Chapter 15
I’ve started noticing it. The mask he puts on to be what he thinks other people expect of him. The smile he makes to charm his way. I used to find it easy to be around. That wide smile used to put me at ease. But now…
I question if that’s his true smile.
Because I’ve seen how he smiles when he’s unguarded. The small, crooked ones when he’s amused despite himself. How those smiles reach his eyes and make them look warm. Those are the smiles I want.
He gave me peonies. Beautiful, giant buds that will open fully in the coming days. Become bold, showy blooms.
Odd. That’s the word. It feels odd to have—through some kind of magic—gotten to know Nate Connovan this way. Unexpectedly.
To want to get to know him even better.
The sun hasn’t yet begun to rise when we leave the flower market. It’s hovering just below the horizon, but the sky is already brighter than it was an hour ago. The dark has given way to a deep blue tone that will only keep brightening.
There isn’t a cloud over our heads.
“Are you hungry?” I turn to him, where he’s leaning against a lamppost. “I am. It would be the perfect end to this all-night adventure if we can go home and order in, and?—”
“We’re not ordering in.” He runs a hand along his jaw and looks out at the Thames. “How do you feel about watching the sunrise?”
“I feel like that’s an infinitely better suggestion than mine.”
His eyes gleam with a smile. “Don’t beat yourself too bad about it.”
“I’ll try not to. Where should we go?”
“Oh, I know a perfect place.” He pulls up his phone, and his fingers fly across the screen. “I’m getting us a cab. This one’s too far to walk.”
A car arrives a few minutes later, and then we’re on the road again. Tiredness makes my eyelids heavy, and it takes effort to avoid falling asleep in the backseat of a London cab. The rocking motion makes it nearly impossible, until a hand brushes against my arm.
“Harper?”
“I’m awake.”
“Good,” he says. His deep voice is amused. “We’re here.”
We emerge onto the nearly deserted sidewalk in front of a skyscraper. The exterior is practically all-glass exterior, tinted and clean. A bouncer is at the entrance, and a few people mill around beside him; a couple of them having a smoke.
Everyone is dressed to the nines.
“Okay, you won’t look weird being in a tux here,” I tell Nate.
He puts his hand on the small of my back. It hovers there, barely touching. “We have an elevator ride left, and then there will be food.”
“What is this place?”
“Duck and Waffle. Open twenty-four seven,” he says. He nods at the bouncer, and then we’re through.
It’s on the top floor, an elegant blend of a restaurant and bar. All around us are glass windows with views of London. The first rays of light are kissing the horizon, ushering the break of dawn.
“Wow,” I breathe. “This is unreal.”
Nate’s voice is amused again. “Come on. Let’s grab a table with a view. The sun should rise… right over there. We’ll get a good view of Tower Bridge too.” He leads the way to a small table right against the glass. The waiter is at our side in minutes. She smiles, handing us the menus. “Finishing off a long night?”
“Something like that,” Nate says. “But mostly we’re beginning a new day in style.”
We end up ordering the drinks along with the food. This place is famous for its cocktails, and it takes me one glance at the list of signature beverages to realize getting anything else would be a waste. The drinks arrive quickly, and Nate leans back in the chair with his gin and tonic. With his bowtie undone, his thick hair, and that glint in his eyes, he looks almost dangerous.
It’s easy to forget just who Nate is when he’s helping me air the smoke out from his kitchen after a culinary mishap, or making coffee in the morning. But it’s just as easy for me to be struck by the realization again.
And right now, I’m struck.
On a regular day, Nate doesn’t seem that much older than me, but at the moment, those ten years are apparent; the faint lines across his forehead make him look distinguished.
The things Dean has told me wind through my mind. Now, though, they are enhanced, changed with the firsthand knowledge of Nate himself. Of his beautifully renovated Kensington townhouse. Of his attachment to cars. His job and family, and the way he carries himself.
I’ve met other men through Dean, but no one quite like Nate. No one else whom Dean admired so much, and no one else whom Dean envied more.
No one more richer and no one more powerful.
“You’re looking at me.” Nate’s voice holds no trace of amusement now, just a quiet observation. “Like you’re trying to solve a riddle.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe you are a very fascinating person.”
One of his eyebrows rises. “I think you’re vastly overestimating me.”
“No, I don’t think I am.” I shake my head slowly. “There are a ton of things I would ask you. If I could.”
Nate looks out of the window. I follow his gaze to where the golden sun is slowly rising. “Ask then,” he says. His voice is a bit gruff.
I take a sip of my drink. It tastes like passionfruit and vanilla, and if there’s alcohol in it, it’s cleverly disguised. “It might offend you.”
“Have I ever given you the impression that I’m easily offended?” He shakes his head, looking over at me, and puts a large hand directly over his heart. “That hurts more than any words you might say.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m going to hold you to that if you ever get upset.”
“Please do. I’m a man of my word.” He inclines his head in my direction, his eyes still gleaming. “Give it your best shot.”
Alcohol, adrenaline, and tiredness blend together in my system into a heady cocktail. Nothing about reality feels quite real. Not the bar, not the view of the city, not the sunrise. Not the early hour after a late night or the man sitting in front of me.
“You were… I… how did you turn out normal?”
Both his eyebrows rise. “What?”
“You were raised wealthy, right? You had these kinds of experiences all the time. Archery camp and, and… beautiful cars. International travel and amazing schools. How did you grow up and not become absolutely unbearable? You could be arrogant, belittling, entitled. I’ve met plenty of people who are.”
He runs a hand along his jaw. It takes me a second to realize it’s to hide his smile.
That makes me chuckle. “It’s not that weird of a question!”
“No. It’s just very you,” he says.
“Very me?”
“Mm-hmm. It’s also flattering. How do you know I’m not arrogant, belittling, and entitled when you’re not watching?”
I tilt my head. Examine him. “I suppose you might be. Yes, it’s possible, especially at work. I have a very small sample size to work with. But I think that if you’re arrogant, it’s in a joking way. That if you’re belittling, it’s unintended. And if you’re entitled, it’s… well. An accident of your birth.”
“You’re giving me a lot of grace right now.”
“And you’re avoiding answering my question,” I say. “I only know what I’ve… what I’ve heard about your family. Is it true that you used to go on family holidays on a private jet?”
He runs a hand over his face. “That little tidbit made its way to your ears, huh?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“It happened a few times, yeah. But we didn’t go on family trips very often.” He takes a sip of his drink, and when he sees me still watching, he blows out a breath. “You really want an answer.”
“I want to know more about you.”
“Demanding,” he chides. But he leans back in his chair like he’s settling in. “We were raised in comfort, my siblings and I. I’ll be the first to admit that. We were given every opportunity. Summer camps, tutors, internships… It was a paved road. But my mother didn’t come from the same world as Dad. She was very insistent on us learning good manners, empathy, and how to have fun.”
My voice comes out hesitant. “I heard about her. I’m really sorry, Nate.”
His lips tilt up in a half smile that’s not all too amused. “Thanks, but it was a long time ago.”
“Still. Time doesn’t really matter when it comes to that sort of thing.”
His eyes sharpen. “Of course. You lost your father.”
“Yes, when I was three. I don’t have any memories of him. My stepdad, Greg, is the only dad I’ve ever known.” I shake my head. “This isn’t about me.”
“No, because it couldn’t be that easy.” He looks down at his glass again. “Dad raised us alone after she died, and the lessons changed. He’s always been more achievement focused. It’s hard to feel entitled when you have to work for everything. Not the material things or opportunities, perhaps, but all the other things that matter to a kid. Attention. Affection. Approval.”
“All the A’s,” I murmur.
He huffs out a laugh. “Yes. All the A’s.”
“You have a big brother, too,” I say. “Competitive?”
“Terribly,” he says easily, the word falling from half-smiling lips. “Until I decided to give up the fight. I’d rather lose on walkover than on merit.”
“Clever.”
“Well, that’s the one thing I have going for me. Or at least I did.” He lifts his drink and drains it entirely. “I usually make good decisions.”
I smile at him. “Usually? What have you— oh!”
The food arrives. Two large plates, two sides, and a small bowl of bread. It’s a veritable spread, and I know the bill will be just as large, but this is an adventure. The scent of waffles, truffle fries, and beef sliders wafts in the air between us.
“This is the way life should be lived.” I reach for a few fries, and they taste like magic. We both dig in, and for a few minutes there’s no conversation at all.
“Tell me about your parents,” he says. “Your mom and stepdad.”
I shake my head again. “This is supposed to be my time to ask you invasive questions that you won’t remember later.”
That makes him laugh. “I’m not that drunk, and neither are you, not anymore. Come on. Tell me.”
“My mom is a professor of English literature. Greg works as an accountant. They’re very ordinary, boring people, and they gave me a very stable upbringing.”
“English literature?”
“Yes. She raised me on Jane Austen, the Bront? sisters, Dickens… Actually, it’s partly why I was so excited about this job being in London. I love period dramas, the history, the beautiful architecture. My mom might come for a visit later, and we’re looking at doing one of those tours. You know, the one that stops at Shakespeare’s birthplace and Jane Austen’s home and stuff?”
“There are tours like that?”
“Nate,” I tell him seriously, “there are tours for everything.”
He smiles into his glass. “Of course there are.”
“So, I’m going to try to do that. Mom’s been… well.” The recent conversation, about how Dean had spoken to her and tried to influence her to change my mind, dampens my excitement a bit. She’s been supportive. Mostly. She just doesn’t understand, and that was hard in the beginning, when I was still doubting my own decision.
The food disappears at the speed of the rising sun outside our window. The golden rays illuminate London and make the serpentine Thames glitter wherever it’s glimpsed between the buildings.
For a few long minutes, we just sit and take it all in. It isn’t until we leave that I realize I never took a picture. But forgetting to photograph beautiful moments is the best of signs.
It’s six thirty when we emerge back onto the sidewalk. The tiredness is like a blanket around me, heavy and welcoming, and even Nate looks like he could do with a nap. He runs his hand through his hair several times while we wait for our cab.
Some people throw us curious glances. It’s fairly deserted since it’s Saturday, but a few who walk by are in suits. Working, despite the weekend, here in the financial district.
With Nate in his tux and an undone bow tie, and me in my golden dress, it looks like we’ve been partying until dawn. A couple that’s stayed out all night.
That thought makes me giggle.
Nate brushes his shoulder with mine. “What are you thinking of now, Harpy?”
“Harpy?”
“You said you’d never had a nickname, so I’m testing some out.”
I giggle again. “Well, harpy is terrible. And I was thinking what the people walking by must be thinking of us right now.”
Nate leans in, his breath by my ear. “About how much they want to be us.”
I roll my eyes. “No, they’re not.”
“Of course they are. You think I can’t be arrogant, or belittling, or entitled?” His gaze makes my stomach tighten. “I will tell you exactly what they see. They see two people who’ve had the night of their lives. They see frivolity and excess, the result of a night of partying. And if they’re male, well…” His lips curve into that crooked smile, the real one. “They very much want to be in my shoes right now.”
My throat feels dry. “Because they think you’re going home with me?”
“They do.” He chuckles, and the tension in my stomach breaks. “And I am. Just not that way.”
My smile widens. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Don’t worry,” he says dryly. “I won’t.”
It’s a miracle that I manage to stay awake in the cab. We walk in muted silence up the steps to the townhouse. The sun is high over the rooftops now, and birds chirp happily from behind the garden walls.
“What time did you wake up yesterday morning?” he asks.
“Seven-fifteen.” I glance at my watch. “Shit. I have another twenty minutes for this to be considered an all-nighter.”
“Then we’ll just need to keep you awake for the next twenty minutes.” Nate locks the door behind us, and I wander into the living room, an area I haven’t used as much as I would have liked, mindful of his space.
Now I throw myself on the giant couch.
He chuckles. “TV?”
“Please, or I won’t be able to keep my eyes open. And make it really, really loud.”
He turns it on. Sits down on the couch next to where I’m sprawled, melting into the soft cushion from sheer exhaustion. Any second now, I feel like I’m going to topple into the blissful void.
“My eyelids are heavy,” I say.
Nate’s hand lands on my upper arm. “Don’t fall asleep.”
“I won’t,” I mumble. His touch feels good. Warm. I curl closer until my head is touching the side of his thigh. “This couch is… nice.”
He chuckles. “I won’t let you fall asleep.”
“Good,” I murmur.
“Tell me about your favorite… artist.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes,” he says. “You have sixteen more minutes.”
I yawn and search my mind for a painter or a sculptor who can be called my favorite. Which is hard. No one has a favorite, and I open my mouth to tell him just that.
He chuckles halfway through my rambling. “I get it. Favorite is hard.”
“It’s impossible. But there’s one… It’s a bit stupid.” I yawn, my jaw cracking. “When I was… I don’t know, eight maybe? I saw this painting of a Tuscan landscape at my grandmother’s house. And I couldn’t look away from it.”
“A Tuscan landscape?” he says.
“Yes. Landscape paintings are an old staple of art history, but you won’t see them in any of the high-end galleries today. Still. The sunlight over the hills… It told a story.”
“Does your grandmother still have it?”
I nod, and stifle another yawn. “It’s my dream one day to buy… to buy another painting from that same artist. She’s still active, I’ve checked. My friends from art school would be horrified.” I chuckle a bit into my throw pillow. There are plenty of artists whose works I would love to have on my walls. Artists whose paintings are in this very house. But that one, the Tuscan landscape… It”s what started it all for me.
“What do you love most about it? That painting?” Nate asks. His hand moves in a circle over my arm.
“I think it made me realize that art had a purpose. A story. That it was a window into new worlds… new perspectives. You know?” A shiver runs through me, and I draw my knees up to my chest.
Nate notices. He reaches behind him, jostling my head, and grabs the blanket. “I know,” he says and unfurls a thousand pounds of some kind of soft wool over me. Then his hand returns to my shoulder.
“I like your hand there,” I mumble into the pillow beneath my head.
“What was that?” Nate asks. He slid down on the couch, his long legs stretched out in front with his feet resting on top of the coffee table.
“I like this.”
“Mm-hmm,” he says. “Staying out all night? Going to make it a habit, Harp?”
I chuckle. That’s not what I meant. “Maybe.”
“Not to be dramatic, but you’ll give me a heart attack if this becomes your regular thing.”
I close my eyes. It hurts too much to keep them open. “We should hang out here more often. On the couch. I’ve never seen your giant TV turned on.”
Gentle glides across my shoulder, on top of the fabric. It feels like his hand.
I’m almost asleep when he finally answers. “We should. I’d suggest this week, but I’m traveling most of it.” His voice is low. A bit resigned.
The news makes me frown. “You are? Where to?”
“I have to be in Stockholm on Tuesday, and Berlin on Thursday.”
“Business?”
“Business,” he repeats. His hand is still moving up my arm. “You’ll have the entire house to yourself.”
“It’s too big for one person.”
His exhale is audible. “Yeah. I’m learning that, too.”
“When do you get back?”
“On Friday,” he says. “I haven’t told you this, either, but I’m hosting a party here next Saturday night.”
“You are? Here?”
“Yes. The plans were set before… before this.”
“Before me,” I murmur.
“Yes.”
I yawn, so wide that there’s a pop in my jaw. “Well, I can be out of the house if?—”
“Of course not. This is your home,” he says. “Come to the party.”
I nod into the pillow. My tongue feels too heavy to speak, just as heavy as the rest of me, and I hear Nate’s breathing. It’s steady and deep, and it could easily lull me to sleep if I let it.
And I so want to let it.
“What time is it now?” I ask.
Nate’s voice is the last thing I hear. “You can sleep now.”
And sleep I do.