17. Eloise
17
ELOISE
“ I mpressive,” I mutter as the car pulls into the roundabout in front of what looks like a gray stone castle. I know hockey franchise owners have money, but this place is next level.
“Is this the right place, ma’am?” the driver questions somewhat peevishly as I gawk at the house rather than taking care of my fare.
“Oh, yes, sorry.” I pull out my phone, open the app, pay my fare, and leave a tip. “We should be even.”
“Thank you.” The pitch in his tone is noticeably more pleasant after he sees my tip. “Would you like me to help you get your things from the back?”
“No, I can get it. Just pop the trunk when I get out.”
I curse as I step out of the SUV onto the cobblestone roundabout in front of the Bronson Estate. In my haste to make it here on time, I didn’t think about wearing appropriate shoes for my back injury. The last forty-eight hours have been a mess. One thing I never should have done was take a walk through the woods with Dash. I should have known better. He’s too adventurous, and I’m too curious. My back and thighs hate me today. Dash and I left the old hunting cabin at sunrise just as planned, leaving the secrets we shared with it. Besides Quinn, who is technically my sister-in-law and therefore obligated to endure my presence, I don’t have a ton of close girlfriends. The girls I know back home in Copper Falls are acquaintances who, if I’m being honest, had ulterior motives in our friendship. Everyone was always trying to land my brother. Now that he’s locked down, I’ve seen them less. The only friendships that have stuck are the ones I have with men like Arlo and Dash. If you had told me Dash Westin would be the guy I spilled my heart to, I wouldn’t have believed it. Not because he isn’t great, but because it’s not our dynamic. We’ve been friends for a long time. He’s guaranteed to make you smile, he has the best stories, and there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for someone he cares about. The guy is a catch. He’s just not my catch. Hell, I’m not even sure I have a catch anymore.
Looking at the mansion before me, my stomach knots. I last spoke to Cal on Friday night when he hung up on me. It’s now Sunday. Yesterday, once Dash and I got down the mountain, we made a pit stop at the first place we came across, which happened to be a diner. After freshening up in the bathroom, we had a big breakfast before getting back on the road. I called Cal the second we got on the road, but it rang until finally going to voicemail. On the last leg of our four-hour drive home, the highway was shut down after a logging truck lost its load, causing a massive accident. There were fatalities, and the road had to be cleared of debris and trees. When I tried calling him again, knowing I’d once again not make it home, it went straight to voicemail, and the texts I sent him went unanswered. But I’m here today because I’m showing up for him. His words haven’t left my mind since they were spoken. He is the one thing I’ve never wanted to lose. He puts up with my crazy, and I’m pretty sure the man I left two days ago would have stood by my side if the world came crashing down around us. The conclusion I’ve come to is this: I want that man, the one who’ll stay through thick and thin, but I’ll never know if Cal’s that man if I never give him a chance. Time to show him I’m all in.
As I reach into the trunk to grab my stand-in grand gesture, an unfamiliar voice startles me. “Let me help you with that.”
“Oh, it’s okay…” I say, only for my words to die off when my eyes land on my visitor.
The man before me has dark midnight eyes. If it were not daylight, I would have sworn I saw the stars reflected in their sparkle. His hair is as black as his suit and just as immaculate, styled into a swept-back quiff. There’s something utterly enchanting about his look. It’s classic, like something that stepped out of another era, and by the way his brow furrows and one side of his mouth hooks into the start of a smile, I’m clearly staring hard.
“I’ve got it, really,” I insist, pulling it out. “Looks can be deceiving. It’s not heavy. It’s only a painting.”
“A gentleman never has idle hands when a lady’s are full. Please allow me.” He grips the painting. “We’re going to the same place anyway.”
I look toward the house. At least ten stone steps are on the sweeping grand staircase leading to the front entrance. “Okay, thank you,” I say as I close the trunk, and the Uber driver pulls away. “Have you been here before?” I ask, making small talk to take my mind off of seeing Callum with Blair. I know it’s for show or was… Stop it. I internally scold myself. It’s been forty-eight hours, not a year, and you asked for this , I remind myself. While it may be necessary, it won’t be easy to accept.
“Yes, I’m quite familiar with the home. And you, have you ever been here?”
“No, I’m nobody. I was invited because I painted a picture for the charity gala.”
We stop at the front door, and he turns to me. “Then I can assure you that you are most definitely nobody. Tell me, does nobody have a name?”
I smile. “Yes, my name is Eloise. And yours?”
“I’m Wells.”
“Wells… Is that short for something?”
He flashes me a half smile before pursing his lips. “No, just Wells.”
Palm to forehead, I say, “I’m sorry, where are my manners? That was off-putting if not borderline offensive. I didn’t mean it to be. It’s just not a name you hear every day.”
“Your name isn’t one you hear every day anymore, either. Shall we?” He nods to the door.
“Yes, I’ll get it.”
As I reach across for the doorbell, he goes for the knob and pushes it open. “I got it.” He tucks my painting under his arm and gestures inside. “Ladies first.”
I smile. “Um, I’ll wait for someone to answer the door. I don’t know these people well enough to just walk in. You go ahead. Just close the door and pretend you never saw me.”
Heck, if I stand here waiting long enough, maybe Dash will arrive with my actual grand gesture. It’s why I took an Uber to begin with. I was already running late. There was no way I would have had time to shower, change, make myself presentable, and stop at the UPS store to pick up my surprise for Cal. Dash offered to help and I didn’t say no. The painting I have now is only a backup in case he doesn’t get here in time.
He laughs. “You’re funny, Eloise. I like that. It’s cold out here, and I think you should come inside with me since whatever dress you chose is shorter than your coat.”
My legs are cold, but when I chose this dress, I was thinking of Cal and not the weather. He’s a fan of short skirts and dresses, and I’m here to make dramatic gestures and ensure he remembers what he has.
“Fine,” I say as I step inside. “But you need to tell someone that you let me in. I don’t want anyone thinking I just walked in like I owned the place.”
“Sure,” he says with a chuckle. “I believe today’s lunch is being held in the conservatory.”
I follow him through the grand main entrance. I’m not a stranger to money. I was raised with a silver spoon in my mouth, literally, but this place is unreal. The ceilings must be at least twenty feet tall and painted like a cathedral, and when you look around the rooms, it’s like you’ve been time-ported back to Queen Victoria’s reign. Everything looks like something you could expect walking into one of the queen’s sitting rooms. As I look around, I can’t help but think Wells dressed the part, knowing where he was coming to today. It explains why he looks so classically chic.
We pass a parlor, the kitchen, and a formal dining room before we run into an older gentleman. “Ah, Mr. Wells, who is your guest?” He has kind eyes, and I can tell this must be the Bronsons’ butler by the way he’s dressed.
“This is Eloise. Would you mind taking her coat and perhaps grabbing an easel from the workshop? She brought a painting for the charity gala, and I’m assuming you plan on revealing it to the guests.”
“Yes, but you don’t have to make a hassle. I’m sure I can find somewhere to set it.”
“Oh, it’s no hassle, Miss Eloise. It is my job. Please join the guests, and I will take care of the rest.”
I give him my coat, and Wells hands over the painting. “Thank you,” I say as he does a curt bow and takes off in the direction we just came from.
His midnight eyes do a studied perusal of my baby-blue satin dress before he props his elbow out. “Are you ready?”
“I am,” I say, careful to only rest my hand in the crook of his elbow rather than looping my entire arm. Body language is a big deal. The extension of his elbow was a cordial gesture. Looping my entire arm through his alters, the whole exchange signifying a closeness we do not share. The last thing I need to do is give Cal more reasons to believe I’m not putting him first. The second we walk through the doors, my tension eases just a little. All eyes aren’t on me as I thought they might be, considering I’m late. Instead, there are cocktail tables set up around the greenhouse with guests mingling. “I didn’t realize this many people would be here.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No, the opposite. I don’t care to be the center of attention.”
His lips pull to one side. “Then you probably should have chosen another dress.” He nods toward a few tables to my right. “You already have a few admirers.” I glance over and make eye contact with a few guys I recognize from the Kings, including Roe. I flash them a smile, and Wells pulls at my arm. “May I escort you to the bar?”
I let my eyes briefly scan the conservatory and that’s when I see him. Cal is standing at the bar, and he’s not alone. Even with her back to me, I’d know that dark brown hair and triangle-shaped figure anywhere… Blair. It’s been years since I’ve seen her in the flesh, and I would have enjoyed never seeing her again, but here we are in the mess I willingly agreed to. Idiot. I could kick myself for ever agreeing to this. “Yes, a drink sounds good.”
“Wells, will you ever arrive on time?” Mr. Bronson says as we step up to the bar. While I’ve never met Mr. Bronson, I’ve seen his picture enough times in the news to know who he is without a formal introduction.
“Tipper,” a woman with jet-black hair beside him playfully swats his arm. “He brought a date. Give him a break.”
“Oh, no?—”
His hand covers mine, and he squeezes it. “Mother, this is Eloise.” Wait, did he just say mother? Damn, I should have been noisier and asked him for a last name, but since I don’t ever give my own, choosing to keep as much anonymity as possible, I didn’t want to give him an opening to ask the same. Now his audacity to simply let himself in makes more sense.
“Are you okay?” a female voice asks as we all follow the sound of someone choking and gasping for air.
When I turn, I see it’s Cal smacking his chest. “Yeah, I’m good…” he answers as he struggles to gain composure. “It just went down the wrong pipe,” he adds as his amber eyes collide with mine for the first time in days, and suddenly, I’m the one needing air.
We all stare at him for a few short seconds before Wells continues where he left off. “She’s not my date.” He glances at me, adding, “Though I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea.”
“Aren’t you already seeing someone?” Cal clears his throat as he chimes in.
“You two know each other?” Mrs. Bronson asks.
“Yes, she’s the artist donating a special piece to the charity gala. This is Eloise Grey.”
Her eyebrows tug together, and Mr. Bronson says, “I’m so sorry, Miss Grey.” He reaches across his son, extending his hand in salutation. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen a picture of you with your family in the media. You’ll have to excuse our manners.”
As he withdraws his hand, his wife says, “But if you’re not seeing anyone, Wells is single.”
“And he can land his own dates, Mother,” Wells says before gesturing to the bartender and asking me, “What would you like to drink?”
“I’ll take a glass of Pinot.”
“Scotch on the rocks. Make it a double,” Wells tacks onto my order.
“I apologize for my tardiness,” I say to Mr. Bronson. “My friend and I got stuck in that mess on the highway last night. I didn’t get home until a few hours ago.”
“Oh, it’s not a problem. We would have understood if you couldn’t make it, dear,” Mrs. Bronson sympathizes.
“Yes, I considered that, but I didn’t want to let Cal down. I told him I’d come, and besides, I thought you’d like to take a look at the piece I’ll be donating to the charity for auction.” I lace my fingers and rest them on the bar. “After all, my work has not been seen. This painting is from my private collection.”
“Well, that’s not true. I’ve seen your paintings,” Blair says, entering the conversation, likely jealous that the discussion has been centered around me since I showed up at the bar. “She paints flowers for fun. That hardly makes her an artist.”
I let my eyes meet hers for the first time in six years, and the second I look into them, I see the same ho-in-a-half I’ve always seen. Her comment was a dig, small but a hit all the same, and while I should take the high road and keep my face impassive. I don’t. Instead, I level her with a glare that says game on, bitch.
“Maybe you’re not remembering correctly,” I say sweetly. “The last time you saw my work, I believe you referred to it as delightful.”
Her eyebrows pinch together as she sets down her wine glass on the bar. “So then you admit people have seen your work before?”
I smile and roll my lips. She walked right into my trap. “Oh, no, not at all. You may have seen me painting back in high school, but I never painted anything to completion when people were around. It gave me anxiety.” I spin the stem on a glass of Pinot. “I was referring to the comment you made the other day when you stopped by Callum’s place to do his one-on-one interview.”
Gotcha. I may not be one hundred percent sure about what circumstance brought her here, but I know one thing she can be sure of now is it was me who knocked something over in Cal’s bedroom, not a cat, which also means I’m the reason he was walking around shirtless with swollen lips. Cal picks up his glass and brings it to his mouth to hide his snicker.
“I was under the impression Cal painted that picture.” She looks down at her matte black nails before saying, “It’s a shame. The painting won’t be revealed at the charity auction. The pictures I included with the article I submitted last night had your piece in the background.”
Wells squeezes my shoulder, stealing my attention. When I turn to him, he nods to the butler. “Sorry to interrupt, Miss Eloise, but I wanted to let you know the easel and painting have been placed at the head of the table. I can move it?—”
“No need. That’s perfect. Thank you.” I pull my phone out of my clutch and check to see if I have any missed messages from Dash. Where are you, Dash?
As the butler walks away, Wells leans in and says, “I’ve had about enough of this pretentious bullshit. Join me at the table so we can get this over with.”
“Okay,” I say, picking up my glass to follow.
“Father, how about we sit? I’m sure the staff is anxiously rushing around the kitchen to keep things warm as the cocktail hour has run over.” He doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, he heads for the table. “Besides, I’m intrigued to see this incredibly dismal portrait of flowers,” he says with a playful, sympathetic smile. “Allow me.” Wells pulls out my chair, and I sit. I don’t need to look at Blair to know her eyes scrutinize my every move. I can feel the fire in her glare heating my back as she frustratedly taps her black nail against her glass.
As expected, the crowd in attendance follows Wells’s lead. Everyone takes their seats, and Cal comes around the table to sit across from Wells and me, Blair trailing one step behind him, her hand on his sports coat. I can’t help but roll my eyes. Even after the revelations I shared, she still keeps up the act. The more I watch, the more I question if it’s out of spite or delusion. I want to put her in her place so badly, but right now I have to endure. I need to buy myself some more time with fake small talk.
All eyes are on us as everyone is seated at a long table with cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. My eyes immediately find Cal’s, and my heart skips a beat. God, I’ve missed him. I expected to see the same longing in his eyes that I feel in my chest, but he drops my gaze, leaving my eyes to flick to Blair’s. We are literally polar opposites. I have shoulder-length blond hair, whereas hers is long and brown. She’s tan. I’m pale. I have blue eyes, and hers are shit brown like her personality. I like to believe I don’t hate people; rather, I strongly dislike them, but knowing her sneer six years ago as she sat on my man’s lap was all part of her ugly, senseless, mean-girl tactics to take something from me: I hate her.
I disengage before I do something stupid and lose my shit and shift my focus to the other guests. I’m no stranger to prestigious, entitled fuckery, but it’s always good to count your circle so you know your foe.
Wells leans in. “The couple sitting to the right of my father are major donors with friends with deep pockets. His wife likes to help decorate.”
I reach for my napkin and place it on my lap, and Wells rests his arm atop the back of my chair.
“To the left are my mother’s friends, Barb and Sherry. They met through this event as guest speakers for the cause, and since you already know Callum Balfour, I assume you know the other half of the table.”
The entire team isn’t here. Only a handful of the guys are present. All of them I know to be friends of Cal’s except for one: Austin.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
My eyes swing back to our end of the table, and when they do, my gaze finds Cal’s intently fixed on me. I give him a soft smile, and he raises a brow before leaning back in his chair and dropping his arm over Blair’s chair just as Wells rests his over the back of mine. I clench my jaw in annoyance. I can’t believe he’s playing this game of tit-for-tat right now, or I can. It reeks of the shit we used to pull on each other in high school.
My phone vibrates in my clutch, and I discreetly pull it out and check the message under the table. It’s from Dash. When I swipe it open to read the text, my eyes are not met with words but rather a picture, and not just any picture, a damning one. It’s a picture of Blair holding her heels and leaning in to kiss a man as she leaves a hotel room, time stamped four days ago. The same day the picture of her and Cal was released to the press. I zoom in on the photo. You can’t see his face, but you can see his hand as he rests it on her hip, and that’s how I know it’s not Cal. The man in the picture has a very distinguishable tattoo of a black widow on top of his hand. Austin.
Eloise: That’s great, but where are you???
I told him not to make any stops. He was to go straight to the store and then come straight here. No distractions. This is most definitely a distraction.
Dash: Relax. I just pulled into the driveway. Are you going to come and get it?
Eloise: No, we just sat for lunch. We’re in the greenhouse around back. You can drop it off and leave.
I look over to the right, where I’m sure I saw a set of French doors leading to the garden, and when I do, I catch Wells glancing at my lap. Did he see my text? If so, he saw the picture, and I’m sure he’s put together that the guy in it was not Callum Balfour. Shit. Before I have time to worry about it, all heads turn as the door leading from the outdoor garden opens rather than one of the interior doors and now all eyes are on Dash. His nervous eyes find mine, and I offer him a tight smile of apology.
“Are you lost?” Mr. Bronson asks.
“Oh, um, no.” I stand from my chair. “He’s actually with me.” I straighten my dress and walk to meet him and collect the painting I had Iverson overnight for today’s lunch.
“Thank you,” I say as I reach for the box I know contains my meaningful grand gesture. “I owe you.”
“Eloise, who’s your friend?” Mrs. Bronson asks.
I close my eyes and pinch my lips before slowly turning around. “This is the friend I was telling you about, the one I got stuck in that highway mess with…” I pause, trying to find a way to explain the package in my hands without spoiling what I have. “I forgot something back at the house and he brought it for me.”
“Well, we have more than enough food. Please stay.” Mrs. Bronson smiles as she gestures toward the table where everyone is sitting, drawing my eyes to Cal’s. The scowl he’s wearing and the menacing look in his eyes tell me what I already know: Dash Westin is the last person he wants to see right now.
I turn around and Dash flashes everyone his stupidly handsome boyish grin and runs his hand through his dirty-blond hair, giving them a wave.
“Sorry… Can you stay?” I ask softly.
He pulls me to his side and puts his mouth against my temple. “I told you to use me. Lucky for you, I don’t have any plans for lunch, and I’m hungry, so I don’t mind being your plus-one.”
“Thank you,” I say under my breath.
We walk back to the table together and I set my box behind my chair as Mrs. Bronson asks, “Does your handsome friend have a name?”
“This is Dash Westin. We’ve been friends for a long time.” I gesture for him to take my seat. “Here, sit. I’ll grab another?—”
“Nonsense, we’re not strangers. We just shared a cabin, and the cab of a truck together for the past forty-eight hours.” He pulls me onto his lap, and my cheeks heat. This is a formal luncheon, and sharing a chair is rude, not to mention the thoughts that I know must be running through Cal’s mind after hearing those words. I’m about to protest and get up when he grabs my hip, his lips beside my ear. “His arm is draped over her shoulder. Not cool. If he gets a fake girlfriend. You can have a fake boyfriend.”
He would see that and not Cal’s livid glare, the one that suggests he’s minutes away from exploding. I’m aware Cal is silently fuming. I just spent the weekend with Dash, but that wasn’t by design. I’ve told him that, and while I know that doesn’t make any of this better, it’s the hand we’ve been dealt at least for lunch. Plus, I’m hoping when he sees what Dash brought, all will be forgiven. It’s a big ask, but right now, I’m running on hope. With Wells to my right and a table of eyes on me and my new guests, I can’t correct him, so I let it go. Instead, I lean forward, trying to lessen how intimate my sitting on Dash’s lap appears.
The kind, older butler comes over and takes a drink order for Dash as Mr. Bronson asks, “Eloise, how do you and Callum know each other?”
“Yes, how did the two of you meet? A hockey player and an American heiress,” his wife tacks on, Dash’s intrusion clearly forgotten.
Cal straightens in his chair, and I say the first thing that comes to mind. “He hit me with a football our freshman year.”
“Well, I guess that explains why he plays hockey and not football,” Coach Beck jests as Cal bites his lip to hold back a smile. I know he’s upset and hurt, but that memory is still funny, and I’m here today to show him I remember, too.
“To be fair, I didn’t hit her with the football. I didn’t catch it.”
“Semantics. No worries, Balfour. No one expects you to be good at every sport,” Wells comments as our salads are delivered.
Cal slowly rolls his lips, and I can tell he’s biting his tongue at Well’s underhanded remark. “Or maybe missing the ball was part of the play. After all, she’s sitting at a table I invited her to all these years later.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize the three of you attended high school together,” one of the older women comments. “Eloise, were Callum and Blair just as cute back then as they are now?”
“Cal was very focused on hockey in high school. He always knew he wanted to go pro, so there wasn’t much time for anything else. As you know, the seasons are long, and the ice times are always early in the morning or late at night,” Blair answers for me, a move that doesn’t go unnoticed by a few of the more polished guests. Everyone knows speaking for someone else is poor manners, especially in social circles where her name would never make an invite list. She might be a Wyndham, but she’s not one that counts. Blair shifts closer and wedges herself into the crook of Cal’s arm. “We didn’t start officially talking until the end of senior year, but our families have always been close.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to make a crude comment about that closeness, but I don’t. I’ll make my move when the time is right. Her hand slides onto Cal’s thigh, and I dig my nails into my palms. “They always knew this was going to happen.”
My eyes slowly rise to Cal’s, and for the first time tonight, I can see the struggle to maintain this ruse is challenging him as much as it is me. The rise and fall of his chest are more pronounced as he clenches his jaw and works to regulate his reaction to her antics. Strangely, his struggle settles my nerves. At least I know neither of us is enjoying this.
“That’s a sweet history. People enjoy a good friends-to-lovers story. No wonder the two of you are all people can talk about,” the woman Wells said had deep pockets comments.
Sweet, my ass. More like bullshit. I turn my eyes upward and take a drink of my wine.
“That doesn’t sound like a love story at all,” Dash says with a titter that mirrors the sour taste in my mouth. As rude and unmannered as his comment might be, I’m here for it.
“And why not?” one of Mrs. Bronson’s friends asks, offended on Blair’s behalf.
Dash takes a drink of the whiskey he ordered. “Easy. True love always finds a way. If it didn’t back then it’s because someone didn’t want it to.”
Blair’s eyes shoot daggers at Dash, and I can tell it’s taking every ounce of self-respect she has not to lose it and fly across the table to claw his eyes out, especially when Cal doesn’t correct his statement. Cal’s lack of defense of his supposed relationship speaks volumes and she knows it.
The tension in the room is palpable when Wells breaks the silence and asks, “Eloise, did you want to show the picture you created for the charity auction?”
“Sure,” I say somewhat hesitantly. While I don’t love the idea of showing the piece to the entire room in attendance, I’m ready to get this over with and end this game with Cal.
“In my defense, you’ll understand why I thought Cal painted it. It’s a frozen lake, nothing like a Mozart. I could try to pull the article if you think it would help raise more money for the auction.”
My eyebrows rise, and I bring a napkin to my mouth to hide my snicker. This is why I haven’t taken a shot at Blair yet. Watching her dig her own hole is way more entertaining.
She smiles before grabbing Cal’s hand and resting their joined hands on the table. “Anything for charity.”
Cal’s eyes stay locked on their hands, his jaw tight.
Wells chuckles at my right, and her brown eyes flick to him, believing her comment garnered amusement from him, and it did, but not for the glory she thinks. “You do realize Mozart was not a painter.”
Her brows furrow, and I glance away, unable to keep a straight face. She must have used his name because the word ‘art’ is in it. Dimwitted twit.
“He was a musician. A comparison such as Monet or Friedrich would have been a more suitable choice for your mockery to hit its intended target.”
My eyebrows rise. I’m really starting to like this Wells guy. Cal, on the other hand, looks like he’s about to lose it.
Mr. Bronson swallows the last of the amber liquid in his glass and clears his throat. “I disagree that revealing the painting before the event will hurt the value of the piece.” He steers the conversation back on course. “If anything, it will likely increase its demand because it is one of a kind and painted by a Beck.” He turns his attention to me. “Would you like me to uncover it?”
“Actually”—I turn to Dash—“do you mind swapping what’s inside of the box you brought with what’s on the easel?”
“Sure thing,” he says as I slide off his lap to let him up before reclaiming my chair.
“The piece I’m submitting for the auction is different from the one in Callum’s condo. There is no need to worry about this one getting released early. The only way that could happen is if someone from this room leaks it prior to the charity event.”
Callum pulls his hand out of Blair’s and sits straight in his chair, intrigue written across his face when he asks, “Why aren’t you using that one?”
“This one tells a better story.”
We all turn toward the easel, where Dash takes the covered painting down and pulls the new one out of the box, careful to keep it facing him.
His eyes connect with mine. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, please,” I confirm, and he places the painting on the stand.
There are a few gasps around the table. I can’t tell if they are good or bad. They could be gasps of horror, or they could be in awe, but I don’t care. The one reaction I care about is the man sitting directly before me. His amber stare is thoroughly captivated by the scene on the canvas. I watch every subtle move, from how he sets his jaw to the steady uptick in the rise and fall of his chest as he digests the colors and paint strokes before him.
“It’s beautiful,” Wells says beside me. “You truly have a talent.”
“It’s more than beautiful. It’s bewitching,” Mrs. Bronson utters, her tone engrossed. “You said this one had a story. Will you tell us?”
Callum still hasn’t taken his eyes off the painting, and if I’m going to tell this story, perhaps that’s a good thing.
I finish the contents in my glass and say, “We find ourselves in art as much as we lose ourselves. On this day, I lost myself for hours as my brush seemed to float across the canvas, and I recreated an everlasting moment, one where I found myself?—”
“That doesn’t even make sense. What are you, Shakespeare, now?” Blair drones with an exasperated glance. “It’s a picture on the ocean’s shore at dusk.”
Dash stands at my back and squeezes my shoulders. I know he wants to jump in and snap back, but I place my hand over his, silently signaling I got this.
“That’s interesting,” I say as I glance at the picture again. “Is that all you see?”
Cal’s eyes finally pull away from the picture, and whatever anxiety I felt about unveiling a piece I had only ever intended to keep for myself melts away when I see the recognition reflected in his expression. He sees my heart. He sees that it was always him.
“The ripples in the water reflecting the setting sun are a silhouette of two people standing on shore.” When I started painting the picture back at his condo, he teased me that the scene I was creating was from our first kiss. Little did he know I already painted that memory. I painted it over ten years ago, the day after it happened.
Her head whips back to the painting, and Mrs. Bronson clasps her hands together. “Oh, who is the couple? I must know.” She nods to Dash at my back. “Is it the two of you?”
Cal knows exactly who it’s not, but the way he rocks back in his chair says he wants to hear what I’ll say. He wants to hear if I’ll say it’s him.
“I wish I could say it was me,” Dash says as he reaches for his drink on the table in front of me. “Well, maybe it is me. I don’t know. Is this a dream you had about us?”
I bite back my smile, grateful for his lightheartedness when all I feel is stress. “No, it’s not Dash. It was the first day someone saw me for me, not my status. The person in that painting didn’t see an heiress. He simply saw a girl with her paintbrushes.”
“And you fell in love?” one of Mrs. Bronson’s friends asks hopefully.
I don’t have to look at Cal to know his gaze is keenly fixed on me. I can feel it burning into the side of my head, waiting with bated breath for a response. It’s then I realize I’m holding my own. I’ve never said “I love you” to Cal, and I’m not sure I want the first time I say those words to be when he’s pretending to date someone else while sitting in a room full of strangers.
“I painted this when I was fifteen. I’m not sure at that age a heart fully understands the true meaning of love and all it entails, but?—”
“Oh my God,” Blair exclaims as a thunk hits the table, and I look down to see her spilled wine quickly traveling across the surface toward me. To everyone else, it’s an honest mistake. They don’t hear the hitch of excitement that bleeds through her tone or how, rather than hop into action and toss her napkin onto the mess to stop its path, she simply sits in wait for it to hit its mark: me. Wells and I both back away from the table. The wine misses him but manages to spill onto my dress as per her plan.
Cal immediately stands and throws his napkin over the spilled wine before stealing one from one of the guys and rounding the table to offer it to me, but Wells is quicker. “I’ll show you to the powder room so you can freshen up.”
Before I can say a word, Cal reaches for my elbow, and my body hums to life. One touch is all it takes to heal the divide of the past two days and make all this nonsense seem inconsequential, and the second my eyes meet his amber pools, I see my sentiments reflected. He’s done. He’s ready to abandon this plan. I only need to say the word. “I’m fine. I’ll be right back.”
My eyes flick from Cal to Dash before I follow Wells out of the room. I know it’s petty, and I could shut this down, but Blair just spilled wine on me. She threw the first punch, but I’ll be damned if I don’t deliver the last.
B lair approaches me from behind as I step into the sitting room off the bathroom to do a quick check before returning to lunch. “It’s pathetic, really, one of America’s richest heiresses stuck on the one guy that will never be hers. You thought you won back there, but you stepped right into my trap just as I knew you would.”
I know she’s trying to goad me, so I don’t acknowledge her. Instead, I pull my red lipstick out of my purse and reapply it while she continues to spew her crap. Were it not for me desperately wanting to uncover the connection I’m sure exists between her and Lucas Balfour, I’d bury her now, but I stand to gain more by listening to her rant. Everyone knows there’s a little bit of truth in every lie.
“Think about it, Eloise. How long has it been since he chose me over you?”
“Give it up, Blair. You’re not fooling anyone but yourself with this PR stunt you concocted. You’ve never been very smart. The timing of your contract with the Kings, the leaked picture…” I don’t mention the one I have of her leaving Austin’s room hours before. She doesn’t need to know what evidence I have, not yet, anyway. “You can play your game of smoke and mirrors with everyone else, but I know you’re nothing more than an opportunist, spinning a web of lies to make up for whatever pitiful existence you live when you’re not trying to steal someone else’s man.” I spin around. “I think we both know he never chose you.” I take a step closer. “You couldn’t even drug him into choosing you.” I don’t believe Cal was accidentally roofied. He didn’t see the smug smile she flashed me that night. The one that said checkmate.
Her black manicured nails reach for the ring Cal placed around my neck, and she examines it. “Do you think this ring makes you special?” She runs her thumb over the gold engraving. “Honestly, the more you talk, the more I feel sorry for you. This ring isn’t a promise. It’s not a token of his unwavering love. It’s the price of war, a small loss in exchange for a long-term gain.” She releases it. “You can wear his shiny things all you want because while you’re pathetically caught up in the whispers of his sweet nothings, I’m warming his bed. Do you really believe that Callum has been sitting around all these years pining over you? He was right. You truly are a dreamer, too caught up in fairy tales to see what’s been right in front of you all along. I hate to break it to you, but you and Callum Balfour are not star-crossed lovers, desperately waiting to be reunited.” She steps around me to look in the mirror. “If it’s a story you’re after, yours looks more like one of revenge. Don’t you see that playing the ill-fated lovers was the easiest pill to swallow? If he would be forced to endure your presence, lovers against destiny was his best move. He could see and fuck who he wanted when he wanted while you sat at home taking care of his snot-nosed baby?—”
I slap her hard across the face before my mind consciously has time to think it through. She grabs her cheek, her mouth open wide in shock as her dark eyes swing back to mine. “Keep my kid’s name out of your mouth. You want to come for me. Bring it, but coming after him will be the last mistake you ever make. I will end you.”
She drops her hand away from her face, chest heaving as I wait for her to make her move, but as expected, she cowers. “You’re not worth it. As soon as he gets what he wants from you, all this will be over anyway.”
I don’t even get to question her before she storms out of the room.
“Aaaaah.” I turn around in frustration, gripping the back of one of the wingback chairs. My heart knows her words are lies, but my brain wants to rationalize and dissect every detail of what she said, and it’s already quickly casting doubt. She’s not wrong about the years Cal and I have spent apart. He could come and go as he pleased and see whoever he wanted. The other side of that is I could do the same, but that’s not the part I’m stuck on; the part squeezing my heart is the tendril of doubt, saying he hasn’t been missing me the same way I have him. Those years of love lost were never a man trying to get back his girl but rather one with a heart of revenge stringing me along and ruining every relationship I might have because right now, nothing else speaks louder. What could he possibly want from me? He can’t take my money. We never married. The only thing I have is Adler.
Suddenly, I’m hot, and my legs feel like jello as air whooshes out of my lungs. He can’t really think he’d win Adler. Adler was born in Massachusetts, which is a fifty-fifty custody state. They don’t care who I am or how much money I have. They assess what is best for the child. “No,” I say aloud, trying to ground myself and see this for what it is: a tactic. “Get it together, Lou. He’s not building a case. You’re a good mom. She wants you to think that.” I focus on my breathing as I pull myself together. “Damn it, think, Lou.” That’s when something she said hits me. She didn’t say when Callum gets what he wants. She said, he. I quickly pull out my phone and shoot Iverson a text.
Eloise: Can you pull records on any business our family may have done with the Balfours or Wyndhams? You might have to go back decades, but I need to know ASAP.
It has to be money. It’s always money. I know Greenlight is on the verge of losing its ass, but what about Lucas? I’m confident he has his hand in this somehow.
Iverson: Any specific year?
I pace back and forth as I try to narrow it down. Iverson mentioned my mother was friends with Callum’s stepmother, Keely, but their friendship ended, and when Lucas threatened me all those years ago, he said he knew where the bones were buried. I have no recollection of our families ever being friends growing up, so this had to be before I was born. I stop dead in my tracks. Wait.
Eloise: Look at the year I was born.
Iverson: Something you’d like to tell me????
Eloise: Not yet.
Something had to have happened between the time Callum’s birth mother died and I was born. I’m onto something. I can feel it.
“Eloise,” I practically startle out of my skin as I was lost to my thoughts. “We need to talk.”