by Mia Sheridan
“I told him I’d drive you home.”
I stopped, narrowing my eyes at him. Why did I get the feeling he’d intimidated Eli in some way? I glanced at the door, tempted to head back inside, to at least make sure Eli was all right. He’d been nice to take me out tonight and he didn’t deserve to be browbeaten by the owner’s son.
I put my hands on my hips. “What if I don’t want you to drive me home?”
“You’re mad at me.” He ran his hand through his hair, and I tried not to remember how thick it was, how soft, and the way it filtered through my fingers as I touched it.
“I’m not mad, Brant. I just expected a little more from you. And I’m tired. Where’s your car?”
“Right here.” He led me to what I assumed was another rental, opening the passenger side. I climbed in and a moment later, he was behind the wheel, pulling out of the parking lot. “Happy birthday, Isabelle.”
“Thank you,” I said, laying my head on the headrest.
“Is that what you were doing there? Celebrating?”
I sighed. “The guys wanted to take me out. I thought it might be good for me to get out of the house.”
I felt the heat of his gaze but didn’t look his way. We drove in silence for a few minutes. “Are you back for your father?” I finally asked. In all truth, I was glad if that were the case. From what I’d been able to tell, they hadn’t parted a couple of weeks ago on much better terms than they’d parted the first time. Perhaps Brant had come to regret that after some time away.
“I’m back for you.”
I did look at him then, my brow shooting up in surprise. We pulled onto the road leading to Graystone Hill and I saw it rising in the distance.
“I know what you mean about expecting more from me, Belle.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair again. It came away and he looked suddenly disheveled, tired, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well. “My father said you’d expect me to marry you after . . . our night together.”
My mouth fell open and I gaped at him for a second. I shook my head, blinking. “I’m sorry, what?”
He looked over at me, his gaze lingering on my expression. “You said you expected more from me. It’s what my father said too. And I . . . hell, I’m thinking it might not be such a crazy idea. Why are you looking at me like that?” He pulled into the driveway, stopping and turning off the engine.
“Let me get this straight. Your father”—I shook my head, not even wanting to think about the fact that Harrison Talbot knew that Brant and I had slept together—“knew we were . . . intimate and told you I’d expect you to marry me because of it?”
Brant’s brow creased. “Basically. What did you mean when you said you expected more from me?”
I threw the car door open, getting out and slamming it behind me. God, there was so much wrong here. Brant got out too and we stood looking at each other over the top of the car. I threw my hands into the air. “I meant I expected you to have the decency to say goodbye in person. A note, Brant? Two measly lines? But I didn’t expect you to marry me, for the love of God. That’s just . . . stupid.”
I stalked around the car, heading away from the path, down toward the stable. I wanted to check on one of the mares that had stumbled in the yard earlier and had a sprain. “Why is that so stupid?” Brant demanded, catching up to me.
“Because I know what type of man you are. I know where you live. I know where I live, and I know what that night was about. I appreciated you being there for me. A lot. And I . . .” I looked ahead as I walked, slightly embarrassed. I wasn’t used to talking openly about sex. “Well, I obviously enjoyed, er, you.” I stopped in front of the stable, turning toward him and he came up short, facing me as well. “But I never once expected a proposal to come from it. You and your stubborn old goat of a father have a lot of nerve making assumptions like that without even consulting me.”
He put his hands on his narrow hips, his expression still slightly offended, mixed with confusion. “It’s not the craziest idea, Belle. What if you’re pregnant?”
“I’m not.”
For a second I swore a shadow of disappointment moved over his expression but I had to be imagining that. Brant Talbot was not the type to be thrilled over an accidental pregnancy. “How do you know?”
“I know.” I turned, heading into the stable, the sound of Brant’s footsteps behind me.
“Anyway, there are other reasons it makes sense for us to get married, Belle. I think my father was right.”
I turned toward him slowly. “I don’t care what your father thinks. I think it’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard. And I don’t want to marry you.”
I opened the stable where Loretta was standing, munching on her hay. Going inside, I looked at the brace she was wearing, taking her leg in my hands and bending it. She didn’t stop chewing, nor did she react to my handling. I let out a relieved breath. She would be fine. Exiting the stable, I hooked the latch behind me, bending in and rubbing my cheek on Loretta’s velvety jaw. “Good girl,” I murmured.
“Why not?”
“Why not what?” I turned to Brant who was leaning a hip against the empty stall next to Loretta’s. His jeans were hanging on his hips in a way that brought to mind ideas that were both titillating and disturbing. Because I was mad and annoyed with him.
“Marry me.”
I laughed. “Are you actually being serious about this? Brant, two weeks ago you couldn’t get out of here fast enough. You didn’t even take the time to—”
“I know, say goodbye. I messed that up, Isabelle.” He shook his head, standing to his full height.
I pressed my lips together and turned, walking away from him. “You’re messing this up too.” Whatever this was.
He swore under his breath, following me again as I practically ran up the hill. Married to Brant Talbot? As if that would ever work. I’d been in a bad marriage once before—with a man who hid luxury cars and suitcases of money from me in storage lockers. I was not looking to repeat the experience. And speaking of suitcases of money, I had bigger fish to fry than shooting down Brant’s ridiculous, stemmed from guilt and who knew what else, “marriage proposal.”
I let myself into the house, Brant on my heels. “This isn’t how I pictured this. Isabelle. Stop, please. I’m sorry.”
I halted at the base of the stairs.
Brant swore softly again and I heard the frustration in his tone. “God, why am I always apologizing to you?”
I turned, my hand on the railing. “Because you always revert back to acting like a knuckle-brained Neanderthal.”
He let out a short chuckle but then went serious. “You’re right.” He put his hands in his pockets and tilted his head, and for a second he looked so vulnerable that it strained my heart. Oh no.
“Think about it, Isabelle.” He walked toward me and my instinct was to back away, not because he posed a threat to my body, but because he was a threat to my sanity . . . and my heart. I was weak when it came to Brant. Oh, maybe I’d always been weak when it came to the dreams of my heart—so hopeful of realizing them that I leapt before I really looked.
Reckless, always so damn reckless.
I clenched my eyes shut for a moment, shaking my head. “What’s in this for you, Brant? I don’t get it.”
Brant reached me, putting his hand over mine on the banister. “I want to make you happy, Belle. I’d protect you. Graystone Hill would be ours.”
“If this is about Graystone Hill, I told you—”
“I don’t need Graystone Hill.” He shook his head. “I’ve built my own empire in New York. This is about you and me and an arrangement that just plain makes sense. We could live part of the year here and part in New York. It’d be perfect.”
“You’ve thought all this over.”
He nodded his head.
“And yet, you never asked me what I thought.”
He looked briefly puzzled. “I just—”
“You assumed. And I’m so done with
men assuming what I want. Go back to New York, Brant. Go back to your life. Leave a note or not. But no, I will not marry you. Now I’m tired and it’s my birthday and I’m going to take a hot bath and go to bed.” And with that, I turned, jogging up the stairs to my room, the heat of Brant’s gaze on my back.
Once safely behind my door, I leaned against it, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. I was angry and frustrated, annoyed and still shocked by the fact that Brant had returned tonight, much less because of the reason why. Marry him! As if. And yet, I hated myself for the shimmery excitement that lit my veins at the very idea of being Brant Talbot’s wife.
But not like this. Brant’s presence here—and this ludicrous idea that we should get married—was born of expectation, guilt, and false assumptions. I would not be reckless this time. I would not give myself away for an arrangement that made sense. I would not.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Brant
That had gone horribly. Fuck. Worst “proposal” in the history of the world. What was wrong with me when it came to Isabelle? It was like my brain deserted me, and all my base emotions took over, making me look like a total ass.
I rolled over, picking up my cell phone on the bedside table. 7:06 a.m. I sat up, squinting at the window where light shone in at the edges. I stood, making my way to the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping under the hot spray of the water.
A new day. A new chance to make this right. I was Brant Talbot—I always got what I wanted. I paused, the suds from the shampoo in my hair dripping down my cheek. So why did I feel so out of my element?
Because I cared about Isabelle. I liked her. And I didn’t just want to win her. I wanted her to want me. I leaned a hand against the shower wall, feeling overwhelmed and vulnerable, and like hightailing it away from here for the third time.
I expected more from you.
I needed coffee. Once dried and dressed, I headed toward the kitchen. When I entered the huge room, my father and May were standing as if to head out.
“Brant!” May sung out, clapping her hands together in happiness, her smile beaming. I smiled back and then looked at my father.
“You’re back,” my father noted, no emotion in his tone. And yet I swore something that looked like satisfaction shone in his eyes.
“You don’t miss a thing, do you, Harrison?”
“Oh, I miss plenty. You here to see me off?”
I frowned. “See you off where?”
“Your dad is leaving for a lung treatment this morning,” May said. “I’m going to drive him to Louisville and stay with my cousin for the weekend while he’s there.”
“Breathing treatment?”
“It’ll decrease the pressure your father’s been feeling in his chest. Make him more comfortable they say,” May said, shooting my father a glance that held a measure of sympathy. What she was saying, I guessed, was that this was a treatment that would aid in his comfort, but not in the longevity of his life.
“We’ll be home on Monday,” May went on. “Isabelle will be here. You’ve got the house to yourselves, I guess.”
My heart picked up. “Has Isabelle been down yet?”
“Isabelle’s surely been up for hours. The girl rises before the sun. Probably out riding.”
“Where does she go?”
“Oh, all over,” May answered.
I frowned, not liking the idea of Isabelle out galloping through the pastures by herself. What if the horse fell? What if she got injured? Hell, the woman didn’t even carry a cell phone.
When I looked at my father I realized he was watching me closely, a small knowing smile on his lips that made me feel defensive for some unknown reason. “You were wrong about Isabelle, you know. She doesn’t expect a damn thing from me.”
“Do you want her to?”
A resounding yes echoed through my mind. “Maybe,” I replied.
He regarded me for a heartbeat. “From what I recall, you always were a persistent little bugger.”
May was looking back and forth between my dad and me, but she didn’t ask the questions I could see in her eyes, for which I was grateful. “Well, come on then,” May said. “If we don’t leave now, we’ll be late. You take care, Brant, and I’ll see you on Monday?” She eyed me hopefully, putting a hand on my shoulder.
“Yeah, May, you’ll see me Monday.”
She smiled, nodding her head as she moved past me. My father gave me one last look and then they both headed toward the front door, my father grumbling about having to endure May’s driving for the next hour.
I poured myself a cup of coffee in a travel mug, pulled my jacket from the hall closet, and headed to the stable. I saddled up Trapper, a beautiful chestnut whose personality was the perfect mix of gentle and feisty. He’d want to run, but he’d be responsive to my direction.
I rode out of the stable, waving at the guys in the yard and calling to let them know I’d be back soon. They waved in acknowledgment, turning back to their work. I was now recognized here and that knowledge sent a spiral of satisfaction through me. I was part of this place once again, not only in spirit, but in actuality. I was grateful that none of the staff were cold toward me. I had no clue what could and would have been said about my thirteen-year absence.
I allowed Trapper to run freely for a little while, keeping my eyes peeled for the sight of a lone rider out in the open pastures. There were so many small copses of trees, though, so it was difficult to see far in any one direction.
The stream had receded to its normal depth, and I could tell the ground was solid beneath Trapper’s feet. I thought back to the night of the flood, everything inside me quickening: my heart, the blood flowing through my veins, the desire in my body for the woman I was looking for. Where are you, Isabelle?
Just as I posed the question, I saw the small shape of a rider off to my right in the far distance and turned Trapper, anticipation and happiness ricocheting through my chest. Trapper and I moved toward her at a steady gallop and as we got closer, I realized her horse was standing still, neck lowered, grazing.
Isabelle looked over her shoulder and even though she was too far away for me to see her expression clearly, I saw her nudge her horse then move away from me, the horse breaking into a run.
She looked over her shoulder again and I thought she was smiling, which made me laugh in return, nudging Trapper faster, the charge of chasing a fleeing female catching at the primal part of me. Knuckle-headed Neanderthal, she’d called me. I laughed. Maybe she was right. Maybe there was something in a man’s DNA that naturally thrilled to a good chase. She raced ahead of me, this woman who seemed to know me better than I knew myself—or at least wasn’t afraid to call me on my bullshit. I hated it. And I loved it.
“Slow down,” I called, laughing.
She looked over her shoulder again. “Are you going to keep asking me to marry you?”
“Is that why you’re running from me?”
“Yes!” She laughed, the wind picking up the sweet sound and tossing it back at me.
God, she was amazing.
I nudged Trapper harder. Belle was a better rider than I was, I could admit as much, but the horse she’d chosen to take out today was a dappled-gray mare named Pretty Penny. She was sweet and reliable, but she couldn’t outrun Trapper. No way. I gained on her, leaning low like the jockeys, letting the cold fall air whoosh past me.
I came up right beside her and she shot me a look of annoyance, but I saw the side of her lip turn up slightly before she slowed, falling behind me. I nudged Trapper to a halt, pulling on his reins and turning, trotting back to where Isabelle now stood. I squinted at her, smiling. She was so damn beautiful sitting atop her horse, her hair almost completely loose from her braid, the red highlights glinting as they picked up the sunlight. She was fresh-faced, not a lick of makeup, wearing old jeans and a sweatshirt that looked about two sizes too big, and she was the most stunning woman who’d ever walked the earth.
“You’re staring.”
&nb
sp; “I know. You’re beautiful.”
She blinked and looked down for a second and then back up at me, a stain of pink blossoming on her cheeks. “Flattery won’t work. I still won’t marry you.”
I chuckled, looking off into the horizon for a second. When I looked back at Isabelle my expression was serious. “I’m not trying to flatter you, Belle.” I rode closer so the sides of our horses’ bellies touched. I took her hand in mine. “I wish I could do last night over.”
Her eyes lingered on mine for a second. “Yeah? What would you have done differently?”
I used one finger to run along the delicate bones of her knuckle. “First of all, I would have told you I was sorry for leaving without saying goodbye.” I watched my hand holding hers for a moment, hers so much smaller than mine. She was so strong, so courageous, and yet she was so delicate too. This woman who’d shown up in my world and knocked me sideways. “I’m sorry, Belle.” I met her eyes. “You deserved more than that. I convinced myself it was better for everyone if I left. But the truth was, I was spinning in a hundred different directions and needed to get myself straight. But even so, I should have found you. I should have at least said goodbye. I should have told you how much that night meant to me.”
She watched me, taking her bottom lip into her mouth. My jeans suddenly felt tight. I remembered what that full lip tasted like and wanted to taste it again.
You could. If she was yours you could taste it every day for the rest of your life.
“And, I should have greeted you properly last night. I should have bought you a drink and wished you a happy birthday. Let me make it up to you, Belle. Let me take you out tonight.”
She looked away. “I saw you, you know, online with that blonde on your arm.” Vulnerability skated over her expression before she glanced back. She’d looked me up. Somehow that knowledge brought me hope. She’d thought about me while we’d been apart too. Wondered enough to look online and find a picture of me with some blonde. Blonde? Ah, Sondra. The fundraiser. I’d seen her for two minutes, max. “Why come back for me when you have women like that waiting for you in New York?”
