Chapter 15 – Cora
CORA
I’m feeling like I nailed the sexless kindergarten teacher look until I descend the stairs to meet Adrian in the foyer at the designated time and see his expression.
He’s waiting by the vase of roses, fidgeting with his cuffs, when he turns to watch me walk down.
His hands drop to his sides, and he takes an involuntary step forward.
His dark eyes gleam as he takes me in—the tight French twist that’s already pulling at my temples, my bare face, covered breasts, and concealed legs.
His gaze lingers on my pink ballet flats.
Jitters erupt in my stomach. This is the expression he wears when he’s planning on undressing me later. Not happening, but still, I have to stop my ass from swishing as I walk the rest of the way down the stairs. I’m not turned on, per se, but frustrating him is kind of arousing in its own way.
“Mrs. Maddox, you look stunning,” he says, grinning wolfishly, as pleased as the cat who got the cream.
“Drop the bullshit.” I stalk past him to the cloak room and grab my long, cream wool coat. He tries to take it from me so he can help me in, but I’m too fast. My arms are already in the sleeves, and I’m tying the belt.
My bratty behavior doesn’t seem to put a dent in his good mood. “Shall we?” he asks, opening the front door. The Scorpion is parked out front. I guess he’s driving.
I try to beat him to the car, too, but he’s quicker this time and has the passenger door open before I get to the bottom of the stairs. I sidle past him, brushing his chest with my breasts as I slide in and sink into the low seat. He reaches for my buckle, but this time, I beat him.
He chuckles softly. “You’re being a child,” he says, almost fondly.
I clutch my purse in my lap and stare straight ahead as he folds himself into the driver’s seat.
I glance behind at the house as we drive away, but there’s no one watching us go.
The girls are already settled in for the evening.
Kendra is sleeping over tonight to watch them.
She said it would be a nice break. She didn’t say what exactly she needed a break from, but I’m sure Gideon is the cause.
When I first met the Maddox brothers, I was so intimidated, I didn’t see past the good looks and arrogance.
The longer you know them, though, the more you wonder how messed up their childhood must’ve been.
Lucian rarely speaks. Logan has that mysterious scar by his mouth, and he’s always staring off into the distance, brooding.
And Gideon—Gideon is even colder than Adrian.
Kendra and I have gossiped about their parents, but neither of us knows much besides the basic story.
Their dad, Nathaniel, was a serial cheater, and their mom dealt with it until she couldn’t anymore.
When she left, she pretty much disappeared from her kids’ lives. None of the brothers talk to her.
Nathaniel still has something to do with the Maddox umbrella company, some unimportant role, but he shows no interest in his sons, and none of them seem to mind.
I never really thought about it, beyond feeling bad for Adrian that he had a mom and dad—rich ones, at that—and he still didn’t have the loving home and white picket fence.
What did it do to him, though, growing up like that?
I glance over at him. He looks neater, sharper, and somehow more expensive than a normal person, with his perfectly styled hair, designer black wool jacket, black leather gloves, and the black-framed glasses he needs to drive at night.
He looks like a man who will fix all your problems, change your life, and rescue you from all your troubles. That’s how I saw him.
“What?” he asks, catching me staring at him.
“Nothing.”
“It’s a long drive to the city to be sitting in silence.”
“Put the radio on, then.”
His mouth curves. “Tell me what you were thinking.”
Well, he asked. “That I used to think you were Prince Charming.”
The curve fades, and he arches an eyebrow. “But not anymore?”
“What do you think?”
“That I was bound to disappoint you at some point.” His lips draw tight. “But I wish I hadn’t.”
I shrug. “No one’s Prince Charming.”
“I was. To you. For a while.” He clenches the wheel harder with his gloved hands. “It scared the shit out of me.”
My surprised eyes meet his in the rearview.
“Maybe scared is the wrong word. I knew I was going to fuck up. At first, I didn’t care. And then I did.”
“I don’t think it’s wrong to fall for someone because you think they’re, like, better than they actually are.” As I say it, I’m aware that I’m defending myself against an accusation he’s not exactly making. “It might make you na?ve, or stupid, but it’s not wrong.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“It’s implied. You think I shouldn’t have put you on a pedestal.”
He’s quiet for a moment, changing lanes to pass a Camry. “I don’t know. Part of me wishes you hadn’t. You wouldn’t hate me so much now. But part of me is happy that I know what it felt like—to be the center of your world. Even if I fumbled in the end.”
I don’t know how to digest this. The Scorpion is a supercar, so the seats are ridiculously low.
You feel like your ass is almost skimming the highway, and the hood is so short, it’s like you’re hurtling forward in one of those bungee rides at the beach that shoot you into the air on an elastic band.
Usually, I love it, especially because Adrian drives so smoothly, not like he’s trying to race people or show off.
Tonight, though, speeding along in the dark with delicate snow flurries beginning to fall, my nerves are as wired as the first time he took me for a ride.
He’s not going too much faster than the limit, but I wish he’d slow down.
I don’t know how to talk to someone about how I really feel. Most of the time, I don’t know what I feel. I’m just getting through life.
Except for the years when I thought we were in love. Then, I was sailing. Flying. And now I’m back on the ground, in the dirt, and I hate him for it, and he’s sitting inches from me, saying he was scared and that he was happy to be the center of my world and that he fumbled.
“You should’ve been sneakier. I’d never have found out. Then I wouldn’t hate you.” I feel so low and pathetic for thinking it, but it’s true, and I guess that’s what we’re doing—being honest now that it doesn’t matter.
He lifts his shoulder. His eyes never leave the road. “I shouldn’t have done it,” he says. The words are plain. Resigned. Real.
He turns on his indicator and exits onto the expressway. The flurries make the warm interior of the Scorpion feel like a snow globe.
“Why can we talk to each other like this now that it’s over?” I ask as he merges into the heavy traffic heading into the city.
“It’s not over,” he says, not a second’s hesitation. “Before, that was for practice. This is for keeps.”
I turn away to look out my window. “You can’t just decide that.”
“No, but I can convince you.”
“Good luck,” I tell him. The thing I felt for him is gone. He killed it, and it’s only a memory now. It seems cruel to remind him, though, with the stars shining and snow falling and the city lights twinkling in the distance.
A few minutes later, when he rests his hand on my thigh like he always does, I leave it. I can’t feel much through the heavy tweed of my dress, and my pulse doesn’t kick up like it used to do, but the weight is nice.
I’m not alone.
I’ve lived enough in my twenty-six years that it doesn’t count for nothing.
The dinner is in a private room at Don Fratelli, the fancy steakhouse in the retail space at Maddox Tower with dark wood accents and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Rockefeller Center.
We park in the Maddox family’s reserved section in the underground garage.
Adrian won’t valet the Scorpion. No one gets behind the wheel of his baby except him—and Pearl.
When I first moved to New York, I did all the touristy things by myself on my days off—Ellis Island, the Empire State Building, the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
I saved Rockefeller Center for December so I could see the tree and the ice-skating rink and all the decorations.
I still love it. I don’t care if it’s cheesy.
We’re the first to arrive at the restaurant, and Adrian offers me a seat facing the window. The Christmas tree towers as tall as a building, flooding the plaza with light.
We’re supposed to be joined by Yann Richard, a French client of Adrian’s, and his wife Huda. They’re in town for the holidays. Before Pearl was born, we spent time with them in Lyon when Adrian had business there for a few weeks. I liked them.
Yann is in his fifties, French, and bombastically charming.
Flirtatious, really. Huda is a scientist, originally from Jordan, and she pays him very little mind.
I thought when I met them that they seemed happy with each other despite their vast differences.
It made me feel better about Adrian and me.
For some reason, there are six seats set at the table, which is odd for a nice restaurant. When they have Michelin stars, they don’t usually make do and whisk away extra place settings like they do at an Olive Garden.
“Is there another couple joining us?” I ask Adrian.
“No, just the Richards.”
At that moment, the hostess escorts a group into the room. Adrian stands to greet them. Yann and Huda. And also Mike Engels, the Chief Risk Officer at Maddox Capital. And Delaney Pierson.
My guts wrench.
Delaney immediately locks eyes with me. Her lips curve.
My gaze drops like a brick to the table.
In my periphery, I watch as they take off their coats, unwind their scarves, and hang them on the rack by the door, saying the things people say when they come in from the snow—brrr, it’s a cold one, it’s really coming down out there—and then they move en masse toward the table.