Then she registered the other item in the man’s grip and frowned. A garment bag?
He held it up. “Compliments of Mr. Bellamy, ma’am.”
Right.
She somehow managed to take it all from him and wrestle it upstairs. She draped the bag across her bed and set the flowers down beside her palette. With uncertain fingers, she combed through the blooms until she came up with a card, printed on thick ivory stock. The good stuff. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever seen Rylan’s handwriting before, but the bold black strokes of ink looked like him.
A couple of options for you for this evening. Only if you like them, though.
See you soon… —TRB.
Her blood went to ice. Mechanically, she walked away from the flowers and toward the garment bag. Sure enough, inside were dresses. Three of them, none with price tags. She probably couldn’t have borne it if they had.
She squeezed her eyes shut tight. He was trying to be nice here. He wasn’t making a comment on the awful work jeans he’d peeled from her body with such disdain, or about the rest of her wardrobe. He was taking her out to see his New York tonight, and of course that meant dressing up. If she hadn’t had anything appropriate, she would’ve felt just as uncomfortable as she did now, only she would’ve had to feel it in front of him.
Scrubbing at her eyes, she laughed. There was a cocktail dress she’d bought at a secondhand store for a gallery reception last year, buried somewhere in the back of her closet. She might even still have her prom dress in there, if she really went digging. But that was it.
He’d been right, sending her these. And it made something deep inside of her echo even more hollowly to acknowledge it.
This was him changing her. Improving her. Recognizing that she didn’t have what it took, literally, to pass in his world. Her stomach churned, but she wrestled hard against the rising tide. This wasn’t her father telling her she wasn’t good enough, or Aaron implying she’d never be as successful as him. This was Rylan being nice. She opened her eyes and sighed.
A week and a half ago, Rylan had been on another continent, had given her no sign of his intent to ever return. And yet he’d never felt farther away than he did right now.
Dread sat like a stone inside her, but what else could she do? She got herself into the shower and washed up mechanically, then blew her hair out and did her makeup with a towel wrapped around her chest.
Finally, with half an hour to go and no more excuses to delay, she faced down the dresses. Pulled them from the bag one by one and looked them over.
A little bit of the heaviness in her gut eased. There was a simple black number, and a strapless gray one. One in midnight blue that was a little showier, clear crystals sewn into the hem, but all of them were things she could at least imagine wearing. If she were a millionaire.
He’d known her taste, more or less, and he’d guessed her size. He’d misjudged who she was entirely, but at least the details he’d gotten right.
She laughed, sad and wry, then let the towel fall. She tried on each dress in turn. They were all gorgeous, all beautifully made. When she looked at herself in the mirror, wearing the blue one, she sucked in a breath.
Maybe it was the cut of it, the fitted bodice and the floaty skirt that came to just above her knees. Maybe it was the neckline, ever so slightly asymmetrical and lower than she would usually dare. She looked taller and slimmer, her chest more full.
It was a good look. Like a princess.
A princess who couldn’t get the ink out from under her nails.
Decided, she turned away.
By the time the buzzer went off downstairs, she’d picked out a pair of kitten heels, a wrap, and a little clutch purse. Heart in her throat, she made her way to the entrance of her building, and…
Oh God.
At least it wasn’t a limo. But the car Rylan was leaning against was one of the biggest, shiniest, blackest ones she’d ever seen, its windows tinted, and yup. That was a driver sitting behind the wheel.
Rylan stepped away from the door of the car, crossing the space toward her, and her eyes stung. He looked too good, too handsome in another, somehow even more elegant suit. The fabric faintly shone in the dying light. His hair was slicked back.
And that was the thing that made her pause.
He’d always worn his hair casually distressed, and she had loved it. Loved running her fingers through its thickness, or raking her nails across the scalp. Holding on to it for dear life, tugging hard at the roots as he showed her yet another new thing her body could do.
Her skin crackled with electricity as he closed in on her. He held out a hand, and she followed it up, past the crisp lines of his jacket to his face.
His jaw was firm, the space between his brows smooth. But his eyes…
Her heart sped, ramming hard against the cage of her ribs. Those warm blue irises contracted. Like—like he was scared. Fully in control of it, but terrified.
And then all at once, he blinked and the fear was gone, replaced by calm command. He reached his arm the rest of the way out, curling his fingers in to brush his knuckles down the side of her cheek. Sending licks of warmth blooming outward from his touch.
His fingertips grazed along her neck and came to rest at the open neckline of her dress. His throat bobbed.
“You look ravishing.”
Her voice came out breathy, and her knees shook. “As good as you’d hoped?”
“Better.” Something in his expression softened. Went more real. “But then again, you have a habit of blowing my wildest dreams out of the water.”
He didn’t lean in to claim the kiss that kind of line all but demanded. Just stood there, thumb stroking beneath her collarbone, gaze intent to the point of searing.
Then the moment broke, and he pulled away. Nodding toward the car, he held out his open palm. “Shall we?”
It wasn’t as big of a leap as following him to a museum, or back to a hotel room. Or letting him inside her. She took a deep breath. And placed her hand in his.
Rylan was not doing this just for the chance to make Chase watch him cruise around in his Bentley. He was doing this because the money had been coming between him and Kate since day one, since the first moment he’d looked her over and seen her pride and decided not to bring it up.
Well, he was bringing it up now.
The rich guy cliché experience, Chase had called it. Rylan was set to do him proud.
Yet a sick feeling kept twisting his gut.
What if this was Versailles all over again? Something he’d thought she might enjoy—something he’d imagined any girl should like. But she wasn’t any girl.
Getting the door for her, he pushed his nerves down. She scooted across the leather seat like any good New Yorker accustomed to cabs would. Instead of going around to the other side like he would’ve otherwise, he folded himself in beside her, pulling the door closed and nodding at their driver.
As they coasted off, she looked around, keen gaze taking in all the details of the car’s interior. Then, at last, it came to rest on him.
“So.” She was sitting on the other side of the seat, practically as far away as she could get. But her body language was open, for all that her shoulders were a fraction too high. Relaxed but guarded. Ready for this to go south.
He wouldn’t let it, goddammit all.
He slid a hand toward her, letting his knuckles graze the bare skin of her knee, right below the hem of the dress. “So.”
She lifted a brow. “Thank you for the dress. And the flowers.”
“You liked them.”
Her mouth did something complicated before smoothing into an uncertain smile. “I did. You didn’t have to, though.”
“But I wanted to.” He licked his lips. “Only the best.”
“Of course.”
For a long moment, they stared at each other. He wanted nothing more than to move into her space, to kiss her and feel her warmth all along his side. To hold her.
That summer, he wouldn’t have resisted, but rejection still stung him. She’d left him in Paris, and she’d turned him out last week. He’d been the one to come back for her, and he still had apologies to make, but this was a grand gesture he was in the middle of.
And a deep, proud, hopeless place inside his chest wanted her to reach for him for once. She’d acquiesced and gone along with what he wanted so many times.
He wanted her to want him, too. For her to touch him because she wanted to. To make the first move.
She dropped her gaze, broke their stare. And turned toward the window.
Voice tight, she asked, “Any chance you’re going to tell me what we’re doing tonight?”
He pulled his hand from her leg. Settled it on his own and jostled his knee up and down. Outside the car, the city rolled by, gray streets giving way to brighter thoroughfares as they approached the bridge. “Thought I might let it be a surprise.”
She hummed but didn’t argue. Didn’t tease.
He second-guessed himself a hundred times before they arrived at the restaurant he’d picked. It was just right for a romantic evening, all candlelight and quiet booths, excellent food. But the closer they got, the more his gut told him it was entirely wrong.
Her posture got stiffer as he led her inside. The maître d’ recognized him on sight and greeted them with a smile. They were led to a cozy corner, given menus and a wine list, and left alone. Rylan swallowed hard, hating the silence. Hating everything.
Then Kate opened her menu, scanned it over once, jaw ticking, and he held his breath. But she didn’t explode, or break down laughing the way he’d half expected her to. The way he’d been waiting for her to maybe this entire time. She closed the menu and set it down. Looked to him.
Her dry voice bore the tiniest hint of a tremor. “Let me guess. Your treat?”
“If you’ll let me,” he said, aiming for assuredness, but it came out weak.
And there was that snicker of a laugh. “Not sure I have much choice. I know what dishwashers get paid by the hour.”
Of course she did. She was a waitress, right? When she wasn’t working on her art.
He couldn’t stand it a minute longer. He wanted her to reach for him, but here he was again, extending his arm across the table, placing his hand over hers, and the contact made him sing with relief. At the same time that something inside him went unbearably, impossibly sad.
“I want you to enjoy yourself, Kate. Have whatever you like. I want to give this to you.” This experience. This night.
Her chest rose and fell. But after a second, she nodded. “All right.”
She didn’t stumble over her order when their server came around, didn’t even argue when Rylan asked for a bottle of wine.
If only Rylan knew if that was a good sign or not.
Kate had never had a more delicious, more painfully tense meal in her life.
It was a pathetic movie trope, the unsophisticated girl who didn’t even know what fork to use, but tropes were tropes for a reason. Kate worked her way in from the outside of the place setting like the etiquette teacher in some trite old film had instructed his plucky heroine to do, and she hoped for the best. Drank her wine and ate the world’s most amazing, most shockingly expensive steak.
Through it all, Rylan kept looking at her, not with the apprehension he’d had in his eyes as he’d shown her to the car, but with something almost worse.
When they were done, he paid the bill without even looking at it, and led her out. Their car was already waiting. She held her breath. “Where to now?”
Rylan ushered her in, but closed the door before she could slide across to the other side. Oh. Right. Because this was a nice car. A nice dress. Only she wasn’t very nice at all.
He got in on the other side and made a gesture at their driver to wait. They stayed there idling at the curb, quiet music and the muted sounds of the traffic filtering in, but the silence felt like it would strangle her all the same.
Rylan turned the full power of his gaze on her. “I have tickets for the ballet.”
She tried to hide the way her eyes wanted to bug out of her skull. “The ballet?”
He’d said they’d be heading to a show, but that was the last thing she’d been expecting. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You don’t want to go.” It wasn’t even a question.
“I didn’t say that. I just—I’ve never gone.” The small-town performance of The Nutcracker when she was eight didn’t count.
“We don’t have to.”
And he sounded so resigned. So disappointed.
What had this whole evening looked like to him? She’d barely remembered to thank him for his extravagant gifts, been too worried about embarrassing herself at his fancy restaurant to make much more than small talk with him. And now she was turning up her nose at something he must’ve thought she’d like.
Her hand hovered in the air, poised to reach for him and touch the warmth of his skin. But in the end she chickened out. Set it back down in her lap and chewed the inside of her lip. “Yes,” she said, more confident than she felt. “We do.”
“No.” He shook his head.
So she spoke over him. “I’d like to.” She forced a smile. “First time for everything, right?”
His gaze darted to hers, and there was that fire. That light that had been missing this entire night. “Yeah?”
“Sure,” she said, more firm.
At least it was worth a shot.
Chapter SEVEN
About five years later, Kate couldn’t decide what was worse—the ballet, that she apparently hated the ballet, or that Rylan gave every sign of hating it, too.
It’d been pretty enough. Degas’s pastel studies of dancers had come to mind with every arched back and pointed toe. She could imagine drawing those graceful forms herself, trying to capture the energy and motion, the space and the sparkle.
But to sit there in a secluded box, alone and yet surrounded by all these other men and women in outfits even more formal than hers and Rylan’s, watching a story without words, listening to music she felt no connection to…They’d barely made it through the first act, or movement, or whatever it was called before Rylan was squirming. He wasn’t the only one. Restlessness had had her digging her own nails into her palms to help her sit still.
There were just so many other things she could be doing. Her portfolio for the fellowship committee wasn’t going to assemble itself, and her apartment needed cleaning. Hell, catching up on her sleep would’ve been a better use of her time. She almost did, she got so bored.
As the performance dragged on, she folded in on herself more and more, crossing her arms and then her legs, and even that seemed like such a waste. She and Rylan had never really been to a show before. She’d always figured he’d have been all over her if they had, fingertips trailing over her arm, lips whispering kisses against her ear, their feet tangling together in the space between the seats.
But he kept to his side of their armrest, face stony, jaw set. Like he knew as well as she did that this had been a mistake.
The frustration of it all, the waste, made her grit her teeth. He’d made it out like this was important to him, and now they were simmering in their own pots of separate, stubborn endurance, seeing it through.
God. What if that was how their whole second chance went? Seven nights—five more after this. If they went the same way this one had…
She couldn’t bear it. They’d had a good run of it in Paris, but she’d said it herself even then. They’d been living in a fantasy, divorced from the pressures of real life, and some dreams couldn’t stand up to the light. He’d shattered her dream well enough when he’d admitted to being a whole different person than he’d led her to believe, and maybe they should’ve let it end like that.
They hadn’t, though. He’d picked up the fragments and held them up as if they could glue them back together. Sought her out and begged her for more, and she’d let herself be convinced.
But what was the point? Of any of it?
She wasn’t so ill-mannered as to not applaud when the curtain finally fell. Rylan made the same motions beside her. She avoided his gaze as he ushered her out. His car was one of the first in line outside, and they got in without a word. Sat there together and apart as his driver wove through the theater traffic and off into the grid of city streets.
At her apartment building, she got out and crossed her arms, rubbing her bare skin against the evening chill. Rylan got out as well, and she opened her mouth. She’d had that whole long, awful car ride to figure out what to say, and she’d practiced it the same way she’d practiced her French. It came to about as much good.
Look, this clearly isn’t working. Or, Thank you, it was nice, but…
Then she met the dark power of his stare as he rounded the back of the car, and the words evaporated on her tongue.
“I’ll walk you up,” he said, voice gruff, tone clipped.
It should have been a relief, to hear the same frustration from him that she felt in her heart, but it only made her stomach sink farther.
“Right.” She turned toward her building. It would be better to do this in private.
So she led him inside.
The easy letdown was almost a taste on the air, a scent like dry tinder at the back of Rylan’s throat.
The whole way up the stairs, Kate had dragged her heels. At the door to her apartment, she fumbled with her keys until he stepped forward and took them from her to get the lock himself. She walked inside with her shoulders tense, her fingers white where she gripped her own arms. Rylan’s breath stuttered in his chest.
Since halfway through the disaster that had been the ballet, he’d been scrambling, trying to figure out a way to spin this. But he’d come up empty.
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