Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Whit
H e smiled. “That’s pretty.”
“It’s a mouthful. But it’s nice enough. When I signed up for the show, I used Whit… I’m not even sure why except that I knew I wanted a degree of separation from my parents and their disapproval. I knew they’d be disappointed by me leaving school, and they wouldn’t understand me giving up their dream for me in favor of my own dream.”
The arm holding me to him squeezed me tighter, and that big, solid hand ran up and down my back. That moment of sweetness and solidity grounded me, and for the first time, I didn’t feel as much dread as I’d expected at revealing my big lie—well, one of them—to this forthright, genuine man.
“When I got to the show, they didn’t like the angle of me being a rich kid classically trained in music, so they left the details blank, but over the years, the label and even Nikki have dropped hints as though I came from poor, Kentucky roots. If anyone has ever made the connection to the wealthy Granthams of Louisville, they haven’t exposed me yet.” That familiar mixture of disappointment and regret churned in my belly.
“You don’t need to be ashamed because you came from money, Whit.”
“I know. I’m not, really. I never was. I’m ashamed of my family because they’re unfeeling and embarrassed by me.” My voice became a whisper. “And it makes me so angry, I can’t stand to think of them.”
His soothing hand ran over my back for a minute while I stuffed down all that anger and disappointment, knowing the poor me feelings weren’t going anywhere useful. “So that’s my sad little story that only you and a few others know.”
“Why does Flint call you Whit, then? He introduced you that way, anyway.”
He’d tucked his chin into my hair, and something about that, feeling his breath on the top of my head, made warmth spread through me to my toes.
“It’s actually always been my nickname with the cousins. Only the older generations ever called me Eleanor. But my parents enrolled me at school without indicating a nickname, and all the class rosters said Eleanor, my roommate had been given the name Eleanor… so only the people who really got to know me there knew me as Whit.”
“I hate to say this about anyone, but your parents are crazy.”
I hugged him the best I could. “Thanks.”
His stomach tensed like he was going to say something more, but he stopped and let out a slow, silent breath .
We sat like that, quiet in each other’s arms, his phone playing old Country by Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard and all the good ol’ boys until it died.
“Do you want to go out tonight?” he asked, his hand now stroking along my arm.
I took a slow breath. “Not really.”
“You know it’s Christmas Eve, right?”
I could hear a smile in his voice.
I sat up right next to him and studied his face, let my hand float up and touch the curve of his jaw, letting the prickly-soft hairs of his new beard tickle my fingers. “Are you missing your family?”
“A little. We never did have huge celebrations because my dad was often gone, so it’s not unusual for us to be apart.” He pressed my hand closer to his cheek and leaned his head into it.
That simple action made my heartrate triple, the beats tripping over each other in rapid succession so I got breathless just sitting there, touching his bristly cheek. “I’m sorry you’re missing them. Maybe someday, I can apologize.”
“I’m sure they’d love to meet you.” His blue eyes seemed somehow more blue, and infinitely more intense.
“I’d like to make it up to them,” I said, my voice useless. I glanced down at his lips, swallowed, flicked my eyes back to his.
He wore that half-smile that killed me now. “Don’t feel too bad. I’m right where I want to be.”
His eyes moved between mine, and we both knew it was coming. We both felt it was long overdue—of course, only I felt that, I couldn’t confirm, but when he leaned up just as I moved down, I knew it. Our mouths were inches apart, approaching each other so slowly, like we were in danger of frightening the other one off, my heart downright lurching toward his, throwing itself again my ribcage like it had to escape, had to get to his heart, or it’d expire.
Or maybe that was how I felt about our lips meeting, finally, after days of missing him. Just as our mouths touched, through the sweet shock of sensation in the smoothness of his lips and the slight tickle of his beard on my chin, the hotel room phone rang, the worst sound I’d ever heard, and we both jumped apart.
I put a hand to my chest, trying to calm the riot there and steady my breath, and he chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. He frowned at the phone on the bedside table and then answered.
“Hello?” His voice was nothing short of decadent, all gravelly and rough.
I couldn’t hear the answering voice, but I leaned up fully, straightened my dress. It was nothing fancy, but I’d wanted to look decent and festive. I wore a brighter green T-shirt dress, totally inappropriate for New York City on a snowy December night. But I’d never planned to leave the hotel, so who cared?
“Yes, Mom, I’m having a lovely Christmas Eve,” he said, arching a brow at me and widening his eyes like he couldn’t believe she’d called him on the hotel phone.
I gave him a bright smile and excused myself so they could have some privacy. I needed a minute and didn’t want him to feel bad about telling her he missed her.
Far sooner than I expected, he came to find me in the living room, curled up with a book I’d been staring at for a few minutes but hadn’t read a word of.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yep. She got worried when I didn’t answer my phone. After the last year or so, we have an agreement that I will always answer within a half hour if it’s after work hours. If I don’t, she gets worried.”
Something sad or guilty flickered over his face, and that familiar pull to him, the desire to hold him and kiss away all the hard things he’d dealt with, tugged at me again. It didn’t work that way, sure—I knew it, but it didn’t change me from wanting to try.
“So when you didn’t answer, she hunted you down.”
“Yeah. I sent Bea the itinerary so at least someone would know where I was… just in case, you know? They like to know what I’m up to, but Bea is the least likely to blab since she barely talks anyway.”
“Why?” I asked, curious about Beatrice. He’d mentioned her a few times, but he mostly talked about Bridgette.
“She’s just shy. Very, very shy. Introverted, not big on people or… most things.” He smiled to himself and sat next to me on the couch.
“What’d she say when you told her we were dating?” I wanted to know what he’d said about all this, but didn’t know how to ask for those details.
“She was quiet, but didn’t seem surprised, which is sweet. Bridgette was a bit more incredulous—had a lot of questions.”
His cheeks flamed adorably, and I set my book down and turned toward him to face him.
“What questions did she ask?” I was snuggled into the couch now, knees and dress tucked under me, one elbow propping up my head on the back of the couch, the other hand resting on my knees.
I wanted him to take that hand. I wanted it to be his to take .
“She hit me with a whole list. Who, what, when, where, why, how.”
I laughed as he listed them.
“Yeah, she’s nosy.”
“She sounds like a very engaged big sister.”
He nodded. “She is. She still worries about me… I know Bea does too. But I can finally tell them I’m not worried about me—at least, not in the way I used to be.”
I took his hand in mine and folded our fingers together. “How do you feel about that?”
“I understand why they worry. I do. I know I was in a bad place, and they needed to worry about me, or I gave them a reason to. And Dillon’s sister Bec, she’s someone I worry for. I know that the time passing doesn’t necessarily erase that worry.”
“That’s wise of you. Are you close with Bec?” I asked, working to keep my tone neutral.
“I don’t think Bec is especially close with anyone. Thatcher and I have tried, but I know being with us hurts her in some way, reminds her of her brother and makes her feel the loss even more. She doesn’t seem like anything’s wrong, but when you talk to her, you can see it. You can feel the ache in her, even if she won’t let you acknowledge it.”
I studied his face for a moment, wishing I had the strength to stop myself from asking the next question. “Do you love her?”