15. Nora
CHAPTER 15
NORA
The estate has a gym.
I hadn’t seen it on the tour Ernest gave me, but that shouldn’t surprise me. Fairhaven has everything.
Tucked into hidden corners of the sprawling estate, the house reveals itself slowly. The manicured gardens, the tennis court, the pool at the base of the tiered gardens. Only a stone’s throw from the ocean itself.
I read the booklet Ernest gave me, flipping through pages that detail its storied history as the jewel of King’s Point. According to the story, West’s ancestor, the Maverick, built it as a love letter to his wife. I wonder if that was true, or if it was as a testament to his own wealth. I wonder if he asked her beforehand.
Maybe she would have preferred flowers.
Ernest showed me a spare room on the top floor with a tall slanted roof and a giant round window overlooking the gardens and the oceans. Your atelier, Miss Montclair, he had said. It took me a moment to remember to breathe.
It’s stunning.
I spent most of the day setting up my workspace and cutting fabric before going in search of the gym. West texted me to meet him there. Wear workout clothes. I haven’t seen him since the other night at dinner with his family. Fairhaven is so big, it can swallow up anyone. Does he work from here? Does he go into the city during the days?
I push open the door to the bright space, and he’s already there.
He’s curling his right arm with a heavy weight in hand, but stops when he sees me. A gray T-shirt stretches across his chest, and he’s in a pair of black shorts.
“Hi,” I say, hating that I’m still affected by the sight of him. That I can’t help noticing how good he looks.
He sets down the weight. “You made it.”
“Yes. You want us to box ?” I put my water bottle on a side console. “I thought we needed to get our stories straight.”
“We can do them at the same time.” He looks at me with that focus again, the one that makes my mouth dry. “Have you been taught self-defense?”
“The basics.”
“Tell me what they are.”
I cross my arms over my chest, mirroring his stance. This feels like a pop quiz. “Prevention, really. Always share my location with others. I have a smart watch with a button I can use to call for help quickly. Yell loudly for help. One of the guards I had in Paris told me that the best self-defense isn’t to fight. It’s to run and run fast.” I give him a triumphant smile. “You know I’m good at that.”
He runs a hand through his hair. It looks a darker shade of brown today, like it’s damp. Did he shower before this? “And if you’re cornered?”
“Then I suppose I’ll fight. If I have to.”
“But no one has taught you how to.”
“No.”
His face sets in disapproving lines. “Why did Rafe not get you a private instructor?”
“He always told me that the stalker wouldn’t get that close.”
“He won’t.” West’s voice is steel. “But you knowing how to defend yourself is for your peace of mind. Knowing you can get physical if need be.”
I run a hand along the back of my neck. I put my hair up in a ponytail, and I feel strangely exposed. “Yeah. I guess… there’s logic to that.”
“The other night. You didn’t push me away at the end of the date, so we’ll practice that today.”
“If you want me to knee you in the groin over and over again, I will,” I say. But there’s a nervous ball in my stomach, and I glance at his broad shoulders. This would mean getting to touch him. Putting my hands directly on his chest.
Feel if he’s as firm as he looks.
“Yes. That’s exactly what I want.” His lip is curved. “I want you to have some muscle memory. Have you ever pushed away a guy who tried to kiss you when you didn’t want to?”
I pick up my water bottle and focus on unscrewing it rather than meeting his gaze. Because no. Of course I haven’t. I’ve avoided situations where that might even happen, said no to dates, and on a few rare occasions, let a guy kiss me for a bit before I extricated myself with a polite smile.
“Fucking hell,” he groans.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You didn’t have to. Right. Let’s start by warming up.” He picks up a pair of boxing gloves and hands them my way. “These are probably too big for you, but they’ll do.”
“We’re boxing.” I look at the large, vinyl things in my hands.
“Yes, to start with.”
“I know you and Rafe do this. It’s… it’s James’s thing, right?”
“Yes, he’s obsessed with self-defense.” West rolls his neck, like he’s preparing himself, and holds up his hands, large palms facing my way. “And for good reason.”
“I bet you wish I was his problem instead of yours,” I say. “Imagine how much time you’d have on your hands.”
West’s jaw tenses. “Bend your knees a bit,” he instructs, like I haven’t spoken. “Yeah, that’s it. Now I want you to hit my hands. A jab and a cross.”
“Your hands? Shouldn’t you have a pad or something?”
“I can take it,” he says. “Want me to get a pad? Prove to me that you can hit hard enough for me to need it.”
“You really are pathologically competitive.”
“Don’t listen to a thing Amber says.” He lifts that scarred eyebrow. “Hit me, trouble.”
I bend my knees a bit and take sight on his right palm. “Why did she quiz you like that last night?”
“Because she lives to annoy me,” he says, “and she wanted to see me sweat. Don’t procrastinate. Hit me.”
I give him an annoyed glance and then hit his palm with a jab. The glove connects softly.
“Weak,” he says.
I hit his other hand harder. Twice in a row. I tried boxing at the gym a few years ago, and this is just as thrilling.
“Better. But I know you have more anger inside you.”
“I’m not angry,” I say.
“Sure you’re not.”
I hit him harder. He doesn’t budge, just follows my movements with his hands, pushes back against my hits. And he keeps looking at me with those narrowed, intense eyes. Like he sees far too much.
“What are your hobbies?” I ask while hitting his right hand as hard as I can with a jab. He doesn’t even flinch.
“Sailing,” he says. “Working out. Traveling. If it ever comes up in conversation, you can use one of those.”
“Your favorite cocktail?”
His lips curve up. “Negronis.”
“Great. You can finish all the ones I’ll have to drink now.” I hit him again, and he takes a small step back. Taps his finger against his chin. “What do you work with?”
“You know that. I run Calloway Holdings, which owns Cal Steel and a few other companies.”
“Do you work from here?”
“Here, from the office in Manhattan, or I’m traveling for business.” He tilts his head back. “Aim for my head now.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’ll duck.” He lifts an eyebrow. “I thought you’d like the chance to hit me. Get some of your frustration out, trouble.”
“I don’t hate you that much,” I say.
His smile curves. “I think you do.”
“I’m very indifferent regarding you.” But I drop back down into the stance he showed me and try to punch his head. He does exactly what he said. He drops down, hands raised. I jab twice in a row. We haven’t done this long, and my shoulders are already aching.
“Why do you live here and not in the city?”
It’s the first time he’s hesitated before answering. It’s brief, but I catch it. “I don’t like being far from the ocean. The city doesn’t let you think.”
I pause for a moment. “Fairhaven is beautiful.”
“It is. And it’s mine.” He rolls his neck.
“What about your pet? The cat I’ve seen around?”
“I don’t have any pets,” he says.
That makes me pause. I saw a sleek gray cat running through the library the other day. I saw it again lying outside by the apple orchards, bathing in a speck of sunlight.
“Well, the estate seems to have one.”
“Maybe one of the staff feeds it.” He nods at my hands. “Come on. Hit me.”
“You’re a masochist,” I mutter, but I do hit him. Again and again.
He blocks them all, moving in a graceful line around me so I have to stay on my toes. A jab, a cut. Another hit to his head. He ducks it easily, sidestepping.
“Why have you never brought anyone home to meet your family?”
“You met my family,” he says dryly. “Why would I put a woman through that?”
“Except me.”
“I knew you could take it. We come from the same world.” He holds up his palms again, and I cross jab one of them. My breath is coming faster. It’s a good workout, this. Being on my toes. Moving in tune with him. “My turn,” he says. “How have you never been in a relationship?”
“I’m not telling you that.”
He narrows his eyes. “Right. Then tell me why you think you’re not angry.”
“Because I’m not. I’m never angry.” I hit his right hand a bit harder, and his lips curve up again in that frustrating, arrogant smirk. Like he knows best. I hit his left hand as hard as I can, and the smack rings out loudly. “People don’t like it when you get angry, and I can’t stand it when they do. So I’m never angry.”
West’s eyes are a pool of light brown, of scotch in the sunlight. “You can get as angry as you like with me. We’re locked together on this. So practice getting angry with me.”
“I don’t need to practice getting angry. I need to practice dating .”
“And why can’t you practice both, you little overachiever?”
I aim a hit straight at his head, at that smug smile. He ducks, and the smile only widens. His hair is messy now, falling in brown tendrils over his forehead. I’ve never seen him like this with me. Half undone and half exhilarated.
He looks like he does when I’ve seen him with my brother and their friends. When he comes to life, when he relaxes into himself. Mischievous confidence in a rich, handsome package.
He sidesteps, forcing me to follow him across the gym. “You need that anger,” he says. “You need it so you can stand up for yourself if a guy tries anything you don’t like. If he insists on taking you to see a movie you don’t like.”
“We’re supposed to get our stories straight.” I aim another punch at him, and he blocks it. “You just winged the first date story!”
“Of course I did. And they bought it.”
“I’m perceptive. What kind of compliment is that?” I hit him again and again, and he ducks effortlessly. Why won’t he go get the pads? Haven’t I proven how hard I can hit? My arms ache now.
“A true one,” he says. “I wasn’t pretending. Now come on. Don’t get lazy.”
I aim a hit to his left palm. He captures my gloved hand instead and starts undoing the Velcro around my wrist.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Moving on to the next stage.” He pulls off my other glove too and tosses them both to the carpeted floor. “Keep this energy and use it to argue with me. Push me away.”
Oh.
West takes a step closer, and the inches between us vanish into nothing but a sliver of heated air. He’s still wearing that expression that makes my chest tighten—the focused eyes, the curve to his lips. I reach up and put my hands on his chest.
He’s warm beneath the fabric of his T-shirt. Firmer than anyone has the right to be.
“That’s it,” West says. “Now push me away.”
I shove. He moves two inches, if that, but a smile spreads across his lips.
“What’s wrong? You don’t want to see me again?” His voice drops into the low one from the other night, when he pretended he was into me.
“No. I don’t.” I shove harder this time, putting my entire body into it. This whole thing is stupid, and I’m sweaty and excited. This time he takes two solid steps back.
“Well done,” he says, and the praise feels like the taste of sugar. “You’re doing really good. Do it again, trouble.”
My heart is beating fast. I can hear it, the pounding in my ears, when he steps up close again. This time, he brushes a hand along my cheek and rests it right beneath my chin. It’s a faint touch.
But he’s never touched me like that before.
He tips my head up and looks at me with half-hooded eyes. The same he gave me the other night.
Like I’m someone he wants.
“So pretty,” he murmurs, and his head drops another inch in my direction. The words make my breath catch. I’ve been called that before. Brushed it aside, ignored it. Now it lodges beneath my skin like a warm caress.
I put my hands back on his chest and shove. “No thanks.”
West laughs. The sound heats up the room. “You’re so polite. That was very good. How does it feel?”
“Strange,” I admit. And good . Look at me like that again.
“We’ll do it over and over again until it feels like second nature,” he says. “And then we might work on getting that politeness out of you, too.” He runs a hand through his hair, and the mirth on his face falls like a curtain dropped. “Mark. Did he try to kiss you?”
“No,” I say. “You interrupted, remember? Besides, guys often wait to try until the end of the date.”
“Which is why that’s the part that stresses you out.”
“Yeah. But it’s not just the kiss. It’s the questions.” I shrug. “I’m not good at those kinds of conversations. Deciding whether we’re doing it again. If they ask how I feel…”
“We’ll practice them too.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Again?”
“Again.”
We do it a few more times. Each time, he tells me how good I’m doing, until I come to crave the sound of the compliment in his low voice.
When he lowers his face the next time, I decide to try something different. With his lips only inches from mine and my chest tight with anticipation, I turn my face to the right. Offer up my cheek instead.
He pauses, inches from my skin. “You’ve done that before.”
“Once or twice,” I say. “It always works.”
“I want you to try one more thing,” he says. This time, he’s right in my space, all six foot two inches of man and muscles beneath his T-shirt. “Slap me.”
My eyes widen. “Of course not.”
“You were the one who spoke about kneeing me in the groin.” He lifts an eyebrow. “This is milder than that.”
“I’ve never… I can’t… I’ve never done that before.”
“Then this is the time to start.”
“Why do you want me to do that? Do you get off on pain?”
He chuckles. “No. We’ll work on proper self-defense tomorrow. For now, I think you have a lot of mental blocks. You won’t even let yourself get angry , for fuck’s sake. If you needed to, could you defend yourself? Lift your hand?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a violent person.”
He blows out a breath. “No. Really? You could have fooled me.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you,” I say primly.
“You’re lying, but that’s fine. Everything suits me.” He puts a hand on his cheek and looks straight at me. “Slap me when I come at you this time. So if you’re ever in a situation where a little shove on the chest doesn’t work, you know what to do.”
He’s pushing the limits.
He’s pushing my limits.
Irritation slithers down my spine. Irritation at him for correctly reading the situation so quickly. He identified one of my core fears within one lesson. I’m terrified of making people upset. I’m a people-pleaser to my core, with everyone but him. And he’s challenging that.
When someone is in front of me, asking something of me… I don’t know how to handle it. That’s why I just say no to dates, or say yes to my family and friends. I don’t know how to find the middle ground. To say no, I don’t want to kiss you yet, but I do want to go on another date with you.
To negotiate. To what if we do it this way?
The easiest way to handle a conflict is to avoid it.
Works every time.
“Nora,” he says, his voice darkening. “You’ve been so good today. Can you do this too? Remember how annoying I am. How I control your life. How I’ve forced you to date me in public. You can hit me. You don’t even like me.”
I roll my neck. “Not right now, no.”
His grin flashes. Then he takes a step forward. And another. We’ve ended up close to one of the large machines in the gym, and my back hits the machinery.
He’s crowding me in.
“Do you want me to pretend to be the stalker?” he asks. “Or a date who won’t take no for an answer?”
I think of the way it feels when he comes close. Of his breath against my lips and the fluttering in my stomach that happens each and every time. The wondering of what it would feel like if this was different.
“The second one,” I whisper.
He puts a hand beside me, locking me in on one side. My heart picks up with speed when he lowers his head. His eyes drop to my lips, and he’s watching me like I’m all he’s ever wanted. All he’s ever needed. “You’re so pretty, it destroys me.”
Oh my god.
He’s upped the levers by ten.
“Can I kiss you?” His lips come closer, and there’s a pounding in my head. “Nora, let me kiss you.”
My eyelids flutter like they want to close. Please do, I want to say. But he doesn’t mean it. He’s pretending, just like we’re both meant to be pretending. This is all fake.
And he wants me to slap him.
I put my hands on his chest instead, and I push him away like I’ve done before. Except he barely budges. He just chuckles and runs his fingers over my hair. Pushes a tendril behind my ear.
I once dreamed of him looking at me like this.
Now he is, and it undoes me. And I hate that I’m still attracted to him after everything. After what he said. After agreeing to help me out only to do his best friend a favor. I shouldn’t wonder what his kiss would really feel like.
And right now I hate that part of me.
So I slap his cheek with my right hand. The sound rings out in the space, and before I can think, I push him back and lift up with my knee. It hits his groin. Not very hard, because I’m still holding back. But it sends West backward, and I stumble after him, my free hand still on his chest.
I don’t know who loses balance first. But we fall to the ground, and he wraps his free arm around my waist, softening the blow with his body. We hit the ground with a groan.
I’m half draped over him. My leg between his, my chest pressed to his.
“Fucking hell,” he groans. He lifts his free hand and runs it over his face, hiding his eyes from view.
“I’m sorry!” I quickly pull my hand away from his chest. “Did I hurt you? God, I’m so, so sorry.”
West starts to laugh. He slides his hand up through his hair and then locks his arm behind his head. “That,” he says, “was a triumph. You do have some anger in you, don’t you? You showed me your fangs.”
I turn over onto my back beside him. And something in his own mirth brings out my own. “Oh my god. I can’t believe I just did that.”
“Feel good?”
“Yes. Is that terrible?” I close my eyes, still smiling. “Am I a violent person?”
“No,” he says. “And you did real well, trouble.”
He props himself up on an elbow, his dark hair hanging over his forehead. I let my gaze run over that scar of his again. The one through his left eyebrow. I’ve always wondered how he got it.
But I’ve never been close enough to him to ask. It’s one of the many secrets behind West Calloway, the rich-boy heir turned bachelor king. “Why does your mother want you to get married so badly?” I ask instead.
“Why have you never been in a relationship?”
We stare at each other. His eyes look honeyed, the color of thick syrup. We both know we’re at an impasse. We may be locked in this together, but that doesn’t mean all the truths should come tumbling out.
There’s a sharp knock on the door before it opens. West’s jaw tenses, and he rolls away from me, pushing up into standing. “Ernest?”
The dignified estate manager looks from West to me, still on the floor. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s been another incident.”