by T. K. Leigh
He leans toward me, his voice a heady growl. “Fuck the itinerary.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Fuck the itinerary indeed.
Over the next several weeks, that’s precisely what Julian and I did. I still accompanied him to the myriad of events that seemed be the hallmark of summer in the Hamptons, where he continued to try to convince many of the power players that his project was worth them investing their time and connections, but we also spent time together away from the Hamptons.
On more than one occasion, he made the trek back to the city to take me to dinner, or for a walk through Central Park, or to see Hamilton…after I’d mentioned I’d yet to see it and doubted I’d ever be able to score a ticket. He claimed he needed to come into the city for work anyway, but the fact that he seemed to spend many work hours with me made me believe otherwise.
When I wasn’t with Julian, I worked tirelessly on getting more of a feel for who August Laurent truly is. Now I know why Viv was so eager to green light this story. He’s incredibly tight-lipped. Yes, over the course of our phone conversations and email exchanges, he’s given me some insight into what he does and why, all revolving around the theme of empowering women and making them feel beautiful during a difficult time. But the article is missing something. No matter how many times I’ve written and rewritten it, it’s not the gripping exposé I’d originally envisioned. Not without more than he’s given me.
I tried to press for details about his clients, even asking if I could talk to a few with a guarantee of complete anonymity, but he denied my request instantly. Without any other option, I asked if the rumors about him and Sonia Moreno were true. I thought perhaps that would encourage him to open up more. I may have overplayed my hand because an entire week has gone by without so much as a response to any of my emails.
Before Viv approached me regarding this promotion, I’d always enjoyed my work. Writing for the sex and dating columns has been one of the least stressful jobs I’ve ever had. Yes, there are deadlines and Viv can be particular with how the articles are worded and presented, but after a while, I learned what she liked and adjusted my style to match her preference. Now I can’t help but feel like a complete failure, like I’m not cut out for this. Maybe my parents are right. Maybe I’m better suited to teach.
When Julian picks me up on the second Friday in August for my obligatory weekend in the Hamptons, I try not to let this roadblock affect my mood, but it’s obvious something’s bothering me. The instant I’m in the front seat of his Porsche Spyder…or as I’ve affectionately renamed her, Monday…Julian notices.
“You okay?” He steals a glance at me as he merges into traffic.
I float my eyes from the trendy buildings that make up the East Village, forcing a smile. “Of course.”
“Are you sure? You seem…off.” He shifts into third as he continues up First toward the interstate.
“I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yes. Fine.”
“Hmm.”
“What?” I tilt my head.
“During his lifetime, Mr. Price offered a great deal of advice, most of it regarding operating and building a successful business. But he also gave me real-world advice.” Licking his lips, he glances at me, our eyes locking before he returns his attention to the road. “One of the things he told me was if a woman ever says she’s fine, I should run for cover.”
I laugh softly as I gaze at him, a nostalgic twinkle in his eyes.
“You’re not fine, Guinevere. Remember what I said at the beginning. No lies. It’s the only way this will work. Tell me what’s bothering you.” His voice is soft and comforting as he grasps my hand in his.
“I thought we weren’t going to do the whole sharing of our sob stories?”
“Is it a sob story?” he asks hesitantly.
“No. Just some trouble at work.” I grit out a smile. I’ve tried to keep my troubles to myself, considering Julian has his own problems with getting his project up and running. “Nothing to concern yourself with. Don’t worry. I’ll be my usual charming self this weekend. I need to figure out my next step. That’s all.”
He abruptly pulls the car to the side of the road, putting on his hazards. In typical New York fashion, horns blare and drivers shout expletives as they pass, flipping him off. It doesn’t deter him.
“What are you doing?”
Once he shifts into neutral and engages the parking brake, he faces me, his eyes hardened. “I never intended this arrangement to cause you problems at work. You don’t have to come with me this weekend.”
“It’s not,” I insist. “This is a me issue. It has nothing to do with our arrangement. I guess I didn’t realize how difficult…” I trail off.
“How difficult what?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He brings his hand to my cheek and I melt into him. He tenderly grazes his thumb over my bottom lip. It’s a subtle, gentle touch, one most may not react to. But that’s all it takes to ignite the spark, the unquenchable thirst building inside me. Now that I know exactly how it feels to have Julian’s hands on the most intimate parts of my body, that thirst has only increased. There have been so many instances I’ve been on the brink of initiating something more.
Like when he took me to a pottery class. I thought it would be fun to recreate the scene from Ghost, complete with appropriate background music, which I sang myself. The way he stared at me, his eyes dancing with amusement as he tried not to laugh at the spectacle I made, only increased the connection I felt to him. Trevor would have tried to hide out of embarrassment. Not Julian.
Like when he surprised me with a trip to one of the most beautiful bookstores I’d ever seen. He barely took his eyes off me as I roamed the aisles in wonder of all the stories filling the gorgeous space. I’d asked Trevor to take me there dozens of times. I never even had to ask Julian. He did it because he knew I’d enjoy it.
Like when he realized I started waking up early to watch the sunrise over the ocean. He began getting up, too. Now, whenever I open the French doors and step onto the balcony of his exquisite home, he’s waiting for me, holding a cup of coffee prepared the way I like it. Trevor never made coffee for me.
Regardless of how close we’ve become, the ball’s remained firmly in my court. There have been countless opportunities for me to toss it back to him. But I haven’t, scared it will ruin what we’ve built.
“I told you. I’ll always worry about you. If you’d rather stay in the city to focus on work, I understand.”
“Thank you.” I sigh, finding comfort in his words. There are so many sides to Julian, I can’t decide which I like best. One minute, he can be mysterious and aloof. The next, sweet and compassionate. And still the next, tortured and defeated. All parts that make up this man who’s unwittingly found his way under my skin where he’s burrowed so deeply I’m unsure whether I’ll be able to let go. But, in less than a month, I have to do just that.
Swallowing hard, I pull back, forcing him to drop his hold on me. “Maybe a weekend away to clear my head is what I need. Sometimes the best medicine is a little sun and sand.” I turn my lips into a small smile.
“Are you sure? I really don’t mind—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt, crossing my arms in front of my chest as I tap my foot, feigning annoyance. “And if you don’t take me, I’ll hop on a train and show up at your house, so you may as well enjoy my company for another two hours.” I pass him a playful look, winking. “Plus, as if the hair weren’t a dead giveaway, I’m Irish, and I have the stubbornness to prove it. You’re not going to win this battle with me, Mr. Gage.”
Pinching his lips together, he studies me for a moment, then pushes out a breath. “Fine. We’ll compromise.”
“Compromise?”
“Precisely.” Disengaging the parking brake, he presses his foot on the clutch before shifting into first and pulling back into traffic without signaling. Horns honk all around us, but J
ulian ignores them.
New York drivers.
“And what would that be?” I lean against the seat, tilting my head to admire him. God, I love the confidence he exudes when he drives, the way he handles the car stirring too many fantasies to the surface of my subconscious.
“You can spend the weekend with me in the Hamptons, but just me.” He lifts his brows.
“Just…you?” I swallow hard, my pulse increasing.
“Exactly. No parties. No dinners. No distractions. Just us and whatever we want to do. We’ll be on our own schedule. No one else’s.”
“Just us?”
Approaching a traffic light, Julian presses on the brake, coming to a stop. As he licks his lips and curves toward me, I almost combust right there, the proximity of his mouth to mine making me want to erase the last bit of space between us and finally have a taste of what I’ve fantasized about since my first weekend in the Hamptons. Since he picked me up for our first dinner together. Since I first saw him from across the bar on what I thought was the worst night of my life.
“Just us,” he confirms.
On a hard swallow, I slowly nod. “Okay. Just us.”
“Perfect.” He grins, pulling away from me. “Oh, and by the way...”
“Yes?”
“You have no idea what hearing you call me Mr. Gage does to me, Guinevere,” he growls, the husky rumble hitting me deep in my core. I open my mouth, stunned, unsure how to respond to his brazen flirting. Thankfully, the light turns green and he puts the car back into gear, following the flow of traffic.
I blow out a long breath, smoothing a ringlet behind my ear as I squeeze my legs together, praying he doesn’t pick up on how on edge I am. If he does, he doesn’t say anything.
When we walk into Julian’s house after an uneventful drive, it’s unusually quiet. Normally the foyer is bathed with light, heavenly aromas of whatever Camille has prepared for me to eat upon my arrival meeting me. Now it appears like a ghost town.
“Where is everyone?”
“I gave them the weekend off,” he explains as he heads toward the stairs.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“When did you do that?”
“When you dozed off on the drive.”
“I’m sorry. I’m a horrible fake girlfriend. I’ve just been really tired lately, and—”
“Has anyone told you how adorable you are when you snore?” He continues up the stairs and down the corridor leading to the wing where our bedrooms are located.
“I do not snore.”
“You do. Don’t worry,” he adds quickly. “It’s not this big, gravelly snore that makes me worry you’re about to keel over and die. It’s this little snore, almost like a whistle.”
“A whistle?”
“Yes. A whistle. Music to my ears, baby doll.”
When we reach the door to what’s become my room, he doesn’t stop, continuing toward his, leaving me confused. Every other weekend, there’s been an itinerary full of events for us to attend. Without that, I’m uncertain what to do, how to act, who to be.
“Julian?” I call out. He spins around, arching a brow. “What are we doing?”
“You wanted a bit of sun and sand. Go put on a swimsuit. I’m taking you out on my boat.”
I chew on my lower lip. “I’m not sure I have one for this weekend. This wasn’t on the itinerary, so I doubt Dana set one aside. There are a few outfits in case of emergency, but I didn’t see an extra bathing suit.”
“Just put on one you’ve already worn. If I can make a suggestion…” He grins a devious smile. “That two-piece you wore your first day here was…” His eyes harden as his pupils dilate, the vein in his neck throbbing.
“Yes?” I bat my lashes.
“Hot, Guinevere. It was fucking hot.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Holy crap,” I moan as I revel in the flavors dancing on my tongue. Garlic. Butter. The spiciness from the bold cabernet Julian opened to complement our meal.
“Why do you sound so surprised?” he replies in a smooth voice, smirking as he raises his wine glass and takes a sip, swirling the liquid around his mouth. His eyes never leave me as I indulge in his exquisitely prepared dinner. I sense he likes watching me enjoy the fruits of his labor.
“I never pegged you for the type who could cook.” I tear my gaze from his, looking at the darkened ocean from the small bistro table on the patio overlooking the pool where we currently dine. The breeze wraps around my skin that’s sun-kissed after spending several hours relaxing and reading on the deck of Julian’s boat. But any chill that would normally find me is chased away by the fire pit.
Everything about today has been perfect. For the first time since we began this charade, it felt authentic, like we were a real couple enjoying each other’s company instead of putting on a show for everyone. He took me out on his boat, then let me drive one of his cars into the downtown area, where we indulged in ice cream. Seeing a farmer’s market, we stopped and picked up the steaks we’re currently savoring.
“Especially this well,” I add as I slice into the filet mignon once more, the preparation rivaling that of any steak I’ve had in recent memory.
“I guess there’s a lot about me you don’t know.”
“There certainly is, Mr. Gage. So why don’t you tell me something else most people don’t know about you.”
After a moment of contemplation, he shakes his head. “You first.”
I lift my brows. “Me first?”
“Precisely. You just learned I enjoy cooking. I want to know something interesting about you, Miss Fitzgerald.”
“Okay.” I adjust my posture, squaring my shoulders. “What would you like to know?”
He pinches his chin, studying me. “What would you like to tell me? What are your likes, dislikes, hobbies, stuff like that?”
“I enjoy saying ‘You’re welcome’ loudly when someone doesn’t say thank you.”
Julian bursts out laughing. “I’d love to be around to see that. But how about something serious?”
“That is serious.”
Not saying a word, he narrows his eyes.
“Fine.” I push out a breath. “I speak four languages.”
“Is that right? And here I was trying to impress you with my knowledge of French. Which do you speak?”
“English.”
“Obviously.”
“But I’m also fluent in profanity, sarcasm, and pirate.”
He chuckles, but it quickly fades, his expression contemplative. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Use humor as a mask.”
I blink repeatedly, his words surprising me. “I don’t use humor as a mask,” I insist as I avert my gaze.
“You do. Over the summer, I’ve picked up on that. Anytime we broach a subject you’re uncomfortable with, you make a joke. Granted, I think your sense of humor is incredibly sexy, but I often wonder what you’re hiding, what skeletons lurk in your closet to cause this uncertainty or apprehension.”
“There are no skeletons in my closet.”
“Everyone has skeletons.”
“Do you?”
Julian’s jaw hardens, his stare becoming distant. I’m reminded of the scars on his abdomen, of Camille’s warning that there’s a darkness hanging over him. I’ve seen it firsthand. One minute, things will be great. Better than great. Then something happens to force him to withdraw into himself.
“I do,” he finally says, surprising me. I expected him to avoid the question. “Like I said. Everyone has skeletons.”
“Well, I don’t.” I stab one of my brussels sprouts with my fork, bringing it to my mouth. “I had the perfect life. My parents are still married and live in the same town. Dad was my high school principal and Mom’s an Honors English teacher in the next town.”
“Siblings?”
“An older brother.”
“And what is it he does?”
“He’s an Engli
sh professor at the University of Nebraska.”
“And you studied English, as well, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re not a teacher. Excuse me for saying, but it appears as though that’s the normal track, at least in your family.”
“That’s true, but—”
“But you didn’t want to teach, did you?”
I shake my head as a small smile forms on my lips. “That was their dream for me, not mine.”
“Then tell me…” He leans back in the chair, his eyes bemused. “What is Guinevere Fitzgerald’s dream?”
“This conversation feels awfully one-sided.”
“How so?”
“You’re giving me the third degree, yet you don’t have to answer my questions?”
“You can find anything you’d like to know about me on the Internet. The same doesn’t go for you.”
“Not everything…,” I draw out, but he ignores my comment.
“So tell me your dreams, baby doll.”
When he uses such an endearing term, I’m cast under his spell, opening like a flower, urged to spill my secrets, hopes, frustrations, things I never even shared with Trevor, mainly because I didn’t want him to worry about my problems when he had his own worries with college, law school, and his career.
I’ve often told my readers that relationships aren’t fifty-fifty. Sometimes you have to do a little more heavy lifting to help your partner through a difficult time, just like they’ll have to do the same for you. It’s more like a see-saw. There are ups and downs, but it eventually evens out.
It was never really even with Trevor. I was always the one using all my weight to lift him up, sacrificing my dreams so he could achieve his own. I deserve better than that. Now, thanks to Julian, I realize that. This makes me want to share things I’ve kept inside.
“Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamt of being a writer,” I say finally. “That’s all I wanted. I remember sneaking into my parents’ room and stealing one of my mother’s romance novels when I was only twelve or thirteen. I’d hide away in my room and devour it in hours. That’s when I fell in love with…love. And unrealistic expectations.” Laughing at how naïve I was back then, I look at the ocean waves with an unfocused gaze. When I sense the heat of his stare on me, I return my attention to my dinner, taking a bite of my steak before I continue.
