Chapter 21
“That article still giving you trouble?” Bennett asks, walking through the double doors of the primary suite.
He turns left toward the bathroom instead of right into the bedroom.
The suite occupies almost the entire right side of the house, minus a den off the foyer, which could easily be converted into my home office…
Not that I’d been thinking about that or anything.
The bedroom is made up of two wings: to the right, the bathroom with an oversized walk-in shower, a soaking tub, and a beautiful dual vanity; to the left, two walk-in closets and the bedroom with a private entrance to the lanai.
“You have no idea,” I say, closing my laptop.
He thinks I’m working on an article about hormone therapy for women in the early stages of menopause and whether the benefits outweigh the risks. Obviously, it’s the furthest thing from the truth, but the lie was the first thing I could think of when he asked why I was stressed.
I catch a glimpse of him brushing his teeth when I leave the bedroom.
Powering off my laptop, I leave it on the bar countertop next to the dining room table.
This house is immaculate for a man who lives alone.
I expected to walk in and find clothes everywhere, only a couple of beers in the fridge, and video game boxes strewn across the television console.
What I found was the exact opposite: a beautiful ranch home that radiates warmth and comfort, located not far from Tampa.
It’s clean and kept with a few beers in the fridge and real food, and the video game boxes stacked neatly on a shelf.
“Brooks and Savannah used to live there,” he said when we drove by a gated community two blocks from his neighborhood. “They’re about twenty minutes from here now. Built a house right on the Crystal Bay line, a lot nicer than anything they’d get in there.”
Don’t judge me, but I may have done a public property search Tuesday night after we settled in to find out just how much nicer…
A custom gated estate valued at $1.87 million, with a little over two acres of land, six thousand square feet, and six bedrooms—and that’s just what the tax records showed.
I can’t even imagine what it must be like off paper.
Every day, I learn something new about the Brookses that reminds me they aren’t some normal couple on the street, even if they try to act like it.
While I was at it, I may have also looked up Ben’s home.
His ranch estate is nestled deep in Cobblestone Village, a small, ungated community in the Tampa suburb of Crystal Bay, but no less desirable than the one Brooks Taylor used to live in.
The biggest difference between the two seems to be the gate at the front, because the cheapest home in either one is $1.
3 million. The numbers make my head spin.
How is this real life? Sure, I know people live like this, but I never imagined being surrounded by it one day.
I grew up in a small town in northwestern Kentucky with a blue-collar father and a teacher mother.
We weren’t poor, but my parents would never have been able to afford a house like the one I’ve been sleeping in the past two nights.
This house is practical, with four bedrooms and an open floor plan that flows seamlessly from the kitchen into the adjoining living and dining rooms, straight to the backyard through stacking sliding glass doors.
A covered lanai houses a pool and adjoining hot tub, with a lush green space outside overlooking a pond.
The best part? No houses on the other side, only a line of trees.
The dark wood finishes inside contrast with the white floors and counters, making the space bright and clean, but still warm and inviting.
The energy is expensive, but in a way that doesn’t boast. It’s quiet, similar to the James house in Wexley Hollow, but the opposite of the flashier style found in the Boston townhome.
The longer I’m here, the more I wonder where I fit in. I’m not wealthy. I’m a journalist, for fuck’s sake. I’m still paying off my five-hundred-square-foot condo in a neighborhood I can barely afford. I don’t own multiple properties or make millions of dollars a year or have a private plane or—
“What are you still doing out here?” His breath is warm against my neck as his arms snake around my waist. My body melts into the embrace, but my mind continues to list every way I don’t fit in here.
Can’t move past the reason I’m here. Can’t move on from the lie.
“Sloane,” Bennett says gently, turning me in his arms. His face contorted with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“N-Nothing. It’s nothing.”
“Don’t do that.” He pushes a strand of hair behind my ear, tilting my chin up. “Don’t shut me out. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”
I bite down on my bottom lip. “I don’t belong here, Ben.”
He chuckles, refusing to let go when I try pulling away. “What?”
“I’m not one of you,” I say, but the statement only seems to confuse him more.
“I’m Sloane, a writer who lives on expensive coffee and takeout, sometimes ramen noodles when things are really tight.
I’m still paying off my condo. I don’t have a lot of money in the bank or expensive things.
I don’t even have a family. I’m not Rae or Savannah or Harper—”
“Exactly,” Bennett says, cutting me off.
His eyes light up, and a soft smile spreads across his lips.
“The money? The things? None of that matters to me, Honey. You’re not like Rae or Savannah?
Good, because as much as I love them, I could never be with someone like them.
And Harper? I thank God every day you’re nothing like my ex-wife.
If I wanted someone like her, I’d still be married to her.
” He takes a deep breath. “Sloane, I love you because of who you are.”
The words hang between us.
I love you.
He loves me? He can’t love me. He doesn’t even know me.
“Don’t say that,” I say, taking a step back.
“Ben, you can’t—” I shake my head and take another step away, pacing the length of the back doors.
Every few steps, I look up at him, waiting for him to say psych, but he never does.
“No, no, you can’t. We’ve only been dating for…
what? Two weeks? That’s not possible! It’s not practical. You can’t—”
He kisses me, silencing the rest of my argument. His tongue sweeps across my bottom lip, and I open to him without hesitation—tangled together in an eager embrace.
With a soft hum, Ben parts from me, resting his forehead on mine. I search his face—his eyes—looking for any sign of hesitation or regret, but I find none. He just said he loves me, and I think he really means it.
“You don’t have to say it back,” he says, running a nervous hand over his scalp.
“But Sloane, I’d regret it if I didn’t tell you.
And I get it, we haven’t known each other that long, but I knew there was something special about you when we met last year.
I wish I’d had the courage to ask you for a real chance back then instead of following your lead. ”
“I love you, too,” I say quickly, before I can talk myself out of it. A slow smile spreads across my lips as tears brim in my eyes. I know I shouldn’t say it. I have no right to say it, not after the lies I’ve told to get here, but I do. I love Bennett James.
A goofy grin splits his face, and I stare into his dark brown eyes, feeling nothing but genuine love for the man before me.
Brushing my fingers down the side of his face, I pull his mouth down to mine.
He explores my mouth with a newfound urgency, the same kind I felt in the kitchen earlier, before he retreated, but this time, nothing stands in our way.
Lifting me off my feet, he wraps my legs around his waist and carries me to the bedroom.
My back hits the wall of the left wing, and he pulls away far too soon.
His eyes run over my face, and my pulse quickens, trapped beneath my skin, begging to escape with every beat of my heart.
Ben traces my lips with the pad of his thumb and bends down to kiss me again.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this? We don’t have to… I don’t want to make you feel like—”
“Yes.” I nod to reassure him that yes, I do want this.
I’ve wanted this. Wanted him. Not just because I’ve also thought about the way his body would feel against mine from the first time I saw him last year, but because I believe my admission from moments ago.
I’m not sure how it’s possible or if I’m truly allowed to feel this way, but I do.
“Yes,” I say, nodding again, and my feet fall to the carpet. I wrap my arms around his neck, closing the space between us.
Ben’s mouth molds against mine, and guides me further into the bedroom.
The backs of my thighs hit the side of the bed, and he pushes me onto the mattress.
The wings of a hundred butterflies beat in my chest as I stare up at him.
His right arm reaches for the left sleeve of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one swift motion.
Okay, that was kind of hot. Did he always take his shirt off like that?
Or was he trying to show off? It doesn’t really matter, but I will be taking note of whether that’s a normal occurrence or not.
Letting his shirt fall to the floor, he climbs onto the bed and hovers over me with a smile.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re beautiful.”
The words feel heavy in my mind, as a wave of emotion washes over me.
He said a thousand things with those two simple words, and I don’t know how to respond.
Thank you doesn’t feel adequate, but I don’t think telling him he’s beautiful is the right answer, either.
But this man is beautiful, inside and out, and the thought of continuing to lie to him makes me sick. I have to tell him the truth, I can’t—