18. Rae
18
RAE
T hat afternoon, I’m busy with work, but I take some time to go shopping.
When I show up for dinner, I’m feeling more relaxed despite the awful news this morning and the tense conversation at the villa after.
The restaurant is exclusive, and when I check in at the front, they immediately show me past the other patrons, up the stairs, and out to a lone table on the roof.
My breath catches. The scene is beautiful and romantic. Tiny fairy lights drape around the single slim railing that would keep patrons from falling off, if there was anyone up here but me.
Any man can be the grand-gesture type, but this is a precise gesture. A place that sets the stage for a meaningful conversation, not one so grand as to stifle it.
“Would senorita like a drink?”
“Thank you.” I opt for a glass of wine to take the edge off.
I’m waiting a while, self-conscious in the silver dress I bought today that dips low in the back and ends partway down my thighs. Ash promised it was a ten when I sent him a picture, but now I smooth a hand down my straightened hair and hope Harrison likes what he sees.
I’m starting to get nervous when a throat clearing behind me makes me turn.
Harrison’s there, tall and imposing in a dark suit, his shirt open at the collar.
His nostrils flare as he takes in my appearance, his gaze dragging down to my wedge sandals and back up over every curve to linger on my face. “You’re stunning.”
I blow out a breath. “And if you were any other guy, I’d say you took your time getting ready. But this is faster than pulling on a T-shirt.”
He walks to me, tipping my chin up and brushing a soft kiss over my lips that leaves me tingling. “I thought about the T-shirt. I’m saving it for our anniversary.”
My heart skips. “Our what?”
“Mhmm. Last year, you tried to paint a picture of what our future could be. I walked away.” His expression clouds. “This time, I will make it up to you.”
“With incentives?” I tease, off balance.
“Correct. This, in a way, is our one-year anniversary. On our second, I’ll accompany you in a T-shirt?—“
“That’s not much of a promise.”
“—to the Casino de Monte-Carlo in Monaco.”
“They have a dress code.”
“I’ll break it.”
I suck in a breath. That does sound promising.
He shows me to the table, holding my chair while I take a seat.
The waiter brings our menus, and I read down the list, freezing.
Sandwiches, like the one I made him on his mother’s birthday after he got drunk the first night we bonded.
Tacos, like we had on the beach in LA.
Paella, like we made after I lost a gig.
“I can’t believe you even remembered all of these.”
He sets his menu on the table, staring calmly at me. “Raegan, I remember everything.”
I’ve been the subject of Harrison’s intention and intensity. He’s seduced me with his will, but this is new.
Every piece of tonight, every look he gives me, feels as if it’s without his typical agenda.
He’s not beating at my walls. Instead, he’s wearing them down, like season after season of rain and erosion. Relentless. Unstoppable.
I want to let him in because I’ve never had anyone love me like he has.
I’ve also never had anyone hurt me like he has, and as much as I want to believe he’s more committed to me than to his vengeance, a few gestures can’t make me forget months of aching for him.
I opt for paella because it feels like a crime to order tacos or sandwiches at this great restaurant.
“So, what do you have planned for these other anniversaries?” I can’t resist asking after the waiter takes our order.
“Not telling.”
Impatience tugs at me. “Not even one?”
“No. But I have them planned for a good long time.”
“Three years? Five?”
He shakes his head. “More. You’ll have to stay with me to find out.”
I’m stunned silent. We both know that’s longer than I’ve stuck around anywhere.
“But we’ll start small. Your birthday.”
“I have birthday plans.”
“As long as they include me.”
I take a long drink, eyeing him over the rim.
“Relationship isn’t all big gestures, Harrison. It’s the day-to-day.”
“Alright. Let’s talk about today.”
I stiffen, thinking he’s going to segue into Mischa, but he surprises me.
“Sebastian told me about the man he’s seeing.”
“He did?”
His gaze narrows. “You knew?”
“He tells me lots of things.”
Harrison frowns as if the idea of Ash is confiding in me disturbs him.
“He wants to be close to you.”
“That’s not why I’m bothered. It’s because he’s been able to contact you all year. He had this relationship with you I couldn’t have.”
“You could’ve,” I point out. “It was your choice to leave.”
“I thought it was for the best,” he says softly.
Our dinner comes, and the conversation shifts back to Ash. Harrison tells stories about them growing up. It’s clear he adored his little brother.
“We should’ve been closer after our parents’ deaths, but he blamed me. I protected him from the worst of it. Ensured he had the best schooling. Kept him away from the media, the legal side of things.”
I take another bite of delicious paella, feeling the night breeze whisper over my skin before I reach for my wine.
“Maybe you should’ve stayed with him instead of trying to bubble-wrap him,” I murmur.
He flinches. “I thought I did the right thing. It feels like the right thing is obvious, but when you look back, sometimes it seems there were only many wrong ones.”
We sip in silence.
“I know you thought you were doing the right thing by leaving LA,” I start when I set my glass down. “But it wasn’t. Not because you left, but because you treated me like my opinion didn’t matter.” I lean forward, my cuff clinking against the table. “You called me your queen and then treated me like a pawn.”
“I’m sorry I ever made you think that.”
“Why is Mischa so set on chasing after you? You said you never considered working for his parents.”
“I did one gig for them.” My brows shoot up in surprise. “Then when I learned my parents weren’t the people I thought, it reinforced that about me.”
“You’re a good man. Not because of what you’ve built. Because of what’s in here.” I reach over and tap his shirt under the edge of his jacket.
He presses my palm to his chest, and the steady thud of his heart beneath my hand is so warm and real it’s a wonder I don’t melt into him.
We finish our dinner, and he rises from his chair, motioning to me.
His hand on my back, he moves us to the ledge and leans both elbows over it to look out at the lights of the city, the black ocean beyond.
“Tourists come to Ibiza for the crowd. But when you lift your gaze past the party, we’re surrounded by stillness. It’s easy to forget there’s a whole world out there.”
“I’m sure your executive team in London reminds you that you have a business to run.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He turns toward me. “When I’m with you, I feel that calm. I don’t need to be on an island to feel it anymore.”
My heart skips. “Where should we go? You might have an empire, but this girl needs to work.”
He reaches for my hand, threads his fingers through mine. “Where would you like to work?”
Emotions collide in my chest. “I was working on some options back in the US.” I feel him turn toward me. “I don’t want to say it in case it doesn’t work out. But the past couple of months, all I could think about is playing La Mer.”
“You won’t play La Mer.” There’s a finality to his words that would make me argue, but it’s moot anyway.
“It might belong to Mischa, but it has nothing to do with him. It existed before him, and it will exist after.” I shake my head. “I was still hoping he’d rethink it.”
But when he hears I played Debajo, there’s no way he will. He’ll find out I’m with Harrison—assuming he doesn’t know already…
“I’m sorry.”
I cock my head. “You’re not.”
“I am because you want it, and I want you to have everything you want.”
Damn, it sounds as if he means it. My fingers curl around his.
“After your final gig in Ibiza—at Bliss or somewhere else—I’ll take you somewhere scenic, and we’ll laugh about this. But until then… dance with me.”
He offers a hand as music starts from somewhere in the distance. Not club music, but strings.
“Ditch the jacket.”
He obliges with a boyish grin, tossing it over the chair before pulling me close.
My lips brush his shirt.
“Since the first time I held you at La Mer, nothing has ever felt the same,” he confesses. “When I set foot inside the warehouse in LA, I didn’t picture you on stage. It was you dancing with me.”
“My dancing is mostly hips. You probably know how to ballroom dance.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Only the basics. Waltz, foxtrot, rumba…”
“Of course you do,” I murmur, laughing. “I tried to take a class at school. I could barely shuffle. But I’m done apologizing for it,” I declare.
That’s the biggest difference in the last year. No more pretending to be something I’m not.
Harrison brushes his lips across my temple, surprising me. “Good. Because I’d rather shuffle with you for the rest of my life than waltz with anyone else.”