10. Kent
Chapter Ten
KENT
I close the ring box, stuff it inside my pocket, and lock my safe before returning to the kitchen to finally pour a glass of the rare, vintage wine.
The maroon liquid swirls in the wine glass, wafting a beautifully bold, fruity aroma.
I take a sip, letting the flavors melt onto my tongue, then take a breath.
Delightful.
Wandering into the main space with my full glass in hand, I find myself thumbing through my vinyl record collection—a little jazz, classic rock, and R&B.
I come across an Ella Fitzgerald Christmas album, a favorite holiday collection of mine, and slide it gently onto the turntable.
The jazzy holiday beats begin, and Ella’s voice croons through the speakers.
I settle on the sofa, staring up at the lit Christmas tree, and take another sip.
It’s not making love to a beautiful redhead but it’s not a bad way to spend an evening either.
“I thought I heard music in here,” a feminine voice enters the room, calling for my attention.
I look up to find Liz standing at the edge of the room. Hmm, speaking of beautiful redheads. She’s dressed in a deep green, knee-length robe. Her fair-skinned, slender legs are on full display. “I thought you were off to sleep?”
“I was. I just came out to get a glass of water.” She almost seems to tiptoe over in her thick, fuzzy socks while her auburn locks fall softly over her left shoulder. “What are you drinking?”
“The ’86 Cabernet,” I say, raising my glass.
“Isn’t that the one we were going to share?”
“It was but you canceled our date, remember?” I say, and her pretty lips twist as if she’s regretting that decision—if only for the wine. “Fancy a glass?”
Liz steps back, a hesitant look in her eyes. I’m positive she’s going to decline, but then she glances at the wine once more, and it draws her closer. “Sure. But just one.”
One glass? Good enough for me.
“Wait here and make yourself comfortable,” I say, then fetch the bottle and another glass from the kitchen before returning to my very special guest. She stands gazing up at the tree as Ella sings a swinging version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”
I walk over and offer her a full glass. If she’s only going to have one, it might as well be a big one. “Here you are.”
“Thank you,” she says, accepting the wine. “I had no idea you had such Christmas spirit.”
“What this? My assistant hires someone to decorate every season.” I settle back on the sofa and sip my Cab. The truth is, Christmas is my favorite holiday. But since my mother passed away a few years ago, the holiday has lost a lot of its . . . sparkle.
“And the Ella Fitzgerald Christmas album? Does your assistant hire someone to play that for you too?” Liz asks in her sarcastic tone, seeing right through me.
“No.” My cheeks grow warm, perhaps from the sensational wine.
Liz takes a sip and a moment later her brows shoot up. “Wow, this is excellent.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I’m impressed, Bonnaire. You’ve got great taste.”
“Thank you. Why don’t you have a seat? Relax.” I pat the sofa cushion next to me. Perhaps we’ll get that date after all. With a stiffened frame, she hesitates again.
Perhaps not.
“I told you before, I won’t bite,” I say, coaxing her.
Liz tilts her head, offering a small smile, and the twinkle light reflection glistens in her eyes.
She relents and steps toward the sofa. But instead of sitting next to me, she opts for the opposite corner of the long sofa and curls her legs beneath her.
Better she’s on the opposite end of the couch than the opposite end of the penthouse, in my opinion.
“Well, well. Look at us,” I say, raising my glass again.
Liz shoots me a caustic American look and scoffs. “What? Two winos in a bizarre situation?”
“Exactly. Cheers,” I say, reaching across the sofa to clink my glass to hers.
“Cheers.” Liz averts her gaze back to the Christmas tree and lets out a sigh. “I like Christmas too.”
I lean in, curious to know more. “You do?”
She nods. “Yeah. A lot of good childhood memories. With my Grandpa, at least.”
“Like what?”
“You know, hot cocoa nights by the fireplace, watching those old animagic Christmas movies on repeat, and then, of course, building snowmen, which ultimately turned into epic snowball fights. My favorite.” Liz grins as if reliving the fond childhood memory in her mind.
“Does it snow here in London for Christmas?”
“Only if we’re lucky. Why? You want to build a snowman on the terrace?”
“Maybe. He’d be a very posh snowman,” she says with a London accent and a laugh.
“Is your granddad still around?” I ask, wondering if she was planning to be with him this Christmas.
Liz’s smile slumps, and she shakes her head. “No, he passed away a while ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, knowing the loss of a loved one.
“Thanks.”
“So, who were you going to spend Christmas with this year?” I ask.
“My brother, Leo. And my mom.” Liz says the word mom with a slight eye roll and quickly goes for another long sip.
“You don’t get on with your mom?”
“Sort of. She’s just a free spirit, so it’s hard to catch her. That’s why we lived with our grandpa.”
“I see. What about your father?” I ask.
She shakes her head again and gazes down into her wine glass. “He’s not really in the picture. He left my mom when I was a baby.”
Harsh. But at times, I wonder if my family would’ve been better off if my father had taken off when we were young too. Of course, I can’t say that to Liz.
“What about you? Any holiday traditions for the Bonnaires?” she asks, clearly not wanting to discuss her family any longer.
“Quite a few,” I say.
“Such as?”
“Well, there’s The Nutcracker Ballet at the Royal Opera House, the annual Boxing Day gathering, and . . .”
“What?” She sits up, eager to hear more.
I set my glass on the table. “Well, it’s kind of silly.”
“Sillier than a snowball fight?”
“Perhaps. It was a tradition my mother started when my brothers and I were little. On Boxing Day, when all the festivities were over, she would have us write down a wish on a little strip of paper for the next year. She kept them in a box until the following New Year’s Eve when we’d get to pick out our wish to see if it had come true.
” I don’t tell her that this is a tradition she kept up into our adulthood.
But since Mum passed, I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it anymore.
“I like that,” Liz says. “Did any of your wishes come true?”
“Yeah, a lot of them did,” I say, thinking back to how I’d forget my wish by February and find myself surprised at the New Year when I’d gotten what I wanted.
“What kind of things did you wish for?”
“You know, stuff that all kids wish for like a llama and seeing the Egyptian pyramids.”
“Please tell me you got the llama.”
I grin, remembering the old goof. “I did. His name was Percy.”
Liz throws her head back with a rich, full-bodied laugh. “Oh my gosh, that’s so cute! That must’ve been fun.”
“It was.” Why can’t I take my eyes off her? Liz has a presence, to be sure. But there’s something even more beautiful about her when her defenses come down, and she laughs with her whole being. The woman lights up brighter than this Christmas tree.
The upbeat Christmas tune turns into a slow, twinkly piano melody, and Miss Fitzgerald’s voice sings as velvety as ever. Liz takes a breath, seeming to relax deeper into the sofa. A few sips of good wine will do that to a woman. “I love this song.”
“‘What Are you Doing New Year’s Eve?’,” I say, naming the classic tune.
“Yeah. It’s a . . . never mind.”
“No, what were you going to say?” I scoot a little closer, slowly closing the space between us.
Liz’s gaze turns dreamy, but she directs it to the wine. “Just that it’s a romantic question to ask.”
“Well, we know what we’ll be doing on New Year’s Eve this year,” I say.
“What’s that?”
“Celebrating my promotion, of course.” I can almost taste the Dom Perignon and feel the crystal champagne flute on the tip of my lip. Yes, I’ll be President of Bonnaire Capital, which is what I’ve always wanted.
“Yep, and I’ll be heading back to San Francisco,” she adds.
That’s right. My fake engagement to Liz will be over, and she’ll be gone.
And for a moment, the thought leaves me hollow.
I shake it off. It must be the mix of wine and Ella Fitzgerald.
I have to be careful not to get too caught up in these fleeting moments, or I could find myself thinking I have feelings for Liz.
I take the brief silence between us to imagine the forthcoming scenario of how this whole thing will play out smoothly. Then, I remember the diamond ring. I have to give it to her at some point. This is as good a time as any.
“Speaking of romantic questions, I have something for you,” I say and pull the velvet box from my pocket. I inch much closer to Liz’s side of the couch, then show her the small jewelry box.
Her chestnut-colored eyes go wide but she quickly corrects her expression with a suspicious stare and sets her wine glass down. “What, pray tell, is that?”
“Well, seeing as we are engaged,” I say with air quotes, “this is an engagement ring. A temporary one anyway.”
“Why? Are you borrowing it from the jeweler? Or is that an old ring from a broken engagement? If so, I’m not going anywhere near it.” Liz turns up her nose like a spoiled child.
“It’s not from a broken engagement. At least, not that I’m aware of. But it is old. A very, very old family heirloom.”
Liz squints like she’s suspicious. “How old are we talking about?”
“Who knows? Could be ancient. All I know is this was passed down from royalty and has been in my family for over two hundred years.”
“Damn, that’s old.” Liz blinks as if she can’t believe it. “Don’t you want to save this ancient ring for a real fiancée?”
“It’s unlikely there will ever be a real fiancée,” I say, and her lips twitch as she stares at the box in my hand.
“What’s the matter, Liz? Think you can’t handle it?
” I ask, with a hunch that Liz is motivated by the same thing I am—naysayers.
The moment someone suggests I can’t do or have something, that’s the moment I make it mine.
Liz scoffs. Right on time. “Oh, I can handle it.” She snatches the box out of my hand. “Why is this so heavy?” Liz begins to peek open the jewelry box, but I swiftly take it back.
“Uh-uh-uh.” I give her the tsk-tsk finger, only wanting to tease her. Women always go straight for the jewelry.
“What? You want to fake a proposal too?”
“Maybe.” I flick an eyebrow as if I’m about to perform a magic trick, then flick open the box.
The moment I do, my heart skips a beat as if I’m actually about to propose.
How strange to be asking a woman to fake marry me with a very real, rare ring.
Liz slaps her hand to her mouth as she gasps, wide eyes transfixed on the grandiose diamond.
“So here’s the jackpot question, Liz. Will you make me the happiest man in London and be my fake fiancée? ”
Liz’s gaze flings between me and the ring until she finally nods yes.
“Brilliant!” I say, picking up the ring from the box. Who knew something so small could hold so much weight? I take Liz’s hand and slip the ring on her finger. Now, it’s real.
“Wow, it’s so big. And beautiful,” she says, holding her hand up in front of her nose. “And it fits perfectly.”
“Size four and a half. Almost like it was meant for you,” I say. Liz lowers her hand and looks at me, her brown eyes sparkling in the Christmas tree light.
“So it’s official then. We’re really doing this?” It’s as if she didn’t believe it until now. Hell, I feel the same way. There’s nothing like a diamond ring to seal the deal.
“That’s right. You and me, Liz. For better or worse, we’re in this together.” I look her right in the eye and take her hand in mine as if we’re partners in crime. But the touch of her skin gives me an entirely different feeling—less criminal and more honest.
She holds my gaze. Perhaps it’s the wine, the romantic record, or the fact that I just dazzled her hand with an enormous diamond, but we find ourselves slowly inching closer. So close I inhale her sweet scent.
When she doesn’t pull away, I brush her soft hair behind her ear and slide my finger down the slope of her jaw.
Deal or no deal. How can the two of us resist?
Her lips part, and her gaze falls to my mouth.
Then, like a magical wish come true, our lips touch, and I’m ready to imbibe every last drop of her. Of this moment.
Then—Ring, ring!
Liz flings back against the corner of the sofa at the sound of the doorbell. My heart’s pounding in my chest. Who in the bloody hell could that be? Liz looks not only startled but slightly shaken. Well, so much for another kiss. Or more.
I clench my jaw, fuming at whoever has ruined my shot with Liz. “I’ll be right back,” I say and head for the door. By the time I get there, whoever is on the other side is banging their fist against it. I’d like to bang my fist against their cheek.
“Just a moment!” I yell before opening the door.
A familiar woman stands there in her wool coat and dark auburn hair stacked atop her head in an unkempt bun. Not exactly the jerk I was expecting. It’s my cousin.
“Dahlia?” I say.
“Surprise!”