Chapter Thirty-One. Rowan
THIRTY-ONE
Rowan
“That’s not a good idea,” I say and project my voice to my phone that’s sitting on Gran’s desk.
“It’s not a good idea to come pay you a visit?” Holden’s voice comes through its speaker.
“No.”
“But you didn’t come into the office today.”
“I needed the quiet so I could concentrate on this proposal for you without interruptions. Much like you and your Saturday meetings.” I told myself I wasn’t going to bring it up, but there I go, bringing it up first chance I talk to him.
“I can understand that.”
I spent the better part of Saturday night tipsy and overthinking Pencil Skirt, what she said and her being there alone with Holden. Then I spent Sunday morning nursing a hangover and convincing myself that what I saw was just what Holden said—private meetings.
But over what?
The man has hands in many more businesses than just TinSpirits, so no wonder he has to hold private meetings every once in a while.
But it was when I left the Sanctuary early last night and passed by the baseball field nearby, only to see Holden’s car parked there, that I was questioning everything all over again. Questioning the weird feeling that there is so much more to Holden and the truths he’s told than I think there is.
Then again, there are a lot of black SUVs in Fairmont.
It’s easy to talk yourself into or out of whatever you want to believe, depending on which way you look at things.
Like how Pencil Skirt was probably a private meeting over something and the SUV in Fairmont wasn’t his.
And so today I chose to work from Gran’s house. Free of distractions. Free of seeing him and then overthinking more. I needed the time to focus on this proposal and maybe feel a little more connected with her. She always grounded me and I need that right now more than ever.
“You’re telling me that you don’t want me to keep you company while you sort through all those stacks of papers?”
“One, you have your own work to do. Two, I need to be able to concentrate to get through at least two more stacks tonight. And three? There’s only one kind of company you’re going to want to keep with me and I’m pretty sure it means neither of us have clothes on.”
He chuckles. “Do heels count as clothes? Because that’s my favorite look for you. Naked and in heels.”
“Such a sweet talker.”
“I try,” he says, amusement lacing his tone. “But you just shot me down ferociously. Maybe I should hang up and go lick my wounds.”
“I’m sure you have many other women waiting to lick them for you.” I don’t know where the words come from, but they’re out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Yes. No doubt. Just as you have many other men waiting for you.” He pauses. “Is there something you want to say, Rowan?”
“No. Not at all.” Yes. So many things. “Is there something you wanted to say?” I counter.
“Yes? Call off the engagement.”
“I can’t.”
His chuckle is frustrating at best. “I’ve followed through with all the paperwork, with all my promises. I’ve proven you can trust me. Why are you carrying on with this?”
My answer is silence.
“Ah. So you can let me into your bed, but you still don’t trust me.” Hurt edges his tone and the sound hits me harder than I expect.
I want to trust you desperately but still can’t.
I want to justify how being with Chad makes my goals possible.
I want to explain how if I gain that $30 million inheritance, it’ll only be to eat away at some of your power and control.
I want to tell you I have feelings for you but that makes the first three things sound like I’m insane.
“You know what? You’re right. You shouldn’t trust me. I’ve told you that from day one. Why change now that we are what we are, right?”
“Holden?”
“So you’d be okay if I were fake engaged to someone else?”
Pencil Skirt flashes through my mind and every part of me bristles.
I pause, knowing my lie isn’t going to suffice but say it anyway. “I’m working on it.”
And then once my excuse is out of my mouth, I wonder if it really is a lie. Am I really working on not marrying Chad? Or have I resigned myself to the fact that this is what needs to happen to get my inheritance?
The thought is nauseating at best.
I riffle through a few more pages and place them in the appropriate piles. A receipt from the grocery store. A flyer for a baby shower from years ago. A tax return dated ten years ago. A canceled paper check made out to a charity.
“I suggest you work a little harder at it because I’m pretty damn sick of being jealous of a relationship that technically doesn’t exist.”
If he only knew the irony that statement holds.
“I know. I am. I promise.”