The Promise of Everything - Garner-Willoughby Brothers Book Three

by Blaire Broderick

  “Have you?” she teased between kisses.

  The cool February breeze carried the scent of her freshly-shampooed hair to my nostrils filling the air I breathed with a clean aroma. A mild-weathered evening meant light jackets and a preview of the much-needed spring that was just around the corner.

  “Shall we?” she said, slipping her delicate hand into mine as we walked up the street.

  Shoulder to shoulder, we waded through throngs of New Yorkers all heading home after a long days’ work, and all of them faceless people in a world where only the two of us existed.

  I’d made reservations at Café Paris after Sophie mentioned she’d never tried French food before.

  “I studied in Rome one semester,” she’d told me. “One of my friends promised we’d sneak off to Paris for a weekend, but it never happened. Our teacher wouldn’t allow it.”

  The quaint little café housed a display of French pastries, artisan baguettes, and browned croissants in the window, all looking too perfect to be real, though they were as real as could be. Fresh bread and savory herbs greeted us floating in the tepid air that warmed our faces as soon as we entered.

  We found a little table by the window and perused our menus, Sophie quietly asking how to pronounce various items.

  “Tell me what you want, and I’ll order for you,” I offered. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, anyway.

  We sipped French-pressed coffees and snacked on cheeses as we waited for our coq au vin and herbs de Provence roasted root vegetables to arrive.

  “Maybe I’ll take you there someday,” I mused to her.

  “Where?”

  “France,” I told her. I’d gone once with Daphne. She planned the entire trip, which consisted of mostly shopping and dining at only the finest Michelin star-rated restaurants. I wanted to see the Louvre. I wanted to tour castles. Instead, I carried Chanel and Dior shopping bags down the Champs-Élysées as Daphne paraded around like American royalty.

  Sophie’s jaw dropped. “Really?”

  I nodded. “We could tour the countryside. Stay at a castle, perhaps. See the Mona Lisa.”

  Her eyes sparkled as she blinked away happy mists. “I’d love that.”

  “Mademoiselle and Monsieur,” the server said as he sat our plates in front of us. “Bon appétit!”

  I watched as Sophie sawed off a small bite of her chicken and waited while her expression turned to sheer delight as she tasted authentic French cuisine for the first time.

  “This is amazing,” she said, cutting another bite. “So, this is what I’ve been missing all my life.”

  Her dark hair fell over her face hiding everything but her pretty lips. Sophie Salinger was what I’d been missing all my life. No question. Who’d have ever thought a girl like her could inject so much color into my world?

  “So, when are we going to France?” she asked, smirking from ear to ear like an excited child on Christmas morning.

  “I’ll need to check my schedule when I get to work tomorrow,” I said. “We’ll make it happen.”

  She returned to her plate, devouring her meal, and I chuckled as she nonchalantly tried to pick out the mushrooms.

  “This is a far cry from the Hamburger Helper I grew up on,” she said, closing her eyes as she devoured bite after bite.

  The bells on the front door chimed jerking my attention in that direction where a tall blonde in knee-high calf-skin boots and a long, white coat walked in and headed toward the pastry counter. Even from across the room, I’d recognize that expensive shade of ash blonde anywhere.

  Daphne.

  I scooted my chair to the side a little turning my back toward her and praying she wouldn’t see me.

  “Jamison,” her phony voice said a few minutes later. I cringed, glancing up to look at Sophie’s face, which was suddenly white as a sheet.

  “Daphne,” I said, turning to face the music. “What brings you here?”

  She held up a paper sack containing a long French baguette. Apparently, she was back on carbs again, which she only ever did when she was stressed and feeling powerless.

  “Grabbing some bread for dinner tonight,” she said. “I’m entertaining friends. You on a date?”

  Her eyes honed in on Sophie, who wouldn’t look at her, and I began to piece everything together. Daphne must have been Sophie’s therapist, which made sense since that’s whom Bledsoe funneled most of his patients through when they needed counseling. Sophie must have said something in one of her sessions that set Daphne on a witch-hunt.

  “We’re not on a date,” Sophie interjected, her voice noticeably shaky as if she were afraid of what Daphne might do.

  “How do you two know each other?” Daphne asked.

  I shrugged. Sophie shrugged.

  “I knew it,” Daphne huffed. “God. Was I right, or was I right?”

  She readjusted her bags and gave us a look, one mixed with equal parts disgust and jealousy, and headed out of the café, heels clicking loudly with each step.

  “You know her from work?” Sophie asked innocently.

  I nodded. “Amongst other ways.”

  “You dated.”

  I nodded again.

  “I should’ve known,” she huffed.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mentioned I was seeing someone in one of our therapy sessions a while back,” she said. “She’d been trying to get me to say your name, but I never would. I may have let it slip that you worked at the hospital.”

  Sophie cringed, obviously sorry, but I could never be mad at her. I paid our bill, and we bolted out of the café heading back to our street.

  “I’m sorry,” Sophie said. “I never should’ve brought you up in therapy.”

  “You didn’t know,” I assured her, taking her hand and squeezing it.

  “What if she reports you?” she worried out loud. “What’s going to happen?”

  “Bad things,” I muttered. “They’ll suspend my license and conduct an investigation.”

  “But you didn’t treat me.”

  “I examined you. And then there was the consult. The hospital rules are pretty cut and dry. There’s no gray area.”

  “Do you think she’ll turn us in?” Sophie’s voice broke, weighed down by the tremendous guilt she obviously felt for spilling the beans.

  “Probably,” I seethed, though my frustration was one hundred percent directed toward Daphne. “She’s still in love with me.”

  “Can’t I just say you’re not my doctor? You’re not treating me?” Sophie rambled. “Can’t I just lie?”

  “All they have to do is look up your medical records,” I said. “They’ll see I’ve met with you twice. Then they can look up your therapy session notes and put two and two together. Believe me, Daphne takes impeccable notes. She doesn’t miss a thing.”

  “Oh, God, Jamison. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

  We stood outside her apartment door. I wanted to forget about the impending shit storm beginning to brew. I wanted to forget about running into Daphne. I wanted to forget about the world for a while and lose myself in the sheets of Sophie’s messy bed for a few hours, in the shelter of her long, dark hair, with each kiss bringing us deeper and deeper into our little world.

  She peered up at me through her long lashes, her dark eyes glassy and her lip trembling. “Maybe we should play it cool for a little bit.”

  “What are you saying?” There went any hope of an invitation upstairs.

  “I don’t want to jeopardize your career,” she said. “Believe me. I’m not worth it.”

  “Don’t talk like that.” A million pins pricked my stomach as my brain tried to process what she was saying.

  Her eyes fell, landing on our feet. “I think we should take a break.”

  My brows furrowed, and the ground beneath me began to sway. “That’s not necessary.”

  “I always have a way of screwing things up,” she said, her voice faltering. “I don’t want to screw anything up for
you. Not when you’ve been so good to me.”

  “Sophie.”

  “I care about you way too much, Jamison,” she said, taking a step away from me and moving closer to her door. Her mind was already made up.

  “Do you want space? Is that what this is really about?” I pried. “Are we moving too fast?”

  We’d been moving quickly, that much I knew, and it was only a matter of time before we’d lose momentum. I didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

  “I don’t want space,” she said, shaking her head. “God, I could spend every waking minute of every waking hour with you, Jamison. I crave you. I’m addicted to everything about you. The way you kiss me. The way you look at me. The way you wrinkle your forehead when you’re lost in thought. The way you pick your words so carefully when you’re around me. The way you make me feel like I’m the only girl in the whole world. The way you make me feel safe.”

  She took a step back again staring at me longingly as she professed her feelings. Like a child being forced to put their breakable China doll back on the shelf, she gazed at me with regretful eyes.

  “You’re too good to me,” she said. “I don’t know what’s so great about me, but I’m not worth it. I’m not worth destroying your whole career over.”

  “That’s for me to decide.” I shoved my hands in my pockets, silently listing all the things I loved about her in my head. Her free spirit. Her innocence. Her openness. Her unassuming beauty. The way I lost myself in her eyes. The way she gave herself to me. Her kindness. People like her didn’t run in my circles. She wasn’t a user, a social climber. She didn’t have an ulterior motive, and she didn’t see me as Dr. Jamison Garner. To her, I was only ever Jamison—the guy who lived across the street.

  Sophie’s hand reached for the door to her lobby. “I’m tired. I have to work tomorrow.”

  I stood in the bitter cold that was beginning to fill the mild evening air watching until she disappeared up the steps toward her floor. And I waited outside, still as a statue until the light to her apartment switched on, illuminating her loft. For the first time in forever, the blinds were pulled.

  17

  SOPHIE

  I locked the front door to the shop, my fingers tingling with the sensation I knew too well. I’d been on my feet all day helping customers and selling pieces and answering phones. But all I wanted to do was paint.

  I could see the picture in the back of my mind and all its blue glory. It was my first blue painting since meeting him. I just thanked my lucky stars that Mia was gone for the day, or else I knew she’d give me a hard time about it.

  My chest burned with longing as I switched off the lights to the front shop, and I paused to stare out the windows at the passersby wondering what Jamison was up to that night or if he’d be going on his ten o’clock walk soon.

  Eight text messages and five missed calls waited on my phone since the night before when I’d left him outside my building.

  I’d ruined my sisters’ lives. I couldn’t ruin his, too.

  I crept back to my studio, slipping a smock over my clothes and running my finger along my elaborate paint collection plucking the perfect shades and squirting them onto a clean palette.

  I lost myself in my art the way I always did, and by the time I was finished with the first stages of my chaotic blue masterpiece, it was damn near midnight. I hated walking home alone that late but at least it was only a block.

  I grabbed my things, slipped on my coat, and locked the door again on my way out. As I passed Jamison’s building, I stared up into his windows—every single one was pitch black.

  I climbed the stairs to my floor shivering at the thought of spending a night alone in my cold bed and wishing more than anything I could run over to his place, knock on the door, and act as if nothing happened.

  I rounded the corner to my floor only to find a man sitting on the ground and leaning against my door, his head down in his hands as if he were half-asleep.

  “How long you been sitting there like that?” I asked.

  Jamison looked up, his eyes bloodshot and bagged. He lifted his wrist and pulled back his sleeve. “Couple hours, maybe.”

  He rose up and moved aside as I slid my key into the lock. I couldn’t turn him away, and even if I could have, I didn’t want to.

  “Come in.” I kicked the door wide open greeted by the warmth of the space heater I always seemed to leave on.

  Jamison shut the door behind him. “You didn’t return my calls, so…”

  “Just can’t stay away from me, can you?” I hid my face in my hair, not wanting him to see my secret excitement.

  “No. I can’t.”

  I slipped my jacket off and tossed it across the arm of the couch before combing my hair into place, my back toward him. His strong hands slipped around my waist turning me to face him. I lifted my chin, our lips mere inches apart. The ground may have given out on me, but Jamison would never let me fall.

  “You’re taking a risk by being with me. You know that, right?” I said.

  “Mmm hmm.” His voice vibrated right through me.

  “If Dr. Strong sees us together again…” I didn’t want to finish the sentence. We both knew where it was headed.

  “I know you think you’re doing me a favor,” he said. “But you need to trust me. We can make this work. I’ll never stop fighting to be with you. You’re worth it, Sophie. You’re worth the risk.”

  I didn’t have time to tell him how foolish he was being. His lips pressed against mine, hungry and insatiable, and his hands slid up my sides landing in the tangled mess of my hair. We stumbled backward across the loft and into my messed-up bed, my hair spilling over a soft, downy pillow.

  Within minutes, our clothes were scattered on the floor around the bed, and Jamison’s cock was sheathed and hitting the deepest parts of me. My fingers wrapped around his flexing biceps as his lower body pressed against mine. My hips met his thrust for thrust as we gazed into one another’s eyes unwilling to look at anything but each other’s souls.

  I tugged the covers over our sweaty bodies, my leg hooked under his, and snuggled into the crook of his shoulder.

  “Don’t make any plans for Friday,” he said seconds before his eyes closed for the night.

  My hair was washed and dried. My makeup was in place. At the foot of my bed, wearing nothing but a strapless bra and panties, I stared at the Barneys’ box lying on my mattress tied with ribbon.

  Jamison was taking me out that night, and in true Jamison fashion, he’d taken care of everything including making sure I had something pretty to wear.

  I untied the ribbon and pulled the top of the box lifting out a gorgeous satin evening gown the color of pale smoke. Classy. Sophisticated.

  Are we going to the opera?

  I stepped into the dress, zipping up the back, and slid my feet into the sexiest Swarovski crystal-encrusted heels I’d ever laid eyes on, also a gift from Jamison.

  A knock on the door served to remind me I was running late.

  “Coming!” I yelled, rushing across the room and flinging the door open. My heart dropped five stories when I saw him standing there. Silky black suit. Skinny black tie. Shiny black shoes. Cleanly shaven and smelling like a million bucks. “You look… different.”

  I wanted to rip off every piece of his suit and throw him on the bed and have my way with him.

  He raked his hands across his smooth face and smiled. “You don’t like it?”

  “I do,” I said, drinking him in and struggling to restrain myself in his presence. “I like it a lot.”

  “You ready? Car’s waiting downstairs.”

  I fastened a faux mink stole around my shoulders and grabbed my clutch before locking up. I thanked my lucky stars with careful steps downstairs that I didn’t fall flat on my face in those sky-scraping heels.

  A black town car was parked outside in the street, the door ajar, and a white-gloved driver waiting next to it.

  “You going to tell me where we’re
going?” I asked.

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  I hoisted my dress and slid across the buttery leather of the backseat, Jamison following. The second the driver pulled into traffic, Jamison took my hand and tenderly raised it to his lips.

  “Tonight is all about you, Sophie,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. The sun had retreated over the horizon and night stars filled the sky above, but even with all the beauty and enchantment of a frosted February evening, all I saw was him.

  A few moments later, the driver pulled up in front of Beacon Art Gallery coming to a gentle stop. He hopped out.

  “What’s going on?” I peered out the window. Beacons was supposed to be closed, but it was filled to the brim with people dressed to the nines. “What’s this, Jamison?”

  The door opened, ushering in a cool wind, and Jamison climbed out first. With a smile on his lips and an outstretched hand, he helped me out.

  “Surprise,” he said, watching my face. “A grand opening.”

  “You planned all this?” I stood frozen, wanting to remember everything about this moment. I watched from the street as perfect strangers stood in groups around my paintings pointing and discussing.

  “With Mia,” he said.

  “You two,” I sighed, unable to fight the smile on my lips.

  Jamison extended his arm. “Come now. They’re waiting for the guest of honor.”

  The second I entered, Mia rushed across the room, and a silent hush filled the gallery.

  “Everyone,” Mia called out in her boisterous voice, “… if I could have your attention…”

  The last of the chattering stopped, and all eyes were drawn toward us.

  “As some of you may know, I’m Mia Beacon,” she said with a charming smile. Her platinum hair was flat-ironed and reflected the soft lights of the gallery, her body hugged by a tight, alabaster Herve Leger dress. “I want to thank you all for coming tonight to Beacon Art Gallery’s grand opening. To the right, you’ll find watercolors painted by yours truly, and to the left, you’ll find oil paintings done by my partner, Sophie Salinger. All paintings are for sale, and we have associates around the gallery who can help with your transactions. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask them. Carry on!”