Chapter 36
Chapter
Thirty-Six
HUGH
-maybe, maybe, maybe-
The orangery’s glass walls catch the pale April light, and bathe Lauren in it. Her tangled hair is a wild halo, and her eyes pin me with a wariness that cuts deeper than I expect.
Her crossed arms, her faded University of Chicago t-shirt, the way she holds herself like she’s bracing for a blow—that holds me captive.
Her words from moments ago—like you’re manipulating me—linger, sharp and heavy, and I feel them, not as a challenge but as a truth I’m desperate to unravel.
Because right now, as I lean back, I realize every word I’m saying to her, every promise, is true, raw, stripped of the games I’d once played.
Last night—her skin against mine, her gasps filling the dark, the way she arched into me, fierce and unguarded—burned away the calculations, the charm I’d wielded to win her land.
Now, it’s just her, and I mean every syllable, every breath.
I inhale slowly, the air tasting of coffee and spring grass, and let my voice come, steady, soft, kind.
“Lauren,” I say, my eyes locked on hers, unblinking, searching for the crack in her guard, “if you stay here, in the manor, think of it as a well-earned vacation, a pause from all that back-breaking work. You’d have use of it all—pool, sauna, gym, garden, music room, library, stables…
Whatever you need to relax, to breathe, it’s yours. ”
The wicker table between us is filled with croissants, their buttery flakes crumbling, and coffee steaming in delicate curls. “And whatever in the world you’d want to eat at any time of the day and night,” I add.
There is a glimmer in her eyes.
She is weakening. I pounce. With my fingers gently cupping the coffee cup, the porcelain hot against my palm, I lean forward and drop my voice.
The words I utter are raw with a sincerity that startles even me.
“I’m not asking for anything in return, Lauren.
Not a single thing. Just take what you need, at no cost, no expense. I’m ready to give it, all of it.”
“Nothing ever comes at no cost and no expense,” she mutters.
“You’re right,” I agree, my voice low, rough with the memory of her—her hands clutching my shoulders, her breath hot against my neck.
“So I’ll say this: last night was one of the best nights I’ve ever had.
And I want more. I want you day and night.
The closer you are, the easier it will be for me to visit you and ravish you.
” I let the words hang. They are spoken lightly so as not to spook her, but they are heavy with honesty.
I watch her face shift, a flicker of amusement softening the lines of doubt, then her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile.
It’s a small victory, a crack in the wall she’s built.
Her eyes drift to the table, to the spread of food—and her voice comes again, softer, almost shy. “Do you mind if I join you?”
I laugh, the sound loosening the knot in my chest, and gesture to the chair across from me, its cushion plush and inviting. “Please do. This is way too much for one person. A lot of things in this house are way too much for one person. It’d be good to have company, Lauren.”
She hesitates, her fingers brushing the hem of her t-shirt, the faded maroon letters cracked and peeling, and I see it—the self-consciousness, the way she shifts her weight, like she’s suddenly aware of her messy hair, her rumpled shorts, the contrast to this fine room.
But she nods, a small, decisive movement, and says, “Okay,” before crossing the floor and sinking into the chair, and I feel a rush, a quiet thrill that she’s here, choosing to stay, choosing me, even if it’s just for a while.
I slide a plate towards her, my voice easy, coaxing. “You went to Chicago University?” I nod at her t-shirt, letting my smile tilt, playful, wanting to draw her out.
Her eyes lift, surprised, and she takes a strawberry, rolling it between her fingers, her voice warm, like she’s stepping into a fond memory.
“Yeah,” she says, her lips curving. “I was there to study business. My mother thought I’d take on the world. But it was mostly late nights, bad coffee, and arguing about fatalistic Russian and European philosophers with students studying arts in dive bars.” She laughs, a small, bright sound.
She reaches for a croissant and tears it apart. Buttery flakes scatter on the table. I lean in, caught by the simple act, by her. I want to hold onto this ease, this glimpse of her unguarded.
We talk, the conversation light, weaving through her stories—a professor who wore bow ties, a Chicago winter that buried her car in snow.
I offer a story of my own, a mad Oxford bet of herding some pigs into a professor’s office after too many pints, and her laugh comes again, louder, her shoulders loosening.
The food disappears slowly, bites taken between words, the coffee cooling in our cups, and I feel it—a rhythm, a warmth, like we’re building something fragile, something that could break if I don’t cherish it.
I set my cup down, my voice steady but gentle, because I need her to know I’m not being high-handed, but just thinking of her, and what she needs.
“I’ll send one of the maids with you back to the cottage,” I say, watching her face, the way her fingers pause.
“She’ll help you pack what you need for the week.
The workers are diving into the heavy stuff first—repairing the roof, stripping walls, painting, building new cabinets in the kitchen.
It’ll be loud and chaotic, and you won’t want to be dodging hammers to grab your things.
You can give them directions, tell them what you want, but don’t worry about the cost. It’s covered, all of it. ”
She pauses, a red cherry halfway to her lips, and her eyes search mine, wary but hopeful. She’s testing my words for some kind of catch that she’s still expecting.
“Okay,” she decides quietly. “I accept, but no maid. I only have a few things to pack.”
Her words arrive like a gift. Relief washes over me, and I can’t help it—a smile breaks wide and unguarded.
My chest swells with a joy so great it catches me off guard.
She’s staying, here, in my world. It’s more than I dared hope, more than I deserve.
I lean forward eagerly, my voice bright, impulsive, because I’m greedy for more of her, for this.
“Do you ride?”
“Yes, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been on a horse. I had a friend whose family had a farm in Wyoming. I spent some summers there as a teenager.”
“That’s okay. Once you learn how to ride you never forget. Come for a ride with me this evening,” I say, the words spilling out. “The trails are magic at dusk. Will you?”
Her eyes widen, just a fraction, and I hold my breath, watching the flicker of surprise shift to a small, tentative smile, her lips curving like she’s seeing the possibility, the adventure.
“Yes,” she says, nodding, her voice soft but sure. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” I watch her, the morning light catching the curve of her cheek, the faint blush on her skin, and know with crystal clear clarity, that I’m in deeper than I planned, deeper than I’ve ever been.
Last night was fire, consuming, but her hesitant trust, her quiet yes—it’s something more, something I’m not ready to name but can’t let slip away.
The image of her riding beside me, her hair whipping in the wind, the manor’s fields stretching endlessly before us slips into my head and a wild thrill sparks in my chest.