Chapter Seventeen
I stared at her as she stared at me.
Now that I knew who she was, I found myself trying to find my father in her. In spite of the fact that I kept his picture on the desk upstairs, I didn’t know his face well enough to spot any resemblance between the siblings.
The same could not be said of Iris.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed, pressing a hand against her chest. “I don’t mean to be rude, but your eyes. I can’t stop looking at them. I’d know them anywhere, and I’ve missed them terribly.”
I forced a smile, suddenly feeling a bit guilty. Not that I had any reason to be—but this wasn’t the first time something about me made someone who loved Sawyer Blackstone sad.
I shrugged awkwardly, not sure how to respond.
“Um, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“No, I know. I’m so sorry about that. I meant to come earlier, but I had obligations at home, and I couldn’t get away. I’m not sure if anyone told you, but I live in Paris with my husband. We’ve got two boys. One of them still lives at home. But more on them later,” she said, waving her hand as if brushing the topic aside. “I’m thrilled to meet you. It’s been such a long time coming.”
Without thinking, I raised my eyebrows in surprise and muttered, “Wow, that’s a first.”
Iris tilted her head in confusion. “What is?”
“Someone in the family happy to meet me.” Quickly realizing how bitter that sounded, I added, “Not that I blame them, exactly. I know my very existence left them with more questions than answers for a man who can’t answer them.”
Iris scoffed softly and shook her head. “Don’t let my sister-in-law and her children shape your view about what it is to be a Blackstone. I might no longer bear the name, but it is who I am—who I’ve always been. Juliet,” she paused, as if catching herself before saying too much. “Let’s just say she was my brother’s great mistake. Nevertheless, he loved her. And their children, of course.”
“Yeah, of course,” I murmured. Wishing to change the subject, I motioned toward the center of the store and asked, “Do you want to sit down?”
“Actually, no. I can’t stay, and I don’t want to bother you while you’re working. I was hoping I might steal you away for dinner. I arrived in London a couple hours ago, and I’m only in town for the night, but I want to make the most of it. I would love to get to know you a little.”
I glanced at Victoria apologetically, but I knew she’d understand the need for my sudden change of plans. Then, looking back at Iris I replied, “I’d like that very much.”
“Wonderful. I saw on the door the shop closes at seven. How about I send a car to pick you up here soon thereafter? I’m staying at the Ritz, so we can have dinner there.”
“Sounds great.”
“Okay then. I’ll see you tonight.”
Even after her farewell, she lingered a moment longer, still studying me. Before she left, she lifted her hand as if to touch my face, but then she stopped herself—remembering while we were related, we were still strangers. She then smiled forlornly, waved, and headed for the door.
With so much to look forward to at the end of the day, my afternoon dragged.
Business wasn’t completely unfortunate, and the repairman came to fix my roof, but I wasn’t nearly busy enough to prevent my thoughts from wandering in two very different directions.
If I wasn’t thinking about Rory—his mouth, his hands, his freckle spotted back, his long, lean legs, and other unmentionable appendages—then I was thinking about Iris. I wouldn’t soon forget the look on her face when she laid eyes on me. It was nothing like meeting the other Blackstones, which filled me with a reckless amount of hope.
Given my recent familial interactions, it seemed ill-advised to think I could count on any one of them to have a genuine interest in adopting me into the fold, but Iris struck me as different.
When seven o’clock finally rolled around, I was a mix of nervous and excited. Having sent Rory a text earlier, letting him know of my unexpected yet anticipatory dinner plans, he’d insisted I only head upstairs if Victoria was still close by. Of course, being the gem that she always was, she accompanied me to the flat and helped me pick an outfit to befit dinner at the Ritz .
I wore a pair of black, wide-leg, high-waisted pants with a simple, black blouse, underneath a fitted, dark green blazar. It was as dressed up as I’d been since I moved to London, the clothes already a relic from my time working in Diane’s gallery.
“You look smart, and I have a good feeling about tonight,” said Victoria as we made our way through the store, headed for the exit. “Granted, I do wish it was me you were dining with, but we’ll have our proper gab soon. Go ahead and add your dinner at the Ritz to topics we’ll need to catch up on.”
“I absolutely will. And we’ll pick a night next week. Promise.”
I locked up and we said our goodbyes, the car Iris had sent for me already parked out front. It was on my ride across town that I realized how very little I knew about my aunt. She’d apparently gone her own way, leaving behind all of the family business—though, in pursuit of what, I couldn’t say. Whatever it was—or perhaps who , given she was married to a man living in Paris—it seemed she’d done well for herself. Either that, or she was smart with whatever Blackstone inheritance she’d received.
Upon arriving at the Ritz, my car door was opened by one of the hotel’s doormen. He was wearing a top hat, and I enjoyed the pleasant reminder I was so far from home in the United States as I began to step out of the car. I thanked my driver as I went and informed the doorman I was meeting someone for dinner. He escorted me up the front steps before granting me access to the opulent lobby. Iris was already there waiting for me.
“We better hurry in, or we’ll miss our reservation,” she told me after we exchanged hellos .
As soon as we were seated for dinner, I knew instantly this would be the fanciest dining experience of my life. More than my opinion of the Michelin-starred restaurant, I wondered what it said about Iris.
We’d just finished placing our five-course dinner order when my curiosity got the better of me. “Do you mind if I ask a personal question?”
“Not at all, dear,” she replied. She then reached across the table, patting one of my hands as she continued, “I hope we’ll walk away from tonight knowing a great deal more about each other. Ask away.”
“You don’t work at the publishing house. Why? What do you do instead?”
“Books were really never my thing. Not to say I don’t read them, but there was no part of that business that appealed to me. My father was more than happy to have a son interested in following in his footsteps; and my mother, she was always my ally, encouraging him to let me go my own way, knowing I would be happier for it. She was right, of course.
“I do still have a bit invested in the publishing house. It is an inheritance I couldn’t discard, but I was never part of the day to day. Though, I have my father to thank for my business acumen.
“I’m fortunate enough to have a career in fashion. It’s how I met my husband. He’s really the face and the creative genius of the brand, and I’m the CEO.”
“Oh, wow,” I murmured.
“Yes, we do alright.”
She was being modest, or at least trying, and I let her have that.
“Is your husband French?”
“Antoine, yes. We met very young, while we were in school, back when I thought I wanted to be a designer. Turns out, I wasn’t as good at it as I hoped I’d be,” she said teasingly. “But I fell in love in Paris, so I wasn’t too terribly disappointed.”
Earlier, back at the bookstore, I noticed the poise of the woman who sat across from me. I was beginning to understand where it came from. I didn’t know what sort of hardships she’d faced in life, and I was sure she had her own version of trouble, but she had a history infused with love and support. She’d gone after the life she wanted, and she got it. That sort of contentment bred its own sort of confidence.
Our server came back to the table to pour our wine. The interruption served as a turning point in our conversation. Alone again, Iris asked, “What about you? I’d love to hear what made you decide to take over Tattered Edges. I’m sure it was a bit of a shock to learn of the place.
“I must admit, I knew you were out there prior to my brother’s passing—your father, if you don’t mind me calling him that, given the circumstances. I was surprised he’d left you the shop. Though, I probably shouldn’t have been.”
“Wait, what?” I stammered, furrowing my brow in confusion. “He told you about me?”
She took a breath and let it out slowly before she answered, “Yes. Sawyer and I were very close, you see, even with the distance that spanned between us. After he read All the Shades of Summer , he called me straight away. He was convinced it wasn’t all fiction, and the daughter in the novel was Maeve’s. If it were true, he knew that same daughter had to have been his.
“I won’t claim to know much about their whirlwind romance, but I know it was real, and it broke his heart when it ended. At first, I thought his hypothesis was a bit of a stretch—but then he looked you up. Your age fit the timeline, and your eyes…”
She paused and stared at me a moment, like she had earlier. Then she shook away her daze and continued, “Having read the novel myself, I think it’s fair to say your mother was heartbroken, too; but she was also hyper self-aware. She couldn’t love Sawyer enough to make him stay, and so she claimed you as the embodiment of the closest she would ever get to true love.
“But, of course, you read the novel. I’m not telling you anything you couldn’t interpret yourself.”
My chest tightened as my mind whirled. Even while sitting, I felt a little off balance after everything she’d said.
“I—I haven’t. I haven’t read it. I—I didn’t have the best relationship with my mother.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I just assumed…”
Her voice trailed off, her sentence abandoned, but I hardly noticed. I didn’t even know where to begin. The thought of Maeve Nielsen in love was borderline unfathomable.
“Do you know how they met?”
“Of course. It was the summer before Sawyer turned twenty-two. He wanted to spend the season abroad, and the best way he could convince our father to let him go was to find himself an internship. He worked for a publishing company in New York City. He met Maeve at a small event—I believe it was the launch of her first novel. They hit it off straight away, and they were mad about each other for weeks.
“But when her first book didn’t sell as well as she’d hoped, she became obsessed with writing the next one, and what they had fell apart, as young love tends to do.”
I sat back in my chair, trying to absorb what I’d just heard.
Our first course was served, but I ignored it as I asked, “Did you two talk about why he never reached out to me? After he found out?”
Iris’s mouth curved in a sad smile as she spread her cloth napkin across her lap. “He was convinced it wasn’t what Maeve would have wanted. And you had a life—one he didn’t want to disrupt.”
“But leaving me an entire bookstore in another country isn’t the least bit disruptive.”
I was surprised and a little embarrassed by the petulance in my voice, but I couldn’t help it. The warning sting of tears could be felt at the back of my nose, and I didn’t want to cry.
“I know it’s a sorry excuse,” said Iris tenderly. “I blame Juliet. Not entirely, because a man is responsible for his own actions, but I think his marriage would have been intolerable if he sought after you. She’s an impossibly possessive woman. Even the idea that he’d loved someone before her would have set her off.
“You mentioned you didn’t receive the warmest welcome from the Blackstones, and while I am sorry about that, I’m not the least bit surprised.”
I finally reached for my napkin, spreading it across my lap to occupy my hands more than anything else.
“He knew all of this, and yet he left me the bookstore anyway. He knew if I took it—or even if I didn’t—I’d have to face his family all on my own.”
It struck me how this was the first real conversation about the man I’d had. Everyone else who’d told me about him did so telling me only the best parts of him; the parts they wanted to remember in the wake of loss.
While I’d entertained thoughts of his lack of bravery, it hit anew sitting across from the only person left alive who’d known him most of his life.
“Oh, my dear, I know this must be hard to hear,” Iris murmured, leaning closer to me with an expression which mirrored her tone. “I hate how it all turned out. All of us strangers until now. But if you’ll allow me the chance to paint your father in a more tolerable light?”
I hesitated long enough to remember there was nothing simple about our story. Moreover, any revisionist version of history would have been strictly hypothetical and likely not as ideal as I’d imagine it to be.
I nodded.
“I said I was surprised my brother left you Tattered Edges, but I shouldn’t have been, and I’ll tell you why. He loved that place. Had since we were children, when our mother dreamed it into existence. At first, I thought perhaps he’d left it to you as a gamble. Neither Archie nor Eloise have ever had quite the same attachment to the place as him. I figured Sawyer was taking his chances with you. He didn’t know what you would decide to do with the place—but you were its best hope of survival.
“Except, now that I’ve had some time to think about it, I don’t believe that’s entirely accurate. My brother was quite sentimental. He wouldn’t have gambled with something so significant. I believe he left you the shop as a sign of his regret—regret for having never known you. He meant it as a declaration of sorts. Whatever you decided to do with Tattered Edges, it was rightfully yours—as his first born.”
I wanted to believe her.
I wanted to take comfort in what she’d said.
Regardless of what anyone said or thought, the closest I’d ever get to the truth would come by way of a compilation of perspectives from those who knew him and the letter I happened to still have tucked inside of my mother’s book, inside my purse. How I chose to think of him based on the information provided was just that— my choice .
“I wish I had the chance to meet him,” I confessed.
“I wish the same. But I’m so outrageously glad we haven’t missed our chance.”
Of all the things she’d said, this brought me the greatest comfort.
I had an Aunt Iris.
She was beautiful, successful, and kind.
Best of all, she wanted to know me.
“Pardon the interruption,” our server said apologetically. “Is everything alright with your first course? If it’s not to your satisfaction, can I offer you something else?”
“Oh, no, we’re fine, thanks,” Iris insisted. “We’ve got a lifetime of catching up to do, and we haven’t even thought about our food. I assure you, I’m famished. I plan on eating every bite.”
“Very well, ma’am,” he replied with a slight bow. “Enjoy.”
She winked at me as he left, and I smiled, finally reaching for my fork.
Iris and I took our time that night, dragging out each course as we engaged in conversation. I was disappointed her trip was so short, but as we said our goodbyes, we exchanged contact information. She promised she would be back as soon as she could make it work, and I had an open invitation to visit her in Paris anytime I wanted.
I planned on taking her up on that. I hoped to meet my cousins, Henri and Théo, who sounded like fine young men, as well as my Uncle Antonie.
We parted with a hug, her heading up to her room while I returned to St. Andrew’s Hill in the same car service Iris had arranged to pick me up. It was after ten when I arrived at the pub. It was closed for business, but Rory was still inside cleaning up for the night. When he came down to let me in, he asked if I wanted to stay for a drink, but I declined, needing a few minutes alone after my dinner.
Once I let myself into his place, I shed my coat and pulled my mother’s book and my father’s letter out of my purse. I then sat on the couch and replayed the night over in my head.
It was still hard to believe my mother was ever capable of being so in love. Sawyer wrote in his letter that I’d been conceived from love, but until I heard Iris tell me the story of how my parents met, I hadn’t thought much of it. My father hadn’t gone into detail about their romance, likely assuming I knew some version of the truth—assuming I’d read All the Shades of Summer .
Staring down at the book, there was a small part of me that thought I should crack it open and start reading. But there was a bigger part of me— the rest of me—that wasn’t brave enough to do it.
Admitting as much to myself was like a dagger through the heart.
I had no room to judge Sawyer Blackstone for his cowardice. None at all.
“Sawyer?”
I gasped, startled out of my thoughts by the sound of his voice.
Rory was standing in front of me, the scowl pinching his eyebrows together showcasing his confusion. I hadn’t heard him come in.
“Are you alright?”
“I…” I started to answer, then stopped when I realized I wasn’t sure. The urge to cry I’d felt at dinner was back again—only this time, there wasn’t a crowded room of people to prevent me from succumbing to my tears. “She’s great,” I began, speaking around the knot suddenly lodged in my throat. “My Aunt Iris. I finally met someone in my family who doesn’t hate the very idea of me. And I should be happy. And I am . Really. But I can’t help but be a little sad, too.”
My vision blurry with tears, I blinked, sending a couple streaking down my cheeks. Rory sat beside me then, the crease at his brow deeper then I’d ever seen it.
“Sad about what?” he asked.
“About all of it,” I cried. “My mother keeping the truth about my father away from us both; my father’s decision to keep himself away from me and why —or the bits and pieces I assume make up his version of why.
“And I’m not so na?ve as to think there’s any possibility we ever could have been one big happy family—but I would have been perfectly happy with a messy one. Or maybe I wouldn’t have been, but I never got the choice. Neither of them gave me the choice.
“I guess, after dredging it all up at dinner, I realize I didn’t know either of them. As people, I mean. Now they’re both dead, and I never will.”
Rory reached over and grazed the back of his bent fingers down one cheek and then the other, carefully wiping away my tears.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. Surely anything I could think up wouldn’t change a thing. Still, it guts me to see you cry.”
I believed him, seeing as his intense scowl had not softened in the slightest. Hearing him say it made me feel lighter, somehow. It also made me want to kiss him.
Remembering I could do just that, I leaned toward him, gently brushing my lips against his before I whispered, “You don’t have to say anything.”
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke another word, a silence heavy with inuendo suspended between us as we stared at one another. Then he took hold of the side of my neck, crushed his lips against mine, effectively chasing away my sadness, leaving nothing but desire in its wake.
I set aside my mother’s book as I opened up for him, and my stomach clenched in excitement as he snaked an arm around my waist, pulling me closer.
I hooked one of my thighs over his, wedging my leg in his groin as I circled my arms around his shoulders and held on.
Twelve hours.
I’d been waiting half the day for this.
He was more delicious than my memories could attest.
Blindly, he took hold of the front of my blouse, pulling it from the confines of my pants so he could slip his hand underneath it. He cupped my left breast through my bra then—clearly unsatisfied—slipped his fingers beneath the garment before grazing his thumb over my hardening nipple.
It wasn’t enough. Not by a long shot.
I moved until I was straddling his lap, breaking our kiss as I worked my way out of my blazar. He let go of my breast as he helped me out of my blouse, and my bra was on the floor seconds later.
Only, rather than his fingers, it was his tongue that toyed with my now pebbled nipple.
I sank my fingers into his coiffed hair, gripping the strands as I let my head fall back with a moan.
By the time he’d shown the same attention to my opposite breast, my panties were soaked, and I could hardly keep still.
When he lifted his head and caught my eyes, I brazenly thrust my hips, rubbing against the bulge in his jeans. I was so turned on, my clit swollen and sensitive, I knew it wouldn’t take much to push me over the edge of oblivion.
As if he could see it in my eyes, he smirked at me, then grabbed hold of my hips, his tight grip forcing me to stop.
“Oh, no you don’t, sweetheart. If you think I’ve waited all day to watch you fall apart at my touch only to have you get off while you’re still half dressed, you’re mad.”
I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth as I fought a laugh.
It felt good to smile. It was even better getting to be playful with Rory.
“Hurry up then, Red. You’ve already got me halfway there.”
“Blimey,” he muttered.
With one arm locked around my waist, he took hold of my right thigh as he stood from the couch, effortlessly taking me with him. Laughing, I caught hold of his shoulders, clinging to him as he began to carry me to the bedroom.
We got two steps before he stopped, squeezed my thigh, and declared, “God, I love it when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Laugh.”
Stunned, I felt my smile slip as I whispered, “You do?”
Rather than answer me, he shook his head slightly as he continued carrying me through his home. “That first night, when you kissed me—like a bold, arrogant American—I thought I had you pegged. But you really have no idea, do you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You put yourself out there, like the possibility of rejection is nothing to be afraid of; and yet, your heart is so tender. Underneath that armor—your gorgeous face, your body, your sense of humor, your stubborn resolve—you are so completely unaware of just how utterly desirable you are. Brilliant and charming and annoyingly sweet.”
I quirked an eyebrow at him as we reached the bedroom, and he flicked on the overhead light. “ Annoyingly ?”
“Yes, you heard me,” he said, laying me across his bed. He didn’t lift himself away from me but gave me a little of his weight as he continued, “I’m a gray cloud, Sawyer. But you—you’re a ray of sunshine. For the first time in years, I’m no longer content with my solitude. I want you bothering me in the morning, before I’ve had a chance to finish my read of the paper. I want your boiler to give out, or your faucet to leak, or any other excuse to have you at my doorstep. I didn’t want to fall for you, to long for you—but here I am, speaking in bloody platitudes.”
This time, I didn’t hold back my grin.
It seemed I wasn’t the only one capable of being sweet.
“Fuck, don’t look at me like that.”
I scraped my fingernails across his scalp and down the back of his neck.
“Or what?” I asked coyly.
His response came by way of a kiss that took my breath away.
It wasn’t long before we were both completely naked. We touched and kissed and licked until the urgency of our need for one another was so great, when we finally joined together, we completely forgot a condom.
“Shite,” he muttered, his lips grazing mine as he thrust inside of me.
“What?” I panted, the feel of him even better than I remembered.
Seriously, my memory was letting me down.
“No condom. God , but you feel incredible,” he groaned, still moving in and out of me, my arousal allowing for the perfect friction.
“Oh,” I said, suddenly understanding my memory was not at fault.
He was right, too—he felt incredible . I didn’t want him to stop.
Except, I wasn’t on the pill.
“Um—can you pull out? Not now. I mean, when it’s time? Just this once?”
“Just this once,” he promised before plunging his tongue into my mouth.
We made a mess of his bed as we breathed life into the phrase a tumble in the sheets. When I came the first time, he was on top. He pulled out before I was finished, and when I’d recovered myself, I wrestled him onto his back and took the lead.
I eased him inside of me again, my intent only to get him across the finish line—but he felt so good. With me on top, he had both of his hands free, and he was sure to take advantage of this. Soon, I forgot about my original intentions, too lost in my own pleasure.
As he began to rub firm circles around my clit with his thumb, all the while playing with one of my nipples, I felt the bliss of my second climax as it began to unfurl in the deepest part of me.
“Yes, yes, yes,” I cried, propping myself against his chest with both hands. With his solid frame as my leverage, I had the freedom to thrust my hips with abandon. The warm, wet friction of my bare skin wrapped around his was everything. “Rory—Rory— Rory!”
“Get there, sweetheart,” he ground out through gritted teeth.
“I’m—I’m—” I lost my words as euphoria hit.
My sex was still fluttering when Rory groaned, bucked his hips up, forcing me high enough for him to pull out as he came, spilling his release on both of us.
I collapsed onto the bed beside him, my shoulder pressed against his, and then reached for his hand. He laced his fingers between mine, and for a few minutes, we just laid there as we tried to catch our breath.
After a while, he lifted our hands, kissing the back of mine before he mumbled, “Be right back.” He then let me go, disappearing into the bathroom to clean himself up. He came back with a warm damp cloth for me, too. As I made use of it, he stretched out in the space beside me.
“The next time we have sex, it’ll be after a proper date,” he stated as soon as I was finished. “Twice now, we’ve gone at each other after you’ve experienced some sort of emotional distress. If it happens again, I’ll be forced to question if I’ve somehow become a sort of support animal.”
“What?” I laughed, turning to see his face. “Stop it. That’s not true.”
He flashed me a half smile as he asked, “Which part?”
“Either,” I insisted.
“Sawyer, last night you had a scare, and not too long ago you were crying.”
I frowned and playfully retorted, “By crying do you mean moaning? Your name, over and over?”
“Don’t be a smartarse, I mean it,” he chuckled.
I couldn’t hold my frown any longer, the sight of his smile eliciting mine.
Sobering a little, he reached for my hand and added, “It’s been on my mind— this —us. If we’re going to do it, we should give it a proper go.”
I gave his fingers a squeeze.
“I’d like that. Very much.”
“Good.”
I let go of his hand and rolled onto my side, propping my head up with my fist as I asked, “What exactly do you mean by a proper date? ”
“Dinner, at least.”
I grazed my teeth across my bottom lip as I dragged my gaze down his body and then up again. While I was free for dinner the following night, I knew he would be at the pub until closing time. The soonest we’d both be free was Monday, after I closed the shop.
“Okay, hear me out—if we did it your way, and we went to dinner Monday night, that would mean no sex for the next forty-eight hours.”
Scowling up at me, he muttered, “Is that what I said?”
“Mmmhmm,” I hummed, amused.
“Blimey.”
My grin was back.
I touched my forehead to his as I murmured, “I love it when you do that.”
“Do what?” he asked softly, reaching up to sweep a bit of hair behind my ear.
I shivered pleasantly at his gesture.
“Curse like a Brit.”
“I am a Brit.”
“Oh, I’m aware,” I assured him before touching my lips to his.
One kiss turned into two, which turned into another naked make-out session, which resulted in Rory mumbling into my mouth, “I’d like to issue an amendment to my earlier statement.”
“Would you?” I teased, reaching between us to wrap my fingers around his length.
“Should you find yourself in distress in the next forty-eight hours, we’ll deal with it—fully clothed. And after our date, I will certainly enjoy you. But in the meantime, barring any traumatizing events, we’ll do as we please.”
“ Whatever we please?” I asked, abandoning his mouth as I began to kiss my way across his cheek and down his neck.
He didn’t answer me with words, but as I continued my decent, he returned to his back, watching me with a fiery blue gaze.
This time, when I took him into my mouth, he didn’t stop me.