8. Isabel
Of course I didn’t get the book on chess or the Scrabble game. What with the revelation of Roman knowing I was here and the twirling mess of other musings in my head I had to get to a quiet place to reflect, and it didn’t get any quieter than Henry’s room.
I decided to read him another one of Roald Dahl’s short stories. Somehow reading Lady Chatterly’s Lover to the father of the man I so desperately needed inside of me, didn’t seem appropriate anymore.
I thought it better for Emily to continue with Lady Chatterly at night. I was almost sure Henry would rather hear her read him those salacious love scenes anyway.
So. The other thing.
The thing from earlier.
When Roman left his damn handkerchief behind like the romantic hero secretly courting his reluctant love interest, turning my blood into lava. The knight in shining armor begging his distressed damsel for another chance. Was there any other way to read that?
And how was it any different now from a few days ago, when a courtship between us was doomed like a long dreary Russian novel where the light at the end of the tunnel turned out to be the headlamp of an oncoming train? What had changed?
My first instinct was to run into Roman’s arms and let the day take us where it wanted to. But I had no idea where to find him in this place, and besides that, I had to be with Henry for another two hours.
Also, my one inner voice kept whimpering like a little bitch about how Roman had left me to the wolves the other night. If I ignored him sending Steven after me, it would always be that pesky little fact scratching at my insides. Always. And what else might I be willing to ignore? And the next thing could be so much worse.
It was hard enough to forget him leaving me behind and having Kayla usher me out of the penthouse. And yes, the coat was a nice touch, and the cameo was a spectacular surprise, but that literally made me no better than Celeste Van Buren. Speaking of bitches.
At least Roman didn’t run up the spiral staircase like forgiving and forgetting were givens. Evidently he was willing to work for that forgiveness which, if I had to be honest, sent an unexpected thrill down my spine.
He wasn’t going to make excuses. He wasn’t going to blame anyone else. He was going to take responsibility and leave it up to me to forgive him.
The only note I had for myself was that forgiveness had to come from my heart and not from the tender place between my thighs that Roman had come to know so very well. And hopefully still remembered with a great deal of fondness.
Admittedly my craving for the man made the lines somewhat blurry and I wanted to choke my inner voice for warning me to take things one day at a time. But that was exactly what I was going to do.
I wanted to see what lengths this inscrutable man would go to win back my favor. And I enjoyed the fact that I wasn’t the only one with the ache of absence fraying my heart.
The main decision for right now was which French pastry to make for tomorrow. I wanted to keep it classy and not make more profiteroles because that would be an explicit invitation and would probably make it a very short trip from the ground floor to the second floor in the library.
And it wasn’t like I was going to protest if Roman pushed me up against the library wall, molded my body into his and extinguished the flames inside me as only he could.
Although, there couldn’t be any of that before a compromise had been fully processed. It was now a matter of time and willpower. There was plenty of one, the other not so much.
At 6 PM when Emily came to say goodnight and take over with Henry, I handed her Lady Chatterly’s Lover. “I think Henry might prefer you read him the more romantic parts,” I said. “You can start from the beginning, we didn’t get very far.”
Emily smiled. “Thank you, Isabel. I hope you’re able to get more rest tonight.”
“Thank you…and Emily?”
“Yes, Isabel.”
“How long have you and Henry been together?”
Emily was taken aback, but a gentle smile curled her mouth. “Oh let’s see, this year will be our twenty-eighth.”
That surprised me. If Emily wasn’t Roman’s mother, when did she come into the picture? This family was hard to gauge. But I had a lingering query. “When did you know he was the one for you?”
Emily thought about the answer carefully, her answer surprising me. “The first time I met him. I didn’t want to admit it to myself for a very long time. But from the moment I met Henry, there was no doubt I would never feel like that with anyone else.”
I wanted to know more, but didn’t want to overstep my boundaries. Emily’s gaze swept over my face with an inquiry of her own. “Why the questions? Have you met someone, Isabel?”
The carpet suddenly became very interesting and I felt my cheeks get hot. When I looked up again, Emily gave me a comforting smile. “Well, it’s none of my business really. As long as he doesn’t take you away from us, that’s all I ask.”
I returned her smile, trying for casual. “It’s fine, I was just curious.”
“Isabel, any time you want to ask me something, please feel free to do so. Not that I know all the answers, but age has brought some wisdom along with the gray hairs.”
“Emily, you’re always put together so perfectly, and it’s hard to imagine that you don’t know all the answers. Anyway, I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Isabel.”
I could feel her gaze following me as I left. She’d probably feel less compassionate if she knew why I’d asked that question.
My insides twisted into knots. The last person I ever wanted to know about Roman and me was Emily. There was no way to know what kind of connection she had with him, and I didn’t want to disappoint her.
When I got downstairs and into the back seat of the Navigator, I wondered if Roman was watching me from one of the mansion’s many windows. Once George was behind the wheel, I leaned forward. “George, which part is the south wing?”
George pointed at a huge tower at the very far end of the mansion, overlooking the front terrace. I stared at the windows on all three levels of that tower.
And there Roman was, watching from the second floor. My heart leaped out of my chest. He couldn’t see me through the SUV’s tinted windows, but I could see him. He was standing very still, his hands in his pockets, focused on the Navigator, excruciatingly enigmatic.
I willed myself to stay in the Navigator and not storm back into the house.
As we drove away, I wondered how he knew I’d be leaving at exactly this time. And how he knew I’d be in the library today.
All I had to do was ask myself what a man with infinite money and an apparent crush would do if he found out I was here. Well, spy on me, undoubtedly. Not that I expected any less; after all, I was in his comatose father’s room. The whole idea did nothing but set my pulse ablaze.
George handed me my phone at the gate, and the second I turned it on there were a ton of dings. It took all of one minute to figure out I wasn’t needed at Le Petit Chateau anymore. Apparently, a very qualified pastry and dessert chef had magically forced himself onto their roster.
I didn’t even have to wonder how that came about, and I couldn’t help but feel flattered that Roman would go through the trouble to keep me at Belmont Manor.
We were ten minutes into the drive when I realized George hadn’t blacked out the windows or put up the divider. “George, I think you’ve forgotten something. I can see where we’re going.”
George smiled at me in the rearview mirror. “Miss Leyland’s instructions. She says you’re permanent staff now. You can also keep your phone inside the house, although you will be restricted from using certain services, like Whatsapp. You can only text on the Belmont Manor app. Privacy issues and all that.”
Of course they had their own app. I wondered if using it involved stacks of paperwork, like that interview where I had to sign my life away.
“Okay, thanks George,” I said, returning his smile. “Well, it looks like I’ll have lots of time tonight. So I’ll make mille-feulles for tomorrow, and an extra few for you and your wife.”