Chapter 14 #2
His hands come to either side of my face. Holding me in place with a stunned expression on his face.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Silence stretches. His hands drop, and he’s back on his feet.
Not moving, just staring at me. My eyes slide to a spot on the floor.
I’m conflicted by what I feel and what I see when I look at him.
Here’s a great guy. A catch in every sense of the world, saying he wants to know where he stands with me.
Crystal clear.
Is that another thing younger men bring to the table?
“It’s a fair concern, Hollister.”
My gaze connects with his. He scratches his head. My first realization is that he must have showered too, by the dampness at his roots. He is fully clothed again, so I must have been drained if I slept through all that. I stand, adjusting the towel over my body to avoid flashing him.
“Sure.”
He’s unconvinced.
So am I.
This is getting a bit too serious for how the day started off and proceeded. It’s selfish of me to want to shove this aside and think about it later. More self-preservation than anything. My stomach growls loudly and embarrassingly.
“Let’s get something to eat.”
The perfect host.
“You didn’t eat already? While I was asleep?”
“I wanted to share it with you.”
Even though he doesn’t want to stop talking by the hesitancy in his stance, his manners overrule his desires.
Something we both have in common. His hand caresses my bare shoulder down my arm as if needing the connection, but not safe enough to kiss me.
He’s waited hours to eat, all because of me. It does something to me.
“Um, I really need my luggage to change. I can’t keep wearing next to nothing.”
His mouth opens, a smirk flashing across his face before it falls from the seriousness of the conversation.
“Of course.”
His hand plunges into his hair again when he steps away. His fingernails scrape my hand in a final touch before moving on. Confusion and hesitation stop him halfway across the room.
“It’s still at the house. Probably in my room or one of the bedrooms.”
He turns sideways, an equal distance from me to the front door of his studio.
“I can go get it if you want to stay here or um, there’s probably a clean robe folded in the cabinet in the bathroom if you want to put them and sleep up there.”
My choice. I decide where this goes from here. Literally.
“The main house would be nice. I’ll just slip back into my dress.”
I move to gather my clothes where they had lain when he took them off. He dives into help, picking up my undergarments and handing them to me before I retreat into the bathroom for privacy.
Everything feels off.
I dress quickly, the fabric clinging slightly to my skin. No makeup. No blowout. Just me in a crumpled dress, tucking his necklace under the neckline for safekeeping. Unsure if I’m protecting the sea glass or myself.
When I step out, he’s waiting with his hands in his pockets and that boyish smile that tries too hard to hide the ache in his eyes. He doesn’t speak. Just opens the door and gestures for me to go through.
“Do we need to bring the tray?”
“Nah, they’ll get it.”
They are his staff.
The evening air is cooler now, the fog from the inlet rolling in. We walk in silence down the path that winds from the studio to the main house. His estate rises on the slope above the pool, cabanas, and his studio. Looming large and a bit forbidding.
Warm lights glowing from above the windows with security cameras snuggled under the eaves, reminding me of what we did inside the cabana that thankfully, wasn’t caught on camera.
Now the beach, well, that’s probably another story.
The planter boxes on the porch are meticulously manicured.
Nothing screams for attention. Just wealth done impossibly right.
When the door creaks open, I expect it to be loud.
Anything opposite the hushed quiet that such a large house provides.
Our steps echo faintly on wide oak floors.
The hallway stretches long and open, and more expensive art hangs at curated intervals.
Not his work, but coastal abstracts and historic maps of the area and colonies.
A perfectly restrained palette of whites, creams, navy, and espresso.
The kind of house where everything is magazine-worthy.
He leads me to the kitchen.
It’s beautiful.
The kind of kitchen chefs would die for. Features include a double island, stone counters, Sub-Zero appliances, and copper pans hanging in neat rows. But no one’s around, not even a housekeeper. Only us.
He pulls open a drawer and grabs a small remote. With a press of a button, the far wall rolls back to reveal a hidden wine cellar behind glass. I’m amazed by how cool a party trick that is.
“I could have the chef make us something,” he offers, stepping behind the counter, his hand lingering over an intercom mounted in the marble wall. “Or we could raid the fridges for leftovers like heathens.”
It’s too late in the evening to drag his poor chef away from whatever he’s doing.
“I vote heathen.”
A smile tugs at my lips, he grins in return. The first real one I’ve seen since I woke up.
“I’ll grab the plates and silverware. You pick the wine.”
We move about the kitchen with our separate tasks. He makes quick work of grabbing his, then moves on to pull various dishes from two different refrigerators. I peruse the various wine bottles, some of which are quite exclusive and expensive.
“Do you have any preference?”
Not that money matters to him, but a sliver of guilt has me seeking his recommendation, as I’m unsure if this is all available for his choosing.
“Any will do. They all taste great,” he says over his shoulder, pulling out glassware to the point that we’ll be having a mini feast on our hands.
“Let’s do a white. It’s lighter.”
I return to the wine selection, aware of every sound behind me as he sets everything up for an impromptu picnic at one of the massive islands. By the time I decide and turn, he has an enormous amount of food arranged like a buffet luncheon with serving spoons tucked into each dish.
“That’s a lot of food.”
He snickers, dismissing my comment as if untrue. It’s glutinous, and my stomach rumbles when I walk to him. Handing off the bottle of wine for him to open, I settle on one of many barstools tucked under the edge.
“Don’t wait for me. Dive in.”
The selection is different, everything from shrimp cocktail to baba ghanoush.
A smattering of paleo and Mediterranean food.
I’m curious who this fare is for, given that he has a stocked fridge of custom-prepared food.
Although he gave me the green light, I prefer to wait for him.
He’s been a perfect host, but I’d like a little wine before food. Liquid courage, I suppose.
“Babs?”
He gestures again, more insistent as the cork pops from the bottle.
“Please. Eat.”
“I was waiting for the wine,” I say with a smile. He immediately pours us both a generous glass and slides one in front of me.
The first sip is crisp and floral, lingering on my tongue in a way that softens the edge of the day. My shoulders lower a little. The awkwardness from earlier hasn’t vanished completely, but the easy way he moves in and about his family home is comforting. Grounding.
“So, do you always have a buffet waiting in the wings?” I lean forward, snagging a piece of roasted artichoke.
“I have a big family. You know that.” He piles lamb skewers and marinated olives onto his plate. “And cousins. And random friends who pretend they’re family just to get fed. You stock up, or you starve around here.”
I doubt the Harrington family has ever been close to starving. I don’t think they’ve been deprived of anything in their lives.
I nod and eat my artichoke. It’s perfect.
“Still feels like I’m in a Nancy Meyers movie.”
He laughs at that. A real one. Full-body, head-tipped-back kind of laugh.
“I have no idea who that is.”
The generational gap between our ages is showing. Sitting like an unwanted reminder of why this probably won’t work beyond this weekend. But his overreaction surprises me.
“Lovely.”
My sarcasm bleeds through as I scoop a few dishes onto my plate. His eyes linger, watching my every move.
“But if it’s about a hot young guy convincing a stunning lady to be with him, then it sounds like an Oscar winner.”
“Not exactly.”
I glance down at my wrinkled dress and bare feet, feeling my hair growing into bigger curls.
“I’m not sure she’s won an Oscar.”
“Then I like our version better.”
He busies himself by spooning couscous onto both our plates.
I catch the flicker of something across his expression.
Regret, maybe, or tenderness. We eat in relative quiet for a few minutes.
The kind that feels comfortable rather than awkward.
The kind you only get with someone who doesn’t feel the need to fill every second with noise.
“How long has this house been in your family?”
I break the silence when he loads more food on his plate. To have that kind of metabolism. He stops, spoon hovering over a pasta salad.
“Not sure. But several generations now. There’s an old drawing room with the paintings of all the men in my family at our main estate.”
I hum, my gaze already roaming the expansive kitchen. The sofas and chairs are arranged across the room to provide guests with a more comfortable dining experience.
“This place is sort of a summer nucleus for the family.”
I hum my understanding, continuing to eat.
“Tell me about Barrettmoor.”
I choke on my food. Surprised that he’s bringing that estate up. He’s up and out of his chair, pounding on my back without thought. I cover my mouth with my napkin, coughing and clearing my throat before waving him off.
Worry carves up his face.
Only when I’ve slightly recovered does he offer me my wine glass to take a drink.
“I didn’t mean for that to happen. I just assumed it was kind of similar to this place, but for your family.”