Chapter 8
AURELIA
When I pulled up in front of the address Harrison had texted me, freezing rain was coming down in silver sheets, glazing everything it touched.
I skidded a little on my heels on the walkway, grabbing a railing to keep from falling flat on my face as I hurried up to the door, hugging my coat a little tighter.
Thankfully, he must’ve been waiting because when I reached the top of the walkway to a gorgeous little townhouse, the door opened.
I didn’t know what I’d been expecting when he asked me to come over, but it’d probably been an overgrown frat boy’s den with a giant TV, a sofa that reeked of beer, and maybe a few hockey sticks propped in the corner.
The exterior had already surprised me, but when he raced me right inside and shut the door behind us, the interior came as a downright shock. Before I even looked at him, my gaze swept across his space and I quickly came to a few conclusions.
Harrison’s home was clean, modern, and furnished with a certain amount of intention.
Dark wood floors, cream walls, and black leather furniture with sharp lines.
A fireplace flickered in the corner—a real fire, not one of those electric-powered things—and he’d bothered to light it like he’d actually thought about ambiance.
Maybe the baby of the family isn’t such a baby after all. His house certainly made him seem a lot more mature than I’d have thought.
“Nice place,” I said, shrugging out of my coat as I finally turned to face him.
Immediately, those mesmerizing eyes latched onto mine, the man they belonged to obviously freshly out of the shower with damp hair, a hoodie bearing the logo of one of the charter schools on the outskirts of town, and navy sweats.
God, he looks good enough to lick. So damn gorgeous.
To make matters worse, his lips curved into a boyish smirk that drove me nuts. “Thanks. Can I make you something hot to drink or grab you a blanket? You looked frozen when you came in.”
I wandered through the open-concept living space to the fireplace and held out my hands to warm them up. “I should be okay. Thanks. What’s this situation we’ve got?”
“Alright, well, if you change your mind, just let me know.” His gaze lingered on me for another moment before he turned and padded over to the dining area of the far side of the spacious room.
I noticed then that he was barefoot, and something about that, about him being relaxed at home on a stormy evening, made him about ten times sexier. Nope. Shut it down, Van Alen.
Immediately yanking my gaze away from him, I looked around some more, running my gaze across the exposed brick walls, some of them painted a very dark gray to create accents, and admired some of the art mounted against them.
I was surprised again when I realized that these weren’t expensive pieces by the old masters or the new obsessions.
I didn’t recognize even one of the names and I’d been known to frequent a gallery or two in my free time. “Who are the artists?”
He looked up from where he’d sat down behind his open laptop at the dining table, facing me. There were papers everywhere, but no chaos. Instead, everything was organized into neat stacks, highlighters, pens, and colored post-its lined up like soldiers waiting to be commanded into battle.
Again, not what I would’ve expected.
“They’re no one fancy,” he said, glancing around the room like he’d forgotten they were even there.
“Mostly just stuff I picked up from local artists while I was traveling. Every piece has a story that I got to learn by talking to the artists themselves. A few are prints I picked up from the Sunday market down the block. I just liked them.”
The storm rattled against the windows while we spoke, sleet striking the glass like tiny darts. I could see the glaze forming, the world outside frosting over in real time. The weather was miserable, but somehow, it seemed to cocoon us in this bubble where only us and the deal existed.
I shivered, but I’d mostly warmed up in front of the fire and I strode over to him, hesitating for just a beat before I kicked off my shoes once I sat down next to him. Our shoulders were angled toward each other, the laptop and the files between us.
“The attorneys want to meet. With me, you, and my father,” he explained, his expression uncharacteristically serious as his gaze held mine. “If the client finds out we’re working together, he might panic. Think we’re somehow plotting against him.”
“Or he might take it as proof that we’re serious,” I countered. “Think about it. Two families, two powerhouses, both willing to bankroll him out of this mess? It could reassure him that he’s making the right move.”
Harrison arched an eyebrow. “Do you really think he cares about the right move? He’s an idiot. He’ll squander whatever lifeline we throw him just like he lost everything else.”
I laughed under my breath. “True, but that’s not our problem. We just need him to sign the papers. What he does with the money after that isn’t our business.”
We leaned over to look at the document open on his laptop at the same time, our shoulders brushing.
I pretended not to notice the spark that zipped through me, focusing instead on the numbers.
Outside, the rain clattered harder against the glass, like the weather gods themselves were determined to keep us forced into close proximity tonight.
For once, I really didn’t mind. I glanced at him. “What about your dad? Does he know I’m the investor?”
Harrison shook his head, but didn’t look at me.
“I haven’t told him yet. Also, I don’t want to scare you, but Harlan would steamroll a meeting like this.
He’ll eat you alive if you try to go against him in any way.
So yeah, he’s definitely part of the situation, but I really am worried about the client’s reaction when he realizes we’re working together. ”
One second, our gazes were locked and apprehension was racing down my spine and the next, darkness fell. The entire townhouse went silent except for fire crackling and the sleet hammering the windows.
I froze, my hand still on the papers open on the table. “Um. Is that…?”
“Power outage.” His voice was low and calm. “It must be getting really bad out there.”
I turned my gaze toward the hallway, but while the main room was cast in deep orange glow from the flames, the rest of the house seemed to be a complete void. “Tell me your eyesight is as good as your so-called impeccable hearing.”
“Sadly, no, but I think I’ve got a few candles. If I have any, they’ll be upstairs. I’ve got some more wood for the fire too. Not much, but enough for a couple hours.”
“You think you have candles?”
“I’m an optimist,” he said lightly, then the flashlight on his phone went on, a harsh white beam slicing across his annoyingly perfect grin.
I pulled my phone out too, mimicking him as I stood. “Lead the way, Westwood, but if I fall on my face, you’re paying my medical bills.”
“Done,” he said, and I heard the smug smile in his voice as we started up the stairs. “I’ll even sign your cast if you break something.”
Harrison’s steps were easy and confident while I trailed behind him, muttering every time my socked foot slipped on the polished wood.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “I’m pretty sure this place is haunted.”
I nearly tripped on the next stair. “Do. Not. Say. That.”
“Why not?” He glanced back, the flashlight catching the gleam of mischief in his eyes. “You don’t have to be scared. I’ll protect you.”
“There’s only one thing I don’t mess with, and that’s ghosts.”
He grinned. “Noted. I probably shouldn’t tell you about the footsteps I hear at night, then?”
I glared at the back of his head when he faced forward again. “Harrison fucking Westwood. Ghosts are going to be the least of your problems if you carry on like that.”
He laughed, and by the time we reached the upstairs closet, he was still chuckling. He dug around, but finally found an armful of candles. “See? I told you. Optimist.”
We shuffled back down and finally lit the candles. Warm light flickered across the table, bouncing off the walls and softening the edges of everything on our side of the room. The storm still battered the glass, but inside, it felt different.
Quieter. Colder, too. The fire was only helping so much.
Harrison blew out a long breath, looking out at the storm through the window. “You’re not going anywhere tonight.”
I folded my arms. “Excuse me?”
He gestured toward the iced-over street. The sleet had turned the road into a skating rink. “You’d end up in a ditch before you make it to the corner.”
I wanted to argue. I really did, but my gaze slid back to the window, then to the candles, across the room to the cozy fire before before it settled on the man standing next to me, as smug as ever but with something gentler in his eyes.
I sighed. “Fine. I’ll stay.”
His smile was slow and lazy. “Good. I’ll even throw in breakfast.”
I rolled my eyes, but my chest felt warm anyway.
I didn’t know how it happened, but somehow, a bottle of Cabernet appeared between us on his dining table.
We sipped while we worked, but it wasn’t long before we were on his couches, fresh glasses of wine in our hands and flames flickering as we talked and the storm raged on outside.
“This isn’t bad, Westwood,” I said, tipping my glass toward him. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type to keep good wine in the house. I kind of thought you as more of a scotch on the rocks kind of guy.”
He swirled the liquid in his glass, watching the deep red catch the light. “I take my scotch neat, but only after I’ve earned it.”
I smirked. “So you’ve only earned really good wine tonight?”
“I survived a meeting with you in the dark without being stabbed with a fountain pen. I’ve earned champagne. The real stuff.”
I laughed before I could stop myself. “You are infuriating.”
“Yeah.” He grinned over the rim of his glass. “You like it, though. Don’t you?”
I looked away, swirling my own wine and pretending that the flickering candlelight was more interesting than he was. “Hey, can I ask you something personal?”
“Shoot. I’m an open book when it’s dark and I’m drinking wine. It’s like a truth serum.”
Once again, I found myself chuckling. “What’s it like, being one of the famous four?”
He groaned. “You mean my brothers? The married, settled, respectable ones?”
I arched an eyebrow. “I don’t know if I’d call them respectable. I’ve read about them in the tabloids and I’d say your definition of that word is very different to mine.”
He laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in the sound. “Respectable isn’t the word I’d use for what they were like before, either. But now? Shit, they’d tattoo their wives names on their foreheads and dance naked on Times Square under every full moon if that was what it took to keep their wives.”
“Dancing naked on Times Square on every full moon isn’t really respectable either, but I get where you’re coming from. When I looked you up, I noticed they’d all gotten married this year. It’s been a busy few months over at Westwood Manor, huh?”
Harrison chuckled, but something about the sound was off.
“Yeah, it really has been, but don’t pretend like you don’t know all those marriages were arranged.
At this point, everyone knows and my brothers don’t give a damn.
They’re crazy in love and happy as clams. They just needed a little push to get them to do it. ”
“And you?”
He took another sip of his wine, his jaw working. “Nah. Harlan pushed my brothers and he pushed them hard. Threatened their inheritances. Board seats. The works. Me? All I get is you’re still young, Harrison. Enjoy your youth, Harrison.”
Something in the way he said it tugged at me. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “That bothers you.”
He shrugged, but it didn’t seem casual at all. “I’ve spent my whole life with everyone thinking I’m just the fun one, the spoiled one, the one who’ll never grow up. The baby. Sometimes, I wonder if I have to do something big, something insane, to prove that I’m actually a pretty capable adult now.”
I tilted my head. “Like what? Get married?”
He snorted, but then gave me a look that was long and searching. “It wouldn’t be the craziest thing a Westwood has ever done. Your dad ever talk to you about marriage?”
“Are you kidding?” A bark of dry, bitter laughter escaped me and I took a big gulp of my wine. “Only all the time. According to him, that’s the only worthwhile thing I could do with my life.”
“That’s bullshit,” he muttered, tossing back the wine in his glass and refilling us both. “You’re awesome at what you do, Van Alen. Seriously. All that stuff you found in your research? I could only have guessed at it without you.”
The words slipped under my skin like a spark, and suddenly, I wasn’t looking at a spoiled, yacht-tripping fuckboy anymore. I was looking at a man with something to prove. A man who had just admitted the very thing that might make him dangerous… and useful.
A lightbulb clicked on in my brain.
My father didn’t know I was here, working with Harrison, trying to snatch that portfolio right out from under the Van Alen & Associates name. God, the man hadn’t even noticed when I’d quit and Harrison? He was desperate to prove that he was capable of falling in the ranks of his own family.
I leaned back, crossing my arms, and letting a slow smile spread across my face. I didn’t know if this was the wine talking or the moody lighting, but the question came out smooth and confident. Like it’d been waiting at the tip of my tongue all this time and was eager to finally be on its way out.
“We should get married, don’t you think?”
As he held my gaze, I saw his eyes widen for a fraction of a second. He looked into his wine for a beat, drained the entire fresh glass, then he looked at me again and his lips curved into a dangerous, deliciously devilish grin.
“Actually, I think that’s a great idea.”
Oh, God. He’s going for it? Really?
I’d known from the moment I’d met him that Harrison Westwood was trouble, but right now, he was exactly the kind of trouble I was dying to get into—and to have getting into me.