” he said, “and you made Lebanese coffee after dinner, remember?”
She gripped her hands in her lap under the tablecloth. He loved the style most people knew as Turkish coffee as much as she did, except people in her country didn’t call it that. Her mother had taught her how to read the grounds in the cup, an old tradition passed on from mother to daughter. Some of her most vivid memories from childhood were of her mother peering into their cups, clucking her tongue at whatever fate she’d read.
When she was fifteen, her mom had died from a burst appendix, a shocking and sudden tragedy that had left her desolate with grief. But Francesca had found ways to stay close to her, and making coffee in the traditional style was one of them. She cleared her throat. “Alice makes it too, but I like to keep my hand in.”
“I’ll look forward to you making me some when you’re in the mood for it,” he said, measuring the coffee and setting it to brew after filling the machine with water. “Now, how about my news?”
She nodded, feeling way too vulnerable as he busied himself in the kitchen, making her remember how much he’d taken care of her in days past. “After all of this buildup, I can’t wait.”
He turned the chair around and straddled it, making her mouth water. God, he’d done that when they’d eaten together in pubs. He knew it drove her wild. “I’m bringing in more chaperones.”
“What?”
His grin couldn’t be trusted. “Making you feel comfortable is my number one job. Like I said, you obviously want to give yourself time to decide about us. I’m trying to show you I can behave. They won’t be intrusive. Based on what you’ve said, one of them is the male version of Alice.”
“There is no one like Alice.”
“You haven’t met Hargreaves. He’s my aunt’s butler. You’re going to love him. He’s a proper British butler, and he’s been with my aunt for nearly sixty years.”
“Sixty years! They must be—”
“Aunt Clara—my dad’s sister—turns eighty next month. She’s newly married to Arthur Hale, who’s a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist. They know how important this restructuring is, and they agreed to come ou
t and add to the chaperone quotient. My sister Michaela’s wedding is coming up anyway, so they’ll just be pushing their trip up by a few weeks. Francesca, your virtue couldn’t be safer.”
There had to be some subtext. “My virtue? Quinn, this isn’t a Victorian drama.”
“Thank God. I can’t stand those. Anyway, J.T. has agreed to step in. My aunt and uncle live in the same town as he does, so they’ll all fly in together four days from now.”
That was this Saturday.
“We can start on Monday if that suits you.” He glanced over his shoulder as the coffee maker beeped, and he rose, pulling out two mugs and pouring the coffee deftly despite his large hands.
God, she had missed those hands. The things they used to do to her.
She made sure not to look at them as he set her coffee in front of her and then went back for the milk she liked to add to it. “Monday would be fine. As I’ve said in my emails, I already started my prep work.”
He blew on his coffee, always too impatient to let it cool before taking a sip. “I thought you might want to come meet everyone at Sunday brunch. My mom will be cooking. Alice will like her. That whole Chicago thing is a big bonder.”
She gave him a pointed look. “Of course, your mother has been out here since marrying your father.”
The corners of his green eyes crinkled when he laughed. “True, but Mom always says, ‘You can take the girl out of South Side, but you can’t take South Side out of the girl.’ Anyway, I also wanted to throw out the idea that you and Alice come stay at my house. Your three additional chaperones will be staying with me, and it makes sense for everyone to be together. There’s plenty of space, and Hargreaves has volunteered to handle our meals on the days Alice doesn’t.”
She knew a used car salesman deal when she heard it. “Is J.T. staying with you?”
“No, we agreed to keep our interaction minimal so I could focus on the restructuring. Otherwise, I might be tempted to press him all the time. He’s staying with my folks. But you’ll meet him at brunch if you’re willing to come.”
The thought of meeting his family under these circumstances had her belly trembling. When they’d fallen for each other, they’d agreed to wait to meet each other’s families, wanting more time with each other. Her relationship with her father had always been complicated, and Quinn said his family wouldn’t keep out of his business once they knew he was in love. “Do they know about me now?”
He arched a brow. “You mean about us? A few of them do now, so yeah, I can guarantee the whole family knows even though they’re giving me space. I don’t share my personal business like that.”
How funny. He’d seemed so close to them when they were dating. Beyond their Sunday brunch, he’d called his parents and sometimes Connor. What had changed?
“They’ll be kind to you, Francesca. You don’t need to worry about that. They know it wasn’t your fault that you called things off between us.”
That rocked her back. “Is that how you really feel? That it wasn’t my fault?”
“I know you feel guilty.” He scowled. “It’s one of the reasons you’re here, right? It was hard, having you turn me down. But I understood why you did it. Your father asked for your help with Maroun Industries, a powerful ask given what you’ve told me about your relationship, and those kids had just attacked us in London. You didn’t feel safe anymore, and I know you worried I would get caught in the cross fire. I don’t blame you for leaving. I’m glad to see you’re out on your own, though. You’re too independent to work under your father.”
His words only underscored how deeply they’d always understood each other. She swallowed thickly. “Thank you, Quinn. It means a lot to hear you say you understand.”
He pushed her lobster salad toward her and gestured for them to eat. “Of course, I also think we were both idiots not to circle back to each other after things died down. I had my reasons, and I’m sure you did too.”
She picked up the fork, needing something to do with her hands, and speared a sliver of lobster. “What were your reasons?”
His shoulders, usually so straight, so strong—like they could carry mountains—sagged for a moment.
“In the back part of my mind, I couldn’t dismiss the idea that maybe you’d turned me down because you wanted to. That you were using the political climate and your father as an excuse. Or it had opened your eyes somehow.”
Oh, she couldn’t bear this. Not this. She lowered the fork and extended her hand to him.
He glanced at it for a moment, and in that split second, her heart quaked—was he refusing her gesture?—but then his hand engulfed hers and held it. She felt the burn of the contact and the pain of remembrance. “It wasn’t an excuse. I loved you. If things hadn’t happened as they did, when they did, I would have married you and been happy. I’ve never doubted that.” Back then, those details had been crystal clear. They would finish school, marry, and work for their family companies remotely in London or another city they liked. Have a few children. Spend part of the summer in Beirut, if it was safe to do so, and Paris, like she had done on summers off from boarding school.
A sigh gushed out of him, and he squeezed her hand tightly. “Thank you for telling me that. It clears up a whole bunch of junk that’s been rattling around in my head.”
His heart too, she imagined, and it was all she could do to keep herself from crossing to him and wrapping him up in her arms. She’d never imagined he’d doubted her love for him, and that was another regret for her list. She would have to make amends for it, and she knew just how to do it.
“Alice and I will come for brunch, and we’ll stay with you and your additional chaperones.”
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it sweetly before releasing it. “Thank you. Trust me. This is going to work.”
They were embarking on one of the most painful processes any business could undergo, but his attention was squarely on her. On them. What if their private affairs interfered with business? The way he’d shown up here with her favorite breakfast suggested it was a valid concern.
As she watched him begin to eat heartily, she turned to her own meal. Whatever his reasons, she would give him some leeway. Their relationship was messy, after all.
Besides, the very thought of being at his house was intoxicating. She’d often wondered how he lived. Now she would see for herself. Although they’d spent more time together than alone in London, they’d never lived together. This would be their chance. She hoped it would help her form that picture she needed—a vision of their future together.
With four chaperones in attendance, her virtue would be more than safe.
But it wasn’t her virtue that worried her. It was her heart.
Chapter 6
His mother was driving him nuts.
But she was doing it to distract him from his nerves about introducing Francesca to his family, so instead of snapping off a prickly response, he crossed the kitchen to kiss her cheek. “Mom, I love you, but if you tell me another story about choosing wedding cake flavors with Michaela and Boyd, I may have to poke my ears out.”
She patted his cheek with her wet hand and resumed washing strawberries, a blue and white checkered apron over her green dress. “Quinn, if you don’t calm down, you’re going to blow a gasket. Since taking over as CEO, you remind me more of your father every day.”
“And they’re not good memories,” his father added from his prep station in a red apron covering his suit. “Are they, dear?”
“No. Quinn, will you please cut those cucumbers for me?”
There were so many cucumbers, they looked like freshly cut logs next to a tree stump. The prep would take him forever. “Mom, I told you I could hire someone to cook today.”
“In my kitchen?” She flicked her hand at him playfully, water droplets raining on the lapel of his Italian suit. “Quinn Anthony Merriam, when did I ever willingly cede cooking to someone?”
His father coughed discreetly from where he wa
s cutting avocados.
“Shawn Merriam, are you laughing at me?” She cocked a brow.
His usually serious mouth was twitching. “I know better than that, Assumpta, especially when you have a knife close by.”
She laughed, her shoulder-length gray hair dancing. “Chop, men.”
There was no denying a direct order from Assumpta Merriam, so Quinn took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves and chopped, just like his father minus the apron. His mother shuttled back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room. One minute she was arranging fresh flowers in pink and white, the next she was back in the kitchen, inspecting their work with the eye of a general.
When she was out of the room, Quinn glanced at his father. “She’s on a tear.” But his mind kept snagging on his mother’s remark. He needed to make some changes in his life. Connor had warned him that if he wasn’t careful he’d blink and be alone and sixty.
“Of course she is, son,” his father said. “We both are. It’s not every day you learn your son had a soulmate you knew nothing about.”
“I knew he had a woman in his life back then, Shawn,” his mother said, popping her head in the doorway. “And I’m sure I mentioned it.”
Of course, she’d known. She knew all of them inside and out. “Mom, why didn’t you say anything?”
“It wasn’t my place to butt in. I figured you’d tell me when you were ready. That time didn’t come until fifteen years later. So we’re fixing that now.”
Her eyes tracked to his father’s, and they shared one of their knowing looks.
“Yes, we sure as hell are,” his dad said. “We only know her by reputation, of course, but everyone thinks highly of Francesca Maroun. Her father, as well.”
“We’re excited to welcome her,” his mother added. “For you as well as for the help she’s giving the company. But don’t worry. We’ll be discreet. No personal comments. Also, just because you don’t say the words doesn’t mean I can’t hear you, Quinn.”
He almost gulped. Her mom radar had always been strong. “Understood. Thank you for cooking. Really, Mom. I didn’t want you to go to all this effort.”
