6. Nora
CHAPTER 6
NORA
There’s a knock on my door a few minutes later. I’m barely there before the handle rattles, and there he is. West looks me over, his eyes dipping from my toes all the way up to meet my eyes. His face is carved in stony lines.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Yes. It was just the flowers.”
He doesn’t wait for an invitation, just strides in, his eyes scanning the room. “It was just flowers that shouldn’t have been there. I saw them on the way in; my head of security has them now.” He’s wearing a charcoal gray suit that fits him perfectly, and his hair is mussed as if he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly. “We’ll trace them to the store where they were ordered and get their logbooks.”
All the air leaves me, disappears, and all that’s left is a pounding headache and annoyance. “That’s good. I just can’t believe he found me so fast.”
“Me neither.” West crosses his arms over his chest. There’s anger in every line of his body. “Rafe may have a leak.”
“A what ?”
“Someone in his team that has been feeding information, either on purpose or accidentally. Apparently this isn’t the first time he’s suspected it, just not in regard to you.” West shakes his head. “We’ve decided that your brother won’t be informed about most of the details going forward.”
“He won’t be informed,” I whisper.
“Not in writing, and not over email. No locations, plans, or the configuration of my security team.”
I feel cold. “He followed me to New York, then.”
“Apparently he has.” West’s eyes are narrowed. “So it seems like you’re moving in with me tonight.”
“I’ve been informed.”
His eyebrow lifts. “The happiness in your voice takes my breath away.”
“You can’t be happy about it either,” I say. “Your place is far away, right?”
“An hour or so. On Long Island.” West lifts up one of the pattern books I left on the counter and leafs through it. “The timing isn’t… ideal. I’m hosting a party tonight. The place will be packed.”
“You’re hosting a party?”
He looks at me. “You sound surprised.”
“I’ve heard of the parties you, Rafe, Alex and James used to throw. Didn’t you all trash a villa once?”
The tightness around his eyes softens. “We were nineteen.”
“Old enough to know better.”
“That’s what my parents thought. And no. I’m not throwing that kind of a party. But it’s good to hear that you know about all of my teenage mistakes.”
That makes me scoff. “Not all of them. I’m sure Rafe has censored most of them.”
“Thank god.” He looks down at his watch. “We should leave in fifteen minutes or so. Pack your bags.”
“Wouldn’t I be just as safe here? Sitting on this couch for a few hours, with the guards surrounding me? I can join you when the party is over.”
West crosses his arms over his chest. He’s large like that, too large for this space, and I hate that he looks good when he does it. “We need to keep you moving and unpredictable.”
He’s serious, and that seriousness makes my stomach tighten. I thought I’d gotten away. That I’d be safe here. “But the person sent me flowers. Not a death threat,” I protest. It feels weak, half-hearted. I hate that I’m scared.
“Nora,” West says. “You think I’m thrilled about this? We’ll get through it.”
“Thanks for your enthusiasm,” I say sweetly, and push off the kitchen counter. I walk toward the bedroom. Make yourself at home dances on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say it. I don’t say anything at all. He stays in the living room, and I close my bedroom door tight.
And finally take a deep breath. Tears hover hot, pressing behind my eyes. This was meant to be a new start. A new beginning. But with their soft petals and delicate smell, the beautiful bouquet dashed all of it to shreds.
I count to ten, then get to work with shaking hands. Just the other day I hung all my dresses on hangers, and now I’m going to have to pack them all up again.
Annoyance runs like a current beneath my skin. I grab one of the dresses, a vintage velvet thing that my mother wore in the nineties, and throw it on the bed. It’ll have to do for the party West is throwing.
He’s right on the other side of the door.
She’s pretty enough, but she’s boring. The last person I’d ever want to date. He said all of it to Alexander, too, one of his and Rafe’s best friends. It was late. I was standing on the balcony and overheard them from where they stood in the garden by Lake Como. They’d both been drinking, their voices low and amused.
But they carried.
Alex asked if I was single. It sounded like an off-hand comment in his casual Scottish drawl.
West chuckled. I remember that sound to this day. His chuckle, and then his deep voice responding. Pretty enough. Boring. The last person.
But I’ve never forgotten it. Conceited, arrogant man.
I slip the dress over my head and pull up the zipper. I’ve always loved this dress. It’s sleeveless, with a scooped neck, and it hugs my body right down to my knees.
Right now it feels like armor. I push my feet into a pair of low heels and look in the mirror. My makeup is intact, but I touch up my lipstick and run a brush through my hair. It’ll have to do.
I start throwing clothes into one of the large bags. I don’t fold them, just shove them down.
This is not what I wanted. None of this is what I wanted.
The thought of staying at West’s estate makes my stomach churn, and it fights with the anger. That this stalker, this stranger who can’t seem to stop bothering me, is yet again changing my day-to-day life. It’s so deeply unfair.
When I finally open the door, West’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second before his face settles back into its usual mask of indifference. “You look… appropriate.”
“Wow. Do you compliment all women that way?” I ask.
“Only ones who are my best friend’s sister.” He reaches for my bag, but I take a step back.
“I can carry it.”
“You don’t have to.” He steps closer and takes it out of my hand. “Here.”
He leads the way out of the apartment. Right outside are the two guards, who fall into step behind us.
I nod a hello to them both. This must be the world’s most boring job. I should ask them if they get to listen to podcasts, at least, while they work. They’d blast through audiobooks watching me be boring.
The silence between West and me feels thick and uncomfortable. The elevator ride lasts an eon, longer than I’ve been alive, and I breathe a sigh of relief when we finally emerge into the lobby.
His car is outside again, with that familiar kind-looking older man as the driver. He gives me a smile, and I smile back.
West hires staff nicer than himself, it seems. I don’t know if that’s a mark against or for him.
When we slide into the back seat, West finally breaks the silence.
“Look, I know this isn’t ideal for either of us,” he says. “But we need to at least appear to be on good terms tonight. People there will know you.”
The nerve. I turn to the window to get away from him. But there’s nowhere to run in this small space. “I can be civil. And what do you mean, know me?”
“You’re a famous model,” he says dryly. “Though you seem to think otherwise.”
“I’m not famous .”
“Well-known, then? Choose whatever word you like. People know you’re a Montclair.”
I wonder if it’s the same for him. That wherever he walks, people know he’s a Calloway. The Calloway. Each generation has one heir that gets it all, and he’s this one’s. He must have jealous cousins and siblings lurking in the wings. Blessed and saddled with a last name that makes him a constant target.
It might be one of the few things we have in common.
“What kind of party are you throwing?” I ask.
West’s voice turns low. “It’s a fundraiser. There will be… people there I’ll need to talk to.”
“You’re networking tonight. Private or business?”
He’s quiet for a short beat. “Both. I need you right next to me. The guards will blend in when we arrive, and I don’t want you farther than an arm’s length away.”
“There’s absolutely no way my stalker has magically gained an invite to your party in less than an hour,” I protest. “Just so we’re both aware of that.”
He glances over at me, something like delight in his eyes. “I like it when you bite back. And no, probably not. But I’m not taking risks.”
The car slows down at two large, ornate wrought-iron gates. There’s an intricate C in the middle. They swing open as the car inches forward.
And there’s Fairhaven.
I’ve never seen the house that the Calloway family has called home for over a century. West’s famous ancestor, the Calloway who started it all, built it during the Gilded Age on North Shore’s famous Gold Coast.
Fairhaven lies at the farthest edge of King’s Point, right by the Atlantic Ocean.
The house itself sits at the end of a long, well-lit driveway. It’s all red brick, white columns and green ivy, and is several stories tall.
A testament to a family that was once America’s richest, when the glittering New York society built mansion after mansion along the North Shore. Not many remain. Those that do are museums, hotels, college campuses. Very few are still in private ownership.
Arthur stops the car right outside the main steps up to Fairhaven’s double doors. The house is even larger up close. Symmetrical, well-kept, stunning. I step out onto the gravel. Lit torches line the steps, and there’s music swelling from inside.
“Welcome,” West says beside me, “to Fairhaven.”
I roll my shoulders back. His house will be filled with guests. I can already see some of them, spilling out through the open door, moving behind large, white-trimmed windows.
We walk into the foyer. White marble tiles echo faintly beneath my heels, drowned out by the sound of live music and chatter. The ceiling is arched, tall, with grand staircases curving on either side of the foyer.
A few people turn to us. Smiles are thrown West’s way, a few hello s, wondered where you were at s . I put on my best smile beside him. It’s one thing I’ve learned in modeling over the years. Smile. Look happy. Never let anyone know that you’re uncomfortable, or upset, or hurting. Never let anyone see you.
Let them see what they want to.
West shakes hands and makes his way to a large sitting room.
“This is your home?” I whisper beside him. I know he inherited Fairhaven, but I didn’t realize it was quite this large. There’s an ornate stone fireplace that curves in the center of the sitting room, flanked by people holding drinks and talking.
“I’ll be sure you get a proper tour later.”
Then he stops in his tracks. I follow his gaze to the other side of the room, where a woman sits on a futon beneath two bay windows. She might be in her fifties or sixties; it’s hard to tell. Brown hair a shade lighter than West’s.
And she’s looking straight at us.
Around her is a group of women my age. They’re different ethnicities and all beautifully dressed. Some seated, some standing. It looks like she’s a queen holding court.
“Your mother?” I guess. The resemblance isn’t striking, but it’s there. And I’ve spent more time looking at West than I would ever admit out loud.
“Yes.” He looks down at me, and there’s a tightness to his expression. “You wanted to practice dating?”
“Erm, yes. I told you that, didn’t I?”
“You sure did.” He looks across the room again. His mother is on her feet now, and is walking toward us. The women she’s been entertaining stay put over by the bay windows. More than a few eye West speculatively.
“Practice it with me,” he says. “Now.”
“Be your… you mean, pretend that we’re together?”
“Yes,” he says tightly. “You want to date more. I want to date less. Let’s help each other out tonight.”
I blink up at him. Whiskey eyes look back down at me, and that left eyebrow with the scar through it, and it’s suddenly hard to breathe. Pretend to date… West.
The guy I once had a stupid, silly little teenage infatuation with, until he crushed it beneath his boot. Too boring , he said. The last person I’d ever date.
“Say please,” I tell him.
West’s eyes flash with amusement, and he leans in another inch. “Please, Nora.”
“Thought you’d never ask.” I slip my arm through his and turn to face his mother.