by Tillie Cole
As everyone left the room, I stayed in my seat. “You okay?” Novah asked.
“Christ, Nove. His dad had a heart attack. He didn’t say anything to me.”
“Maybe he didn’t know if he could. From what you said, you had quite the argument.” That only made me feel worse. I wasn’t there for him when he needed me most. Even after all we had done to one another, I would never have turned my back on him during this.
“I can’t go next week,” I said. Novah just held my hand. She was such a good friend. “I can’t go to his home. Not after all of this. It wouldn’t be right.”
“That’s your choice, sweets. Remember, your heart was hurt here too. You’re allowed to take care of yourself too. If that means not going, it means not going.”
“Thank you.”
“I have a meeting with Hannah,” Novah said regretfully, referring to the fashion editor. “I have to go. Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah,” I whispered. Novah kissed my head and left me alone in the boardroom. As I stared at the doorway, in my mind I saw Harry walking through it, months ago, announcing his takeover as CEO. I’d been so mad he had moved here permanently. Now I’d give anything for him to walk in, to hold him and tell him everything would be okay with his dad.
Opening my cell, I let my hand hover over the text button. With a deep breath, I found the contact for “Pompous Prick” and sent him a simple message:
FP: I’m so sorry about your dad. We’ve just been told. I’m happy to hear he is going to make a full recovery.
I paused, rereading the words, then added:
I’m thinking of you.
I pressed send. When nothing came back through, I tucked my cell away and went back to work. Five o’clock came and I took the subway home. Sage and Amelia joined me on the couch to watch TV.
I climbed into bed, watching the rain splatter on the window. As I closed my eyes, I finally heard my cell beep. I reached over, and my heart stopped when I saw a text from Harry. It was one sentence. One sentence that meant so much:
PP: Please come.
I understood what he was asking. Next week. Please go to his home in Surrey, England. I pressed my cheek to the pillow and hugged my cell to my chest. He wanted me to come to his home. After everything we had said to each other, he still wanted me there.
My Harry.
My Maître.
The man who owned my heart.
Chapter Eighteen
Surrey, England
“Holy. Mother. Of. Shit,” I said as the car drove down the main road on the Sinclair Estate. We had already passed through a stone archway not too dissimilar to the Arc de Triomphe. Then came the tree-lined road, framing miles and miles of perfectly manicured lawns. Lawns that housed deer. Real actual deer.
Then this. Harry’s House wasn’t a house. It was a goddamn palace. Made of stone and sprawling wider than the eye could see from a car window.
“First a first-class plane ticket, then this. Am I dreaming? I think I’m dreaming,” Sarah, from the copyright department, said.
Michael from features whistled low. “I read it has one thousand acres. One thousand. I live in a six-hundred-square-foot apartment in Queens.”
“It has twenty-three bedrooms,” I found myself saying, which was a struggle considering I had yet to lift my jaw off the floor.
“I don’t even know twenty-three people,” Sarah said.
The car came to a stop at a grand set of stone stairs leading to elaborate wooden doors. Staff dressed in gray suits and tails were waiting. A man who appeared to be in his forties opened the door.
“Welcome to The Sinclair Estate.” I was the last to get out. Before my feet had even touched the sandy gravel, a staff member was there to take my hand. Numbly, I followed Sarah and Michael from the car.
“Thank you,” I said, just as another member of the house approached me with my luggage.
“Miss Faith Parisi?”
“Yep, that’s me.”
“This way, please. I will show you to your room.” I followed the staff member up the stone stairs, looking behind me only to be met by the most picturesque view I’d ever seen. Green. Lots and lots of shades of green.
The sun was shining in the sky, birds were singing a sweet symphony, and the entire place smelled like freshly cut grass and blooming summer flowers. It was a world away from the familiar scents of car exhaust fumes and the falafel stand a block away from where I lived.
“Miss? Everything okay?” the staff member asked.
“What’s your name?” I asked, not able to stand referring to someone as “staff member” for a second longer.
“Timothy.”
“Then Timothy, I’m great. Just…this…” I indicated the many acres before us.
Timothy smiled. “This is nothing,” he said, leaning close. “Wait until you see the gardens at the back and the view the main terrace offers. You’ll be speechless.”
“Well, Timothy, it takes a lot to shut me up, so that would be quite the feat.”
“You’ll see,” he said then moved through the open doors to the foyer. I stopped in the doorway, almost getting back shafted by Sally, who had ridden in another car.
“Move!”
I ducked to the side to let Sally past, tipping my head back and drinking in my first glimpse of the Sinclair Estate’s interior. A large marble statue of a man stood in the center, dark wooden columns surrounded the room, and plaster busts of Sinclairs of old graced the alcoves.
Timothy was polite enough to let me have my fill and admire the huge fireplace on one of the walls. When I’d stared at the painted ceiling and walked around the antique stone floor, he led me to another doorway. It took me a moment to see that most of the New York Journal and Visage staff were going off to the right.
“Are we not going with them?” I asked.
“No, Miss. They are being given rooms in one of the guest houses in the gardens. You are to stay in the main house.” I stopped breathing at that. Not wanting to alarm Timothy by passing out, I forced my lungs to work and followed him to an ornate wooden staircase with black iron banisters with delicate filigrees.
As I climbed the perfectly vacuumed red-carpeted stairs, I looked all around me. The walls were white paneled, the same filigree patterns swirling in plaster. Old-fashioned couches and chaise lounges were perfectly placed on each landing area. Huge windows peered out onto what Timothy told me were some of the gardens. Some. As in many. I saw topiary bushes sculpted into swans and rabbits and others perfectly shaped into cones. Small hedges swirled around them like ripples of water.
He lives here. Harry actually lives here. I couldn’t even comprehend being raised in such a place. I now better understood why King believed us so incompatible. To know Harry was a viscount and from the British aristocracy was one thing, an abstract bit of knowledge, one that may have been hinted at by his massive apartment on the Upper East Side. But being here, in this house on one thousand acres of nothing short of English countryside perfection, made it very real—very, very real—who Harry was and his place in this society.
I felt I was walking through an art gallery as we made our way down a hallway with paintings older than America on the green wallpapered walls. Timothy had told me it was the original wallpaper from when the house was built centuries ago. Not everything was original, but some furnishings they’d managed to preserve.
Timothy stopped by a large wooden door. “This is your room for the next few days, Miss Parisi,” he said and opened it. A few more doors were to my right. To my left was a door at the end of the hallway. It had a grander finish than mine. The wood had touches of gold painted on the same filigree pattern that seemed to run through the house. “Miss?” Timothy said and held out his hand for me to enter first.
“Holy fucking shit,” I said, eyes wide when I realized this would be my room while I was here. A huge four-poster bed sat in the center, draped ornately in blue curtains that fell to the floor and would completely box in the be
d if pulled out of their ties. It had a golden dome over it like a cathedral roof. The wallpaper was sky blue, and white columns stood at either side of the bed. I couldn’t help it; I let out a loud laugh. The sound of my voice echoed off the high ceiling.
“And this is your bathroom,” Timothy said. After running my hand over a plush cream couch and a mahogany desk, I walked into the bathroom. It was just as impressive as the bedroom, with a large claw-foot tub, porcelain sinks that I was sure were older than George Washington, and a toilet that looked like a throne. I would never have believed anyone could look regal while emptying their bowels, but I was quickly rethinking that notion.
As we entered the bedroom again, Timothy said, “Your itinerary is on the desk. The festivities will begin with champagne and strawberries at sunset on the terrace.” Timothy pointed to another pamphlet. “A map for while you are here.”
“It’s crazy to need a map for a house.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Timothy said and went to the door.
“Wait, Timothy, I haven’t given you your tip.”
“We don’t do that in England, Miss. Please, enjoy your stay. The forecast is for sunshine the entire time you are here. It should make for an unforgettable experience.”
Timothy shut the door, and I shook my head in disbelief. “No tip?” I whispered. “Am I in heaven?”
I reached into my carry-on and luckily found the code for the Wi-Fi on the welcome pack HCS Media had put together. At least a house of this age had modern conveniences as well as all the history. I even spotted a big walk-in shower in the bathroom. But my heart was fixed on the bathtub. After the long flight, I needed a soak.
I walked to the window and gasped at what greeted me. A stone terrace. This one looked private. It wasn’t as big as I’d expected, which led me to believe it wasn’t the one we would be having champagne and strawberries on tonight.
Champagne and strawberries. Jesus Christ.
I pressed the video call app on my cell, and it opened to the waiting faces of Amelia and Sage. “Faith!” they shouted, the sound of their familiar voices making me instantly feel calmer. Because I wasn’t. I was in Harry’s home. I would soon see him, and I had no idea how it would go. I didn’t know if he hated me for everything that had happened. I hadn’t heard from him since the text where he’d asked me to come. To say I was nervous about seeing him was an understatement.
“Hey guys!” I said and flipped the camera to give them a quick tour of the bedroom and bathroom.
“You have to be shitting me!” Sage said.
“It’s like a palace,” Amelia said wistfully.
“Wait for this,” I said and showed them the view from the window.
“Faith,” Amelia said, and I swore she was getting teary. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Is that a lake in the distance?”
“Yes,” I said, admiring the bridge that had been built over it. It looked like something from a fairy tale, with pink, purple and blue flowers decorating the old gray stone.
I turned the camera again and sat at the desk. I glanced at the itinerary. “There’s welcome drinks tonight. Then the choice of archery or horse riding tomorrow. A tour of the grounds and some free time the day after. Then the masquerade midsummer ball.” I dropped the itinerary, which had been printed on the fanciest stationary I’d ever seen.
“Have you seen him yet?” Sage asked carefully.
“No.” I sighed and tipped my head back. “Maybe I won’t until the ball. I don’t know if he wants to talk, or if he just didn’t want me to miss the recognition I’d received from Visage.”
“Faith, you can’t honestly think that,” Amelia said. “Of course he wants to see you.”
“Only time will tell.” I rifled through my suitcase, which looked like a miniature model amongst all the opulent room dressings. “I need a nap to try and kick this jet lag, a long soak in the bath. Then the fun will begin.”
“We’re stupidly jealous, you know that, right?” Sage said affectionately.
“I know.”
“Say hello to Nicholas for me. He’s going to be at the ball.”
“I will.” I kissed my fingers and waved at my friends. As I hung up, I climbed into the plush bed, staring up at the golden ceiling. I felt like I was lying on a cloud. As my eyes closed, I imagined what Harry would look like when I saw him again. My heart swelled just picturing that dark hair, his blue eyes, and the smile he held just for me.
He lived in a palace.
Harry, the one-day duke.
And I was in it.
In England.
If this was a dream, I never wanted to wake up.
The white linen dress hung off my shoulders, the sleeves hugging my upper arms. The hem fell to my knees, flowing out enough to be casual, but hugging my figure enough to show off my curves and absolutely dressy enough for champagne.
As I passed a wall-size mirror (the walls in the Sinclair Estate, it should be noted, were rather large), I made sure my long hair was styled nicely in loose waves and my earrings were correctly in place. I had kept my makeup light but with deep pink lipstick. As I stared at my reflection, I blew out a nervous raspberry.
“Miss,” a voice said, making me jump.
“Timothy!” I said, hand over my heart. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Too busy sticking your tongue out at your reflection?” he teased. I immediately liked him even more than I had that morning.
“I was.” I pointed at myself in the mirror. “She’s one sassy bitch.”
“Call me warned.” He gestured toward a wall of glass doors. “The terrace is just through those doors. Most of the guests are already here.”
“Thank you, Timothy.” Being careful not to lose my footing on the uneven stone floor beneath me, I walked through the doors and gasped. I actually gasped, loudly and dramatically. The view…I blinked a few times, trying to be sure I wasn’t imagining what lay before me. The stone terrace was vast and ornate. Stone balustrades created a balcony of the terrace. Sweeping curved staircases on both sides of the terrace led down to perfectly manicured gardens. Colorful and vibrant plants in large Romanesque pots sat on stone columns on the gravel paths. Green topiary domes and small hedge mazes swirled around the garden like miniature mazes. Another stone balustrade was at the end of the garden, offering the perfect place to view the stunning property beyond.
The setting sun reflected off the lake, and the flower-dense fairy-tale bridge lay over it. It looked like a watercolor painting. To the right were what I suspected Harry had called the guest houses. They were mansions themselves. Nothing compared to the main house, but they were impressive nevertheless.
There was so much to take in, my head throbbed at the vastness. The live string orchestra playing in the corner only added to the dreamlike quality of the mansion and grounds, and that fact that I, Faith Parisi, was really here. Then my skin bumped realizing they were playing the beautiful sound of Andrea Bocelli. The same music that used to play in Maître’s chambre.
A server dressed in a black-and-white suit with a matching bow tie pulled me from my reverie. “Miss, champagne?”
“Thank you,” I said, taking a glass. A waving hand pulled my attention to the back of the terrace. Sarah. I walked down the steps to the main floor of the terrace and joined my colleagues.
“Can you believe this place?” Sarah said, looking beautiful in purple. “Why is Harry in New York? If I owned this place, I’d never leave.” My stomach dropped a little at that. But she was right. It was as close to heaven as you could get on Earth. Why would he ever leave here?
“Has anyone even seen him?” Michael asked. “I heard King left the hospital a few days after surgery and is already almost back to normal. It’s amazing how quickly you can recover from a heart attack these days.”
“That’s good,” I said and took a sip of my champagne. King was out of the hospital and feeling better. The relief that brought almost made me emotional. Damn jet lag.
/>
“Look out, here’s the man himself.” Michael nudged his chin in the direction of the glass doors. “Harry.”
I froze. No matter how much I had tried to prepare myself for this moment, I wasn’t. My heart was beating so fast that I thought it might make me pass out. I closed my eyes and counted back from four to try to calm down. When I was hitting the negative numbers, I realized it wasn’t working for shit. Then I heard his laugh, and a strange sense of calm filled my lungs, making it so I could breathe. And this was his true laugh, not the one he used when he was trapped behind the prison of his title. He sounded happy. Harry…he sounded perfect.
Making myself turn around, I found him on the other side of the terrace greeting the guests. My heart fluttered. His smile was wide and genuine, and the crinkles around his eyes were out in full force.
The past week without him and the residual pain from our argument seemed to fade like the champagne bubbles I held in my hand. He was here. Before me again, looking the happiest I had ever seen him. I was rooted to the ground, as if my feet had been buried by the groundsman like the potted flowers around us.
“You’re drooling.” Sally stood beside me. I rolled my eyes at my boss, decked out in an all-black suit. “Don’t worry, if I liked men I’d be drooling too.”
“Sally, do you realize it’s summer?” I said, tipping my head at her suit and boots.
“This is from my summer collection, Faith. Do get caught up on fashion.” Sally moved to a neighboring table, and I waited for Harry to come over. He was wearing a lightweight white linen shirt with, of course, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He wore khakis, and his wavy hair moved in a slight breeze. It would have been so much easier to hate him if he didn’t look so beautiful.
As if sensing I was waiting, he lifted his head and his blue gaze quickly sought out mine. Immediately locked in a stare, Harry’s expression softened and the smile he gave me left me breathless. He tapped the man he was speaking to on the arm and walked our way.
“Hello, welcome to the Sinclair Estate,” he said, his accent instantly washing over me. He tore his eyes off mine momentarily while he shook hands with Sarah and Michael. I didn’t catch any of their small talk, too busy reacquainting myself with the view of Harry’s muscled forearms, his olive skin, courtesy of his mom, and his clean-shaven square jaw.
