Chapter 8 #2
I come to a stop next to her table and slide my hands in my pockets. “How was the special?”
Harlow jerks before she turns. “You startled me.”
“Did you like the risotto?”
She shifts in her chair and ignores my question. “Are you in the habit of sneaking up on people? I need to know so I can prepare—since we’re roomies.”
I motion to the empty seat across from her. “May I?”
“It’s your establishment.”
I pull out the chair to sit and motion toward her empty bowl that’s been wiped clean with bread. I happen to know this since I’ve turned into a creepy-ass stalker. “You approve?”
“As you can tell, it was horrid. I could barely choke down every smooth bite. So much so, I might have to try it again next week just to contemplate how bad it really was.”
I hike a brow. “That’s going to suck for my chef when I have to fire her.”
A smile tugs at her lips. “You should give her the benefit of another chance.”
“I suppose she deserves that. I did hire her away from a MICHELIN Star restaurant in Los Angeles. I was hoping to make the guide eventually, but we apparently have to up our game.”
“Give it the old American go. You’ll get there.”
I tip my head a fraction. “Have you always been such a skilled liar?”
She licks her lips before picking up her wine to take a sip. “I used to lie to Janie about the trouble my friends and I got into in high school. That’s been a while.”
“So you were a troublemaker.”
She swirls the wine in her glass and shakes her head. “No. I was boring as hell in high school.”
I lean forward. “So you were good but lied about being bad?”
She shrugs. “I wanted to see if Janie cared. Really, I was hell-bent to prove that she didn’t.
And I was right. She didn’t give a shit what I did.
She’d tell me not to get caught, and by all means not to get pregnant, because that would embarrass her.
That’s all she cared about. She’d be wallowing deep in shameful humiliation right now because I didn’t walk down the aisle if she didn’t have more pressing things to kill her reputation. ”
“Ah, yes. The rat bastard you left at the altar and your missing father.”
She hikes a brow. “I like that.”
I lift my chin. “You’re a savage woman.”
She leans forward and lowers her voice. “Not about my father. The rat bastard. From now on, that’s how I’ll refer to Albert—the rat bastard. The English always have a way with words. If I’m really feeling it, I’ll add a bloody to his new nickname.”
“I have a feeling everyone knows who Albert Humphries really is. His type of rat bastard deserves to be elevated to bloody.”
She almost slumps in her skin. Gone is the teasing about risotto and the Britishisms. I’m not sure if she looks more tired or relieved. “It makes me feel good that others see it too. Not that I need validation from anyone. I’d go through it all over again if it means I’m done with him forever.”
I gaze across the table at the woman who’s been ground zero for everything I’ve had to deal with in the past week. “You’ve turned out to be a drama magnet. I’m not sure what to think about that.”
“As much as I hate it, I can’t argue. But since you offered me a room when I really needed it, I can’t stress enough that I’m normally low key.”
“They call you the American Princess. That doesn’t scream low key.” She’s about to argue that point, too, but I lean forward and rest my forearms on the table and keep talking. “Can I be honest with you?”
She studies me. “Do you have something to be dishonest about?”
I shake my head. “There’s a big difference between withholding information and dishonesty. I’ll never lie to you. But sometimes dealing with the blatant truth is hard. I’m curious if you can handle it.”
She glances around like she’s being punked before settling her dark brown eyes back on me. “Why do I not like the sound of that?”
“Because most of the time the dead-honest truth is harder than being left in the dark.”
“Dead-honest truth,” she echoes. “That hits a little close to home, Devon.”
I’d have to agree, especially after what I learned today. “I have a feeling you can handle it.”
Her eyes fall shut, and she shakes her head. “I’m so sick of lies, but I’m also topped out on how much truth I can handle.”
I don’t let up. In fact, I press harder. “Do you trust me?”
The most unamusing laugh bursts from her lungs. “I moved into your suite. There’s a lock on my bedroom door, but you’re a brute of a man. I’m willing to bet you could burst through brick walls if you wanted to. I’m desperate to stay in Winslet, which means I’m desperate enough to trust you.”
I push to my feet. “Come for a walk with me.”
She looks from me to the windows. Darkness has set over the landscape, and the stars are starting to shine. Her gaze returns to me. “Now?”
“Now,” I confirm. “I like to walk the grounds at night. That is, when there aren’t rehearsal dinners or consolation receptions going on.”
Her dark eyes narrow. “You’re asking me to trust you and walk around in the dark with you? That’s a lot, Devon.”
“You pretty much begged to stay in my suite, but you won’t take a walk with me?”
She mulls that over but never breaks her stare.
It’s like I threw a dare at her feet, but it turns out I was right.
Without looking away, she stands gracefully, drapes her sweater over her shoulders, and tucks her purse under her arm.
“Since I have decided to embrace carbs now that I don’t have a wedding dress to fit into, a walk after dinner would be nice. ”
I feel the corner of my lips tip north—something that’s rare for me in general but has happened around this woman more than once. “I was right about you.”
She stares up at me from where she stands in a pair of flat sandals. “I can promise you, whatever you thought about me, you’re wrong.”
“We’ll see about that. I have a feeling you and I are about to learn a lot about each other ... roomie.”
Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, but she says nothing since her cell diverts her attention.
“What is it?” I ask.
She shakes her head and sends the call to voicemail. “It’s the rat bastard. The bloody rat bastard. He’s relentless. Even more so since I keep sending him to voicemail.”
“Right where he deserves to be.” I step to the side and hold my hand out low for her to lead. She might not be a true royal, but she steels her spine and walks like one. And only when we make it to the atrium do I allow my eyes to wander.
What I’d really like to tell Harlow is that carbs look good on her, and I’m pleased as fuck that she refuses to speak to the man she left waiting at the altar.