32. Daisy
32
DAISY
“I think they liked me,” Connor says from the driver’s seat. The light sweat from the spicy dahl is now gone from his brow, as is about a half gallon of milk he had to drink to tame the burn in his mouth. But he ate it all, never once complained, and I may have fallen for him a little harder with every bite he took.
My mom adores him, probably because he’s the first guy I’ve brought home. My dad was surprisingly welcoming as well. That makes this all so much harder. He has three people's hearts and feelings now. If this ends, the heartbreak is going to be gut-wrenching. But, thinking positively, I’m now fully stocked with dahl and tea and herbs and all sorts of things that I hope we can fit on the jet for our trip back. At least that’ll bring me comfort.
“You bribed my dad with tickets to see the Jets,” I say, rolling my eyes as he grins.
“I didn’t bribe him.” Connor scoffs before he laughs. My grin is instant.
“You offered, very generously, for him to come to your suite. I call that a bribe.” I love how we both had such a great day, and it was just a simple meal in a simple house with my parents.
“Potato, potahto,” he mumbles, making me giggle, my usual quip rubbing off on him.
We hit traffic as we get back into the city and turn to drive down toward his penthouse, and I notice he begins shuffling in his seat.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, sensing a change in the air. Before he can answer, a motorbike speeds past us. A guy on the back has a camera, his lens pointed at us. I frown, looking around and seeing a few others behind us as well. Paparazzi . They’re like bees, swarming the car, and Connor’s need for concentration increases.
“What’s going on?” I ask curiously, wondering if there is a celebrity nearby.
“They’re trying to get photos,” he grits out, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel as we’re now almost back to his building.
“Of who?” I wonder if Tom Cruise or George Clooney are in a car beside us or something.
“Of us,” he says as we turn the corner, and I see the parking garage up ahead. When his words sink in, I nearly balk.
“What?” I look at him like he’s being ridiculous.
He glances at me, looking remorseful. “Sorry, I should’ve warned you.”
“Why do they want photos of us?” It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.
“They try to get me when they can, knowing I’m not here all the time. I don’t keep a consistent schedule of when I'm in the city, which helps alleviate the invasion slightly. But they saw us leave earlier, and seeing that I’m with a woman, they’ve come circling for blood.”
Suddenly, I’m just as uneasy as he is.
As we slow down to enter the parking garage, flashes start to go off, as there are media standing on the sidewalk, watching us, cameras up and aimed. This whole thing is new and completely bizarre, and my heart races as nervousness takes over.
After we drive through the gate, it closes securely behind us, and we make our way down to his private basement, the people and flashes now long gone.
“What will they publish?” I ask, trying to figure it all out.
“Well, did you search me up online before you came to Whispers?” he asks as he parks the car and shuts off the engine, turning in his seat to look at me fully. I bite my bottom lip, the answer clearly written all over my face.
“Most people do, it isn’t a big deal. But I would say most of the images and gossip you found online came from situations like this. People taking photos when I’m unaware, and then making up the story to suit their narrative to sell magazines or have as clickbait.”
“So there will be photos of me and you? In the car?” My privacy now feels violated.
“Yes. They’ll probably accompany a speculative headline about the new woman in my life.” He releases a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. I should’ve better prepared you for it all.” Reaching over, he grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze.
“It isn’t your fault,” I tell him, because it isn’t, and now, I’m wondering about all the things Trisha and I saw when we looked him up online and how much of it is probably fake news.
“Just don’t read anything they write. Social media can be toxic, and it’s best not to look at any of it,” he says, and I nod.
“I’m now starting to understand why you prefer to be in Whispers,” I murmur.
With another sigh, he nods. “Let’s go. I think your mom’s tea is working.” He jumps out and runs around to my door, and as he opens it, I cackle a laugh. Understanding washes over me about what he said before my laughter is whipped from my body as his hands grab me from the car, his lips take mine, and we walk to the elevator and head into the apartment, the media now a mere speed bump in our glorious day together.
* * *
“You got a delivery?” I ask as we walk inside, the amazing penthouse looking just as beautiful as when we left this morning—apart from some boxes that sit on his kitchen counter.
“I got a few things.” He walks over and opens one of the boxes. I watch as he pulls out a few things, unwrapping them, and I gasp when he pulls out one of the items.
“Is that a teapot?”
“Yeah. I wasn’t sure what you liked, but there’s nothing good here in the apartment for you to brew your teas, so I got the team at Bergdorf to send something over. Do you like it?” he asks, stepping back and looking at me.
I can barely breathe. I mean, it’s only a teapot, but it’s white and green, made from what I think is porcelain, and I step forward to touch it.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, looking it over, my eyes almost bugging from my head when I see the familiar Gucci brand mark. I swallow, not wanting to know what he spent on it. “You didn’t have to get this. It’s too much…”
“I wanted to. I want you to feel at home here, with me. And nothing is too much for you, baby girl.”
I swear this man has my knees wobbling every day. Again, his caring nature peeks through, and I wonder if I’m the only one who gets to see this side of him. I feel honored that I might be.
“What else did you get?” Seeing more boxes, I take a moment to gather my thoughts and calm my breathing.
“Delivery of some whiskey that I had sent over from the office,” he tells me, opening the box and pulling out a few bottles from his range. None of which I recognize, but they all have slightly different labels, so I assume they’re all different. I look at his already full bar, not knowing where he’s going to put them.
I see one called Next Door, and one says something about a single malt, another one is double aged, and then my hands rest on a bottle, the label intriguing me.
“Father Son?” I question, reading the name on the label and looking further at the details. “Aged in Whispers for seventeen years?”
“That’s my favorite,” he says, placing all the bottles on the counter, the box out of the way.
“The one you made with your dad when you were younger?” I remember him telling me about it when I first landed in Whispers.
“You remember?” he asks, smiling.
“Of course,” I tell him, biting my lip as his grin widens.
“So, how ’bout it?” he asks, gesturing to the bottle, and I look at him, confused.
“About what?” I ask, then place the bottle down as he steps toward me, his hands circling my waist, my temperature rising at his touch, already breathless from the way he looks at me.
“Want to try some of my whiskey, baby girl? Because I sure as hell want to see it on your lips,” he growls.
I barely nod, before he’s taking my lips in a searing kiss, our night of whiskey tasting starting now.