Chapter 20
RAPHAEL
The next morning, I woke tangled in the limbs of this remarkable woman. She was not a dainty sleeper, and I suited her. She had one leg slung over mine, curling into my side, drool on her pillow, and a soft snore. It was perfection.
I managed to extricate myself from her to take a quick shower. By the time I made it into my office, Chandler and Geoffrey were already there. Waiting for me on my desk was coffee and a breakfast sandwich from a little shop down.
“Sir,” Chandler said as he pulled up his tablet. “I need to double-check plans for the grand opening tomorrow.”
I sat down and took a sip of coffee. How had I almost forgotten?
“I have a car coming for you and Mrs. Renault.”
I looked at him with my head cocked in surprise. “I have not asked her.”
Chandler and Geoffrey exchanged a look I didn’t much care for. These two were up to something.
“Well, being that she is your wife,” Geoffrey said carefully.
“And you seem to have feelings for her,” Chandler added.
My eyes shot to him.
He merely put his hands up. “Is she in your bed right now or not?”
I sipped my coffee as I glared at him.
“Be as mad as you want, but I get the feeling that enchanting creature has never been wined and dined. Perhaps it is time you show her the Renault Hospitality. She is our guest after all.”
He was right. I knew he was. I was almost positive she’d never been treated how a woman like her should be treated.
“Sir, I’m afraid I agree with Chandler. In fact, she has a dress coming today. All you have to do is pick up some flowers and chocolates. The rest is taken care of,” he said in his proper British way.
“Well, we will leave you to it,” Chandler said as they left.
They were right. I did need to take her out, and the grand opening was the perfect opportunity.
I stood from my desk and walked down the hall to my room. When I opened the door, she was just starting to wake.
“Belle.”
She sat up fully and looked at me before wiping the sleep from her eye . . . and drool from her mouth. I suddenly felt very nervous. This was all too real. I hadn’t maneuvered feelings like this in years, and I had forgotten how.
“Tomorrow you will be my date for the grand opening of the hotel in Columbus."
“Me?” she asked, fully awake now and more than a little shocked.
“Yes. I have ordered you a gown, and you will accompany me.”
“Is that so?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Yes. You are my wife, are you not?”
She just glared at me. I took a deep breath. She was not going to make this easy for me, but that was part of her charm.
“Belle, will you please accompany me to the grand opening?”
“I would love to,” she said, smiling at me. “Was that so hard?”
I gave her a brief nod and turned around. What was I even doing?
I do not pace. And yet, Friday evening found me crossing the length of the foyer again, cufflinks fastened, jacket smooth beneath my hands, shoes polished to precision.
The tuxedo was appropriate, the investors expected presence, and the press expected polish. The Columbus property represented months of strategic planning and work to open a new luxury hotel.
I had done this before. What I had not done before was wait for someone.
The dress arrived yesterday. I had not seen it on her. The anticipation was . . . unfamiliar.
I checked my watch. 6:02.
I told myself that being late by two minutes did not constitute a crisis.
Then I heard her. The faint brush of fabric against the banister. The careful rhythm of her steps.
I turned. And for a moment, everything in the room shifted.
Gold. A warm, molten tone that caught the light and held it. The dress traced her body without apology. It was structured at the waist, flowing over her hips, falling in deliberate, liquid lines toward the floor. Thin straps held up her gorgeous curves, all of which shimmered.
It did not soften her strength. It framed it.
Her hair fell in loose waves over one shoulder. Her posture was steady, assured, and entirely her own. She did not descend like someone unsure, even with an unsteady knee. She descended like someone meant to be seen.
I had seen her powerful before. I had seen her vulnerable. I had never seen her like this.
She tilted her head slightly. “Well?” she asked.
I realized I had not spoken.
“You are . . . ” The word stalled, insufficient. “You are extraordinary.”
The faint flush that rose in her cheeks only deepened the effect.
“Is it too much?” she asked.
I stepped forward instinctively.
“No.” Another step. “If anything,” I said quietly, letting my gaze move over her once more, “I am underdressed.”
Her eyes flicked to my tuxedo.
“You look very handsome.”
“Only a tuxedo would be appropriate next to this,” I replied, and meant it.
She laughed softly, the sound warm and unguarded. “But you’re looking at me like I just descended from Olympus.”
“I’m not entirely certain you didn’t.”
She descended the final steps carefully. I offered my hand without thinking. She took it. Her fingers were warm. The gold shimmered at this proximity, subtle and devastating. My thumb brushed lightly across her knuckles before I consciously stilled it.
“You’re quiet,” she said.
“I am adjusting.”
“To what?”
To the fact that I have never felt this unguarded. To the fact that I am increasingly incapable of strategic detachment where you are concerned. To the fact that I do not know how to proceed without risking something I once vowed never to risk again.
But I did not say any of that.
“You exceed expectations,” I answered instead.
Her expression softened.
I offered my arm. “Shall we?”
She slipped her hand into the crook of my elbow, and the contact settled something inside me that had been tightening all week.
As we stepped toward the door, I allowed myself one private admission.
I did not know how to date anymore. But I did know this, standing beside her felt right in a way nothing else had in years. And whatever tonight became, I would meet it without retreat.
Columbus shimmered that night.
The hotel facade rose in clean lines of glass and warm stone, every window illuminated in deliberate symmetry. The entrance was framed in cascading white florals and soft golden uplighting. Investors appreciated the spectacle. I tolerated it.
The valet opened the car door, and I stepped out first, rounding the front to assist her. When she emerged in gold beneath the hotel lights, she was stunning.
Inside, the lobby had been transformed for the gala. Crystal chandeliers refracted light across polished marble floors. A string quartet played near the grand staircase, their music weaving between conversations and laughter. Champagne flutes caught the light like fragments of stars.
I greeted board members, shook hands, and accepted congratulations. But through it all, my awareness remained tethered to the woman on my arm.
She moved carefully, favoring her knee without drawing attention to it. Her posture never wavered. If anyone noticed the subtle shift in her step, they did not comment.
“You’re watching me,” she murmured quietly as we paused near a display of architectural renderings.
“How is your knee? Should we have brought your crutches?”
Her lips curved faintly. “I’m good. Crutches don’t go with this dress.”
I continued to watch her for any sign of distress.
“I’m fine.”
“I am aware.”
That was becoming our language.
We were escorted to a table near the center of the ballroom for a formal portion of the evening. The lighting there was softer, the music lower. A candle flickered between us, its flame reflected in the gold of her dress.
She was radiant.
A woman in dramatic silks drifted between tables shortly after dessert was served. She had long curly wild red hair with a silver streak.
“A fortune teller,” Belle whispered, amused.
I suppressed a sigh.
The woman stopped beside our table. “What do ye say to a card reading?” she asked in a thick Scottish brogue. Her eyes twinkled with mischief.
Belle’s gaze flicked to me.
“I don’t need my fortune told,” I said evenly.
“Why?” Belle countered lightly. “It’s fun.”
“For the lady,” he told the fortune teller.
She cocked her head to the side. “Aye, I think the fates have more to say about you.”
I shook my head, not willing to entertain such silliness.
“I can come back later,” the fortune teller offered. Then the insolent women winked at me.
Belle reached out gently and touched my hand. “Please?”
It was the way she said it, soft and hopeful, as though this small indulgence mattered.
I exhaled quietly. “Very well.”
She beamed at me like I had granted her something monumental. In truth, I would have granted her far more than that.
The Scottish woman with wild red hair sat down across from us. I didn’t much care for the glint in her eye.
The first card she flipped over was the sun. “This card represents your past. The sun is a card of good fortune, of things going your way. If this is your hotel, that makes sense.”
I gave a small nod. Nothing shocking about telling a rich man he has good fortune.
She flipped over another card, the Nine of Swords. Her head cocks to the side before she looks up at me with eyes that feel like they can see right through me. “The Nine of Swords. Something has happened in your past. Something that still causes great distress.”
I feel Belle’s hand tighten on mine. I shrug it off and roll my neck. This is theatrics. It’s not possible that this woman knows anything about me. Tragic rich man is a trope at best.
“Now for the final card. Let’s see what the future holds for you.”
She flipped over the final card, revealing a single cup in an outstretched hand.
“The Ace of Cups. It’s a perfect cup for the beautiful woman you have on your arm tonight,” she said as she smiled over at Belle.
“This is the cup of a romantic fresh start.” She cocked her head to the side, and with that damned mischievous glint in her eye. said, “Perhaps even a marriage, if I’m not mistaken.”
This woman was chaotic. I didn’t care for chaos, but Belle listened with rapt attention, eyes bright in the candlelight.
“Well, that’s what the cards have to say. I hope you enjoy your night with this radiant creature.”
When the fortune teller finished, Belle leaned back in her chair.
“That was ridiculous,” I said.
“Was it? Nothing resonated?”
I cocked an eyebrow as I looked across the table at her. “You’re telling me you believe in those things?”
“I’m not sure if I believe it, but I loved it.”
She tried to stand then. I placed a steadying hand on her waist.
“What are you doing?”
“Raphael, I want to dance.”
“Your knee.”
She hesitated. Then settled back down. I could not tolerate the look of disappointment that settled in the lines of her face.
I took a deep breath. “One dance, and then we get out of here.”
She beamed up at me as I stood to take her hand. It was a small victory. As I guided her safely out onto the dance floor, I was a little nervous. It’d been years since I’d done this. Would I even remember how?
Yet, as she took my hand and I wrapped the other around her waist and pulled her close, it all came back to me.
I held her close, getting lost in her deep brown eyes.
I’m not sure how I existed before she came into my life, but I knew one thing for sure.
I would do just about anything to make sure she remained my wife.
That feeling solidified right there on the dance floor.
It wasn’t a new feeling. I think since the moment I asked her to marry me on a whim across my dining room table, I knew this woman was my match.
I’m pretty sure I’d sensed it when I saw her ridiculous purple van pull into my driveway, and I saw her get out.
But as I have come to understand who she is and how she moves through the world, everything has become crystal clear.
She is mine, and I will do what it takes to keep her.
I signaled discreetly, and within minutes our car was brought around.
“We’re leaving?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes.”
“But—”
“You agreed to one dance, then we leave. Plus, I have something else planned.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
I helped her into the car carefully, mindful of the dress, mindful of her knee. The city lights streaked past the windows as we drove through downtown Columbus.
We stopped in front of a small storefront tucked between larger buildings. Warm light glowed through the windows, illuminating shelves lined with books.
She frowned slightly.
“A bookstore?”
“Yes.”
The sign above the door read Second Chance Romance. Her breath caught.
Inside, the lights were low and golden. The scent of paper and vanilla candles hung in the air. A small table had been set near the back, between shelves of paperbacks and hardcovers, with white linens, candlelight, and two place settings.
She looked around slowly, reverently. “You did all this?”
“Well, Chandler helped, but it was my idea.”
Her hand tightened on my arm. She turned to me, eyes luminous in the candlelight.
“This is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.”
The words struck deeper than applause ever had.
I pulled her chair back carefully, ensuring she sat without strain. “I wanted,” I said slowly, choosing precision over flourish, “to take you somewhere that felt like you.”
She reached for my hand across the table.
And as I sat opposite her, surrounded by stories of improbable love and second chances, I realized something quietly undeniable. I did not hate galas. I hated being alone in them.
Tonight, I was not alone. And if I could help it, I would not be again.