Chapter 14
T he distant look in Sinclair’s blue eyes suddenly cleared like a summer storm being blown away.
And he said the same thing I’d been thinking: “So much for not talking about family. Let’s change the subject.”
There was so much I wanted to know about this man, especially because the more I learned, the more I grew to love him.
Was there anything he could ever say that would send me running?
I was starting to doubt it.
Touching his lip right past the cupid’s bow, I fingered the thin scar.
If I’d seen it on any other man, I would have imagined he’d gotten it from a nasty fight or maybe a childhood injury, and it was another thing I wanted to know.
“How did that happen?”
“The scar?”
“Yes.”
“It’s nothing I remember. I’ve been told it’s from forceps. My mother had a hard labor with me and I got stuck in the birth canal. The doctor had to use forceps to pull me out.”
“Oh, my God. That must have been so scary for your mother.”
“Probably. Edna said my father had my baby pictures destroyed because he didn’t want the first photos of me to be with the bruises I had. My oldest brother told me one time that I was ugly when I first came out—and I was lucky to only have this one scar.” Leaning forward, he pressed my head into his lips, probably so I couldn’t see his eyes.
“Even though I don’t remember her, this scar reminds me of my mother—and how I almost killed her.”
What a gruesome thought.
“You couldn’t help getting stuck.”
“Tell my father that.”
What I wanted to do was tell Sinclair that his father was a heartless asshole, that he didn’t care as much about Sinclair’s mother as he’d let his son think—but then I’d have to admit that I’d been devouring his mother’s journals like a series of novels.
But then Sinclair pulled back and said, “What about you? How did your birth go?”
“From what my dad tells me, it wasn’t a picnic either. My mom said she wouldn’t have another child after me, it was so bad. But…” I stopped, trailing off.
I didn’t necessarily want to talk about painful family matters any more than Sinclair did.
“But what?” he said, touching his nose to mine.
How could I ever tell him no when he looked at me like that?
“I wonder if she had any other kids after leaving us.”
“Have you ever tried looking her up on social media?”
I frowned.
“When I was younger.”
“Did you find anything?”
“No. I looked all over social media and just did general searches but came up with nothing. I started thinking she maybe changed her name and moved out of the country.”
Sinclair’s hand brushed my arm, sending chills down my spine.
“I could help with that if you want. If you have enough money, you can find almost anyone.”
It was a reminder that the man beside me had far more power than I and my father ever would.
But my mother…I’d put her memory to rest years ago.
Part of me still wanted to know—but the rest of me had decided she was dead to me, and I’d managed to convince myself that she was, in fact, dead.
Otherwise, how else could she go the rest of her life without trying to connect with her daughter?
Even though I didn’t have children of my own, I understood the bond and wondered what the hell was wrong with the woman who’d given birth to me.
“Thanks—but I don’t want her in my life.”
His short nod told me he understood—and I knew he did.
His voice took on the same bitter tone when he spoke of his father.
Maybe we had a lot more in common than I’d thought.
“Lise?” I looked up then, not having realized I was digging my nails into his chest. Maybe I had a lot more letting go to do than I’d thought.
“Oh, sorry.”
I had to change the subject—and pretend I didn’t know any of the history I’d read about or even what Edna had divulged.
“So why don’t you ever talk about your mom?”
His eyes grew dark again.
“She died when I was a baby.”
My words echoed an earlier sentiment.
“I’m sorry.”
When he shook his head, his eyes looked like his mind was far away again.
“I guess she called me Cory too.” Finally, he shifted his focus to my face once more.
“That’s why I didn’t mind you calling me that.”
I simply nodded and smiled, not planning to spill the beans.
“Even my brothers called me that until my father forbade it. He said it was a childish name and I was to be called by my first name from then on. He did the same thing to my oldest brother too. I guess my mom was the one who called him Augie and, after she’d been gone a few years, my father decided it was foolish. My brother was a teenager at the time and told our dad everyone at school called him that and he wasn’t going to change it. But…it wasn’t long before my dad got his way.” Almost under his breath, he added, “He always does.” Then he said, “But it didn’t stick forever, because our middle brother started calling him Augie again when my oldest brother and his wife had a boy and named him Augustus the fourth.”
“I’m sorry I made fun of your name. You know, when we were signing the contract.”
He laughed then, so loudly that it filled the room, and I couldn’t help but smile.
“You were such a little shit that first week.” I joined his laughter, finding it strange that we both had an entirely new perspective.
“And I didn’t tell you then, but my name was made fun of.”
“Oh, no. I guess that does make me a shit.”
His smile warmed my heart.
“It’s not what you think. When I was young, third or fourth grade maybe, we had our names on our cubbyholes. Mine said S. Whittier . And at recess, the kids would say that equaled Shittier , and they’d say I was shittier than the rest of my family.”
“That’s awful.”
“That’s just kids. Even kids from affluence can be mean. But I imagine, from what you’ve told me, that you had it worse.”
But I didn’t want to talk about it anymore—and he might have felt the same way.
“It’s in the past now.” Even being treated as an outsider as a young adult was behind me…
because I was here now.
And, as I fell asleep next to him, I couldn’t think of another place I’d rather be.
Almost a week later, I’d finally finished and submitted my application to DU for the spring semester.
But it wasn’t applying to college that made me feel so giddy.
I’d spent every night with Sinclair— Cory —since the night we’d talked about our pasts, and he made me feel like a woman.
One thing I was fairly certain about was that he didn’t feel the same way about me.
I could tell he found me irresistible and he enjoyed our time together, but he wasn’t falling over the edge of an emotional precipice like I was.
That had to be due to one of two things: either experience or gender.
As the days passed, though, I realized I couldn’t stop my heart from embracing him fully—and my brain didn’t want to.
So I simply let my feelings buoy me throughout the day until I could return to his arms at night.
Sex didn’t hurt at all anymore and it felt so good, every last second of it—and then being held by him throughout the night was like icing on the cake.
I’d never felt so loved, so free—and I tried to push the shame to the back of my mind…
because, regardless of how I felt about him, my lover was still Sinclair Whittier.
If a leopard couldn’t change its spots, could a Whittier?
Still, I clung to the hope that he was not his father.
I realized that every word he uttered could be a lie—and, even if it wasn’t, it was possible that he was wrong.
If he despised his father, he surely wouldn’t admit to himself that he was like the man…
even if he was.
So I tried not to focus on all that and only dwelt on what I knew for certain.
I knew he made my body feel good, and that somehow seemed to help my heart, my soul.
It was a kind of validation I’d never had growing up.
That wasn’t my father’s fault.
He’d done everything he could to make sure I knew I was loved and how many times had he told me how brilliant and clever I was?
Although I didn’t need the validation of my peers back in Winchester, it felt good to have it here.
I didn’t need it, but I certainly appreciated it.
And after spending so many nights with Sinclair, I truly felt I could fully embrace womanhood in a way I never had before.
He showed me what my body was meant for, and it responded to his touch like he owned it.
Although I’d never been with another man, I was certain Sinclair was a good lover—based on how good he made me feel and how attentive he was to my needs.
My body had already become his willing slave.
The next Friday morning, I lay in his bed forcing myself to wake up.
He’d gotten up just moments before, responding to his alarm.
After brushing his teeth and pulling on his workout clothes, he’d kissed me on the forehead.
When he saw that I was awake, he said, “Don’t wait up for me tonight. I’ve got a function to attend.”
I frowned, exaggerating my down-turned lips.
“I’ll make up for it tomorrow night.” Just the promise made me smile as he left to head upstairs to the gym on the third floor.
In the gray shorts, the muscles of his thighs were more obvious than in his business slacks and his ass was much easier to make out.
Oh…I had it so bad for him.
After he left, I sat up, trying to decide if I wanted to sleep for another hour in my bedroom or get up and shower.
Instead, after I slipped my robe on, I wandered around his room, looking at it almost as if seeing it for the first time.
Walking through the space, I touched the top of the rich mahogany dresser, opened the door close to it to see inside the closet that was three times the size of mine down the hall, every article of clothing neatly arranged as if in an exclusive boutique.
As I passed the fireplace, I wondered if he used it in the fall and winter, and I imagined us curled up on the floor in front of it.
As I continued awakening sexually, I was eager to experiment, and I hoped we could make love in that very spot in front of it.
I’d never actually peeked out the windows of his room, so I first looked through the ones just past the fireplace deeper inside, close to the bathroom.
Although the sun wasn’t up yet, it was light enough to see.
Out of this window I saw the west side of the yard, including the extra parking spaces on the side of the building and, when I got closer to the glass, I was able to see the patio.
When I moved to the other wall, I took in a view of the north, with the fountain and a good portion of the majestic yard.
It was a beautiful vista, and it felt somewhat secluded because of the position of the trees.
It would look even lovelier in the winter.
My room only looked over the north, the front part of the yard, and although I had plenty of windows, I didn’t have as many as Sinclair.
My bedroom reminded me of one of the rooms I’d seen in the east wing—the space I’d determined had been Augustus’s childhood bedroom.
As I pondered it, I realized it was the exact opposite of mine, a mirror image, with the windows on the other side and the bathroom and closet matching proportionally.
It dawned on me then.
Although the mansion had unique rooms, I was pretty sure if I had a map of it and folded the second floor in the middle of the antechamber, the sides would match perfectly.
Almost.
I’d already determined there weren’t as many rooms on the second floor of the east wing as there were here on the west.
I was only thinking of this because I still had a burning desire to see the rooms I hadn’t had a chance to explore before.
Then I thought back to the dinner where I’d had to wear that embarrassing maid costume and had to deal with Sinclair’s feelings of scorn.
But it was different now.
Our relationship had evolved far beyond that.
I found myself heading back to my room turning it over in my head.
First, that dinner—or what happened afterward—was what had caused Sinclair to reveal his true feelings for me.
I wouldn’t be walking away from his room, the smell of sex clinging to me as a reminder, had that not happened.
It had forced his hand.
And, second, I believed he wouldn’t react that way again.
After all, he’d let me inside…
not just his room, but his heart.
Even after telling me he didn’t want to talk about his family, he had, and I hoped he knew his secrets were safe with me.
But I had the suspicion that he wasn’t telling me everything…
and I wanted to know.
I hadn’t read much of his mother’s journals since spending every night with him, but her words, her experiences still spun around my brain, and something told me I might find answers in that abandoned space.
Of course, I couldn’t do it right now—but soon.
I hoped the east wing held the answers that Sinclair was reluctant to give…
and especially the ones he couldn’t possibly know.