by Imani King
Unlike everyone else in my life, she just stays silent, her body poised like she’s ready to listen. All the other people I’ve spoken to--my parents, my sister, even Anna--have fallen all over themselves to apologize, like it’s their fault I can’t get pregnant or carry a baby past six weeks.
“And my husband--my ex-husband for a year now--he left before we even did the last three transfers. I don’t think he could take it. All the loss, and all the debt, and who we’d become.”
“Some people can’t bear the important things, Cadence.” Star starts to mix yellow and white for our veil of stars. We’ll add some into the mix of blue and purple today, and more--many more--next week.
“He didn’t fully understand the ‘for better or worse’ part. They should put in a ‘for fertility or infertility,’ but they don’t tell you this shit before you get married. We were young. Really young. There was no reason to think it wouldn’t work.”
“Sometimes there aren’t reasons. Some people say that everything happens for a reason. But I think shitty things just happen. They’re woven into the fabric of life.” Her voice is measured and comforting, and there’s no need to respond. I start on the green for the mountains and mix a gray-hued white for the snow-capped peaks of the mountains.
“Is that white good?” I ask her after a while of painting and mixing and going back to painting again.
She nods. “It looks like the snow. Not too bright, but not off-white.” She pauses and dips a brush in the paint to look at it. “You’ll be at the fundraiser tomorrow, right?”
“Yes. Will you?”
“I will. My husband’s coming up from the reservation. I take it you’re driving in with Rowan?”
I laugh. *Driving in with him. A tactful thing to say. “Yes. Yes I am.”
“His fiancee left town a month or so back.”
“He was engaged? Oh my God, I had no idea. He’s been--“
“Watching you paint? Hanging on to every word you say?” She laughs, and the sound is mischievous, infectious. “He’s no stranger to sadness these days. That’s all I’m saying. He’s one of my best friends, and I know him. He’s been... different... since you arrived in town, Cadence. Different. Trust me.”
I gulp. I haven’t even talked to Anna about Rowan. As far as she knows through Facetime, I’m living in the guest house and making my own burnt coffee in the mornings. I haven’t even mentioned Rowan, and she hasn’t asked.
*The damn guest house. I saw it the other day, but hell, I didn’t even ask if Rowan’s had it fixed up. Three more weeks out here, and I haven’t asked if I should be staying somewhere else. Should I be? Is this inappropriate?
Star keeps painting like nothing has happened, like we’re just two artists standing side by side in the winter sun, mixing paints and looking at the mural they’ve been designing for the past ten days. And I guess we are, but she somehow got me to spill my biggest secret and inform me about my billionaire cowboy crush and his romantic past in the course of ten minutes. But we settle back into our comfortable silence, and I’m left wondering what she sees in Rowan, and why she decided to mention it to me today.
When I see him, I see a man far outside of my reach. Not that my reach is low--but Rowan has an immaculate body, made of muscular lines and angles, deep blue eyes that reflect his humor and generosity, and more money than I’m capable of understanding. And he doesn’t seem to care much about it--like he could take it or leave it and still be happy.
I’m sure he’d be disappointed if he couldn’t buy fresh goat cheese or new Ugg slippers at the turn of a winter season. I laugh at the thought, and Star gives me a a knowing look. We work until it’s dark and the stars we’re painting start to appear in the night sky above us. She nods to me and winks when Rowan pulls up in the Range Rover. I wipe my paint-stained hands on my shirt and jeans and tuck my paints away back inside of Star’s studio.
“You about ready to go, Miss Cadence?” I smile and follow him back out to his car. In the back are two silver boxes and one plain white one. He gets in and pulls away from the foundation, zooming up the highway that leads to his estate. The hills turn to mountains, and soon we’re on the road that leads up to his long, winding driveway. I glance back in the rearview mirror every few miles to look at the boxes sitting there. Neither of us have said much of anything since we got into the car, but I have more than an inkling that there might be a dress in one of those boxes.
My heart skips a damn beat every time we turn over a curve. This would constitute a gift, and a romantic one. Or would it be a practical one? Maybe he does need the artist at the fundraising event. Maybe it’s just the kind of thing you do for a friend who doesn’t have anything to wear. Maybe he wants me to be a part of Coming Home, like he said.
Generous. That’s all it is. It’s generous, not romantic.
When we pull up to the marble steps in front of his house, he parks and walks around to let me out of my door. The very gesture makes my palms sweat. My nerves nearly get the best of me, and I nearly fall on my face when I step out of the tall SUV. But Rowan is there to catch me, his hands on my forearms, holding me up from crashing onto my ass right in front of him.
“Ready for your presents? I have a few back there. Early Christmas presents, I guess.”
“I, um, uh. You didn’t have to do that. I don’t have anything for you.”
“You’re going to be my date to the fundraiser, and I got the distinct impression last week that you weren’t all that interested in going.”
“I am. I just normally don’t do these things. Not with anyone. Not handsome billionaires, for sure.” My whole body grows hot, electric sparks pouring through my body and centering right where he’s holding his hands on my arms.
“So I’m handsome?”
“Most--some--women would say so.”
“You just did.” He’s wearing a big, cheesy grin. “But I won’t push you on that, girl. Let me get the boxes, and we’ll go on inside. I’ll pour you a glass of wine, and I promise it’ll all seem a little less bizarre once you’ve had a glass of good Syrah.” He finally lets go of me and grabs all three packages out of the car. I keep still, standing there, watching him. My pulse rate increases, and the sparks that he always sends through my body start to increase as I watch him.
“It all is a little… not bizarre. Just, unexpected. I thought when I came out here that—” I don’t quite know how to finish that sentence, and he raises an eyebrow at me as he slams the car door.
He walks up to the door and holds it open for me while still hefting the packages with his other hand, gesturing for me to come inside. “Come on in, Cadence. I won’t bite.” He waits for a moment, and I walk up the steps and walk past him into the great room next to the kitchen. The ceilings are tall here, the walls made of polished dark wood, the furniture of leather and sturdy cotton canvas. I take a seat in on of the broad leather chairs, and Rowan follows to take a seat in the chair next to me. He puts the packages on the broad coffee table in front of us.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Don’t say that, girl. Not again. You’re making me feel like I did a bad thing, when all I did was get my social secretary to do what she loves best—go to Albuquerque and shop. She got your measurements, right?”
I nod. That was awkward in and of itself. “I don’t do too much that’s fancy—even though you’ve told me several times that New York is full of fancy people.”
He laughs. “Don’t worry. No fundraiser in Ruidoso, New Mexico run by a Texas boy is going to be all that fancy.” He puts his hand on mine in a reassuring gesture, but I want to jump away from it like it’s on fire, like it might burn me. Along with the fear is that leaping flame that starts deep in my body and pools between my legs—anxiety, confusion, and desire all at once. “And Cadence, please know that there’s no expectation. No pressure. This is between two friends, that’s all.”
I nod slowly, and he hands me the first package. “Okay. I guess I can accept that. I just g
et a little squirrelly when someone buys me gifts that I didn’t ask for. Call me suspicious.”
“Suspicious. Now look at those. I don’t know much about shoes and shit, except for Uggs, but Marlena says they’re real nice.” I open the box and see heels in a dark blue satin.
“These are Louboutins.” My jaw drops ever so slightly.
“Marlena said they were what you needed to have. And she said that they were pretty comfortable. Well made and all that shit. But you really need to try them on with the dress. I didn’t have much to say about that one either. I just said you really liked that blue painting in your room. I told her she needed to match that as best she could.” He slides the next package into my lap, and I put the shoes down next to me feet. The open box looks ridiculous next to my pink Chucks, but my blood is tingling at the idea of wearing Louboutins. Since the fertility treatments, I’ve bought exactly two pairs of shoes, and one of those pairs is currently on my feet. I haven’t slipped my foot into anything more expensive than kicks since I became a human pincushion four years ago.
Carefully, I lift up the top of the box to reveal a dress made of raw silk, its bodice layered with dark blue lace and beads. The skirt is full and long, the fabric perfectly reflecting the colors that are in the painting in my room upstairs. The blues blend together just like they do in the painting, and the dark blues echo the other colors in the room. I purse my lips together, and tears start to come to my eyes. “Hats off to Marlena,” I say. “This is—this is amazing.” I look up at Rowan, and I’m sure I look a fool, and a dirty, paint-covered one at that. But his eyes don’t show me that. What they show is pure bliss at giving a gift.
“Merry Christmas.”
“It’s December 14th.”
“Still, Merry Christmas. But I saved the best for last. Go on and open that last box.”
“What did you get me? What could top this? Beaded Spanx to go with my dress?” He bursts out laughing and shoves the last box into my arms.
“Spanx are those girdle things, right? You don’t need one of those. My God, woman.” He shakes his head. I start giggling again, but before I get carried away, I take the top off of the last box. Inside is a shoebox.
“No, you didn’t.”
“You always come down here in the mornings without any damn shoes on, and then you tuck your feet up under Eliza in her bed, or you complain that you’re cold. We got a winter storm coming too, day after the fundraiser. So I can’t trust the electricity to stay on in this house, and the generator doesn’t hook up to the main heat supply. We’ve got the gas fireplace on the second floor, but that doesn’t do any good on the floors. Could be just as cold as hell when that snow dumps down here.”
I lift the top of the box to see bright pink suede with thick, puffy wool peeking out of the sides. They’re not quite like Rowan’s slippers, more like the moccasins my dad wears when he’s working at home. “Oh my God. These are…”
“‘Insanely hideous?’ That’s what Marlena said. But it’s like wearing a hug on your foot. And I figured since you got those pink sneaks, you might want slippers to match.”
“They’re awful. And awesome. Thank you.” I smile wide and kick off my Chucks. I slip the Uggs on over my socks and to my surprise, I breath a sigh of relief. The chill of the day had made my feet even colder than I realized, and I had never imagined just how good it would feel to have wool encasing my feet. “Wow,” I say. “I know I gave you shit before—”
“Only a very slight amount of shit, don’t worry. My ex—” Rowan stops and looks down and to the side. “We’re not here to stir up her shoe insults. I think she thought a rich man should wear exactly what she imagined. Not that I gave any shits about what she thought I should wear. But hell, she was hard to please.”
I cross my legs on the chair I’m sitting in and pet the slippers. They were maybe $150, nothing to a man like that, and certainly far less expensive than the dress and the heels. But Marlena didn’t pick these out—Rowan did. They’re bright and garish, and very, very warm. I try to rack my brain and remember if Eli had ever gotten me anything besides a gift card for Christmas. If he did, the memory never stuck.
But now, looking down at my feet, I see that this is a moment I won’t soon forget.
There’s a sinking feeling in my gut, like I’ve suddenly gotten in over my head.
But I think I already was, spiraling toward something that I can’t control.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Come on city girl!” I shout up the stairs. For a second, I marvel at how comfortable I feel with this woman. We shouldn’t be, not after so short a time—but it feels like we’ve known each other for a long time. Not only a handful of days. “Come on, woman! I’m the guy throwing this thing. We probably shouldn’t be late. Or am I wrong?” I pause for a moment and wait to hear Cadence’s voice, that lovely, rich sound, deeper than Joanna’s voice by far, and miles more sensual.
“It’s just not fashionable! Not even when you’re throwing the party.” I hear her from the second floor, still inside of the blue guest room, still getting ready after two hours of being locked in there. She’s assured me she’s a low-maintenance woman, but after painting all damn day, her hands and arms were caked with paint, purple and green specks of it in her hair. Cadence had rolled on into this house after driving the Range Rover for the very first time, frazzled and anxious, babbling about how she’d never get the paint off her skin and nails in time for the party. There was even a speck of pink paint right in the tiny, curved nook between her bottom lip and chin. I had the instinct to pull her into my arms and kiss her right there, graze my lip over the splatter of paint. But I didn’t. Instead I watched her as she ran up the stairs, arms glued to my sides. Now, I stand right at the bottom of the stairs, waiting. Waiting and wondering just what we mean to each other.
“It’s not exactly fashionable to be late when there’s only a hundred guests and you live in the middle of nowhere and you’re the man begging all these people to be a part of your—”
Well. Hot damn.
The woman that walks from out of the shadows of the hallway isn’t one I’ve seen before. Or, not quite. This woman is elegant and refined, nails painted a dark blue to match her dress, and her hair and skin bewitched with that magic that only women seem to know how to create. When she walks to the top of the stairs, she puts her hand to her chest just above the top of the blue dress, and her smile fades like she’s self-conscious or concerned.
I must be staring. Stop. Stop staring.
But I don’t stop, even though I know that’s the reason she must look the way she does, that expression of excitement and confusion all rolled up into one on her face. It strikes me then that she looks looser, freer, more real somehow than she did when she first arrived. That hint of sweet sadness is still there behind her eyes, but it’s overpowered by everything else. And that everything else is beautiful.
No, sexy. Perfection in the form of a human woman standing right in front of me. Warmth spreads through me, sparks of energy making their way to every cell and every fiber of my body. Half of me wants to take her into my arms and kiss her, smooth back the curl from her forehead and touch her warm skin. The rest of me—the man who sees those round breasts and that high, firm ass swaying under the blue dress as pretty as the picture in her room—wants to throw her over my shoulder like a caveman and skip the whole damn fundraiser altogether.
But it’s not exactly becoming for a man to do that to a woman. Or at least that’s what I hear. I’ve spied a few of the romance novels lying around on Cadence’s night stand, and those men are ripping some bodices and throwing caution to the wind. One of the covers even said it was a “bad boy alpha male romance,” whatever the hell that means.
