45. Paige
PAIGE
Rafe and I get back to Villa Egeria later that day. The others don’t join us, going their separate ways. One to England, another to Scotland. Three to New York. The helicopter ride back to Como was quiet, just Rafe and me, and when I walk through the villa…
It feels like home.
Of everything that’s happened in the last week, that might be the most dangerous of them all.
The first night, the guest rooms aren’t ready yet. They’re being aired out, sheets changed, the house put back the way it was before the wedding. And so I sleep in Rafe’s bed again.
It’s frustrating how helpful it is for my anxiety. It’s always been the worst at night, when it’s just me and my thoughts, but arguing with him before bed is like a balm.
Especially after everything that’s happened in the last few days. My uncle found me. Flew across the Atlantic, followed me on the news and found me.
But I did the right thing. I tell myself that, over and over again.
I did the right thing. He was planning on demolishing the company.
That would have meant hundreds of people without a job and our family legacy gone forever.
Because I did what I did, they won’t be laid off.
Rafe promised me six months of no firings.
And we have a plan to bring the company back on its feet.
I fall asleep to the sound of Rafe’s steady breathing and my own mantra. I did the right thing.
We spend all of the next day working. I’m reviewing all the changes to Mather & Wilde his new CEO has suggested and finding several of my own threaded through there.
The suggestions I made Rafe review.
In the heat of the afternoon, we decide to play tennis again.
It’s our third or fourth game together. I’ve learned to take advantage of his slow resets, but he’s also learned that he can get me with quick turns of the games that his longer legs can adapt to easier than mine.
I bounce the tennis ball twice before looking over the net. Rafe is there, at the base line, gripping his racquet tight.
I toss the ball up high and serve hard and fast down the T. He returns it. We rally back and forth with a few quick forehands before I add topspin and shoot short.
He has damned long legs, though, and reaches it in time. He shoots it back to me, and I misgauge where he’s aiming. It passes behind me.
Point Rafe.
I call out the score and return back to the baseline. Damn it. I can’t let him win. He saw me break apart on that dock and held me when I cried, and I need to establish some leverage.
A win, something, to put distance between us and my vulnerability. It’s still my serve, and I go for power over precision with this one. He returns it, and I immediately switch to a cross-court shot. He returns that, too, and a grin spreads over his face.
I hate that most of all. How at ease he looks in his white shorts and t-shirt, with his mussed dark hair and secrets I haven’t been able to parse.
Why does he fight at night?
We lob quick balls back and forth. My arm protests against the strength of my forehands. It’s been too long since I did this regularly.
Why did he hold me when I cried?
Why did I not hate it?
He strikes out, and I can’t help the smile that spreads over my face. “Thirty-thirty!” I call.
Rafe runs a hand over his hair. The deep-green cypresses behind him bend gently in the wind. It’s hot today. “You’re angry.”
“I’m not!”
“Could have fooled me,” he says, and pockets a ball. “And I let you win that point.”
I grit my teeth. “You did not. You misjudged the distance and hit it too far.”
“Sure,” he says with such infuriating calm that I know he’s taunting me and that this is a trap. And yet it still riles me up.
He bounces the ball a few times at the baseline. I watch the movement of his arm, the flex of his muscles. His arms flexed that way when he stroked himself. Watching me in the shower, every line of his body tense with need.
The serve swooshes past me.
He holds up his hands. “Wilde, are you there?”
I shake my head. “Yes! Don’t be a sore winner!”
“I’m not sore,” he calls back. “I win so much, it would be impossible.”
I roll my eyes and drop my knees. “Come on!”
He serves, and this time I’m dialed in. We play for a few more points until I narrowly win the set. My legs ache, my lungs hurt. It’s the best kind of exercise. The kind that forces you to be present and leave it all out on the court.
I used to love this game.
I used to play with my parents as a child. As a teenager. When I got better than them, my mother would sometimes enlist me to help her with her serves. It was our family’s game.
After I win the set, we stop to grab our water bottles. There’s a smile on my lips that won’t quite go away.
“I’ve figured out your one redeeming quality,” I tell him.
He leans against the lone stone hedge that runs alongside the tennis court. Past him, the lake glitters through the trees. “Enlighten me.”
“Your friends.” It’s not a lie either. Nora and Amber added me to a group chat this morning.
He lifts an eyebrow. “They’re terrible.”
“Yes,” I say with a laugh. “That’s what’s so good about them. I think Monaco was the strangest honeymoon anyone has ever had.”
“I don’t know. Poker isn’t that strange.” There’s a laziness to him that feels dangerous. Hooded eyes and sweat-glistening skin.
“The other parts, though. You taking that shot was…” I shake my head. “You hate losing control.”
“I do,” he says. He doesn’t elaborate. But his expression doesn’t change either, and it’s clear that he doesn’t regret that shot.
“Who was that man? Hadrian?” I ask. I was the only one to speak to him at that party, and no one ever explained who he is. The guys didn’t want to elaborate.
Rafe looks away. “Someone from my past. He’s not important.”
“I’m the one who spoke to him. I think it’s only fair that I know who he is.”
Rafe’s eyes slide back to mine. They’re the same color as the tall cypresses behind him. And I see him considering it.
Considering if I’m trustworthy.
Something hot slides down my insides. It feels eerily similar to hurt, and I take a step back. Shit. He shouldn’t be able to hurt me. We’re partners for the time being, but that doesn’t make us friends.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll just assume he’s someone you wronged in the past, too. Did you try to take over his company?”
“No, I didn’t,” Rafe says. He spins his tennis racquet in his grip, but his eyes don’t stray from mine. “Hadrian went to Belmont with me and the others. We were friends, once. But a lot of things happened… and that friendship ended.”
“Have you seen him recently?”
“Not for years,” Rafe says. “He disappeared for a while. But in the last few years, he’s started to make a name for himself.”
“Doing what?”
“Finance,” he says. “I don’t like that he said he orchestrated Monaco for a reunion.”
“I don’t understand why he just left, though,” I say. “It was like he just suddenly changed his mind.”
Rafe slowly shakes his head. “I don’t either. We’ll avoid him in the future.”
We, he says. And future.
I grab another long sip of water to quell the way that makes me feel. He reaches for a towel and runs it over his face. “I should tell you, too, that I’m leaving tomorrow. You’ll have the villa for yourself. Try not to burn the place to the ground?”
I pretend to consider it. “You know what, now that you mention it, that sounds fun. I could invite Sylvie and Leelyn, too. Roast marshmallows.”
“Hilarious.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have to drive to Switzerland, to stop by Artemis headquarters.” He tosses the towel and reaches for the hem of his shirt. He often dives into the lake after we play. I’m going to do the same and reach for the waistband of my tennis shirt. I’m already in my bikini beneath.
“I’ll be gone for a night,” he says.
“And you’re not inviting your wife? Rude.” I shimmy out of the skirt.
“I assumed you wouldn’t want to come.” His voice is careful, eyes guarded. “It’s deep in Maison Valmont territory.”
“You know what they say. Keep your enemy close.”
His eyes flash. “Exactly.”
“That was in my wedding vows, actually. But I cut it out. Thought about our audience.”
“How kind of you.”
“That’s me,” I say.
He steps out of his shoes. “Would you want to come? You can. There will be opportunities for press, too, if we wanted. Get photos taken. Sell our… illusion.”
“Why not?” I ask. The idea of being alone here should appeal to me. But it doesn’t, not when it’ll just be me and my thoughts. “We’ve pretended to be deeply in love in Monaco, Italy and New York so far. What’s another country?”