Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Ileaned my head back against the seat, my eyes closed, savoring the warmth of the evening sun on my face, pleasantly drowsy after an unbelievable meal at a restaurant that made me feel like the most important person in the room—something I’d never experienced until meeting Whit.
“You’re smiling,” Whit said after we’d been driving in contented silence for a while. “I hope that means you enjoyed dinner.”
I opened my eyes and turned toward him, my smile widening. “It was amazing. Thank you. But it was really the company I loved most.”
He brought my hand to his lips for a brief kiss. “Are you ready for your surprise?”
I sat up straighter, wondering what he could possibly have in store. “Absolutely!”
“We should be there soon,” he assured me.
It was then that I realized we were driving through a remote area that looked like something straight out of the travel magazines I would flip through over and over at the library when I was a kid, dreaming of faraway places, sandy beaches, and breathtaking views of the ocean that stretched out endlessly.
We traveled for several more miles before Whit turned off onto a private road that wound through thick foliage until it opened up to a stunning three-story house.
Although built in a style reminiscent of another time, it was clearly modern.
Surrounded by palm trees, with a patio that spanned the width of the house and another deck in the second story, the house looked like it was meant to host elegant Charleston parties where guests sipped mint julips and chatted about the weather and the latest society gossip.
Yet as charming and welcoming as it was, the house still somehow seemed lonely.
“Where are we?” I asked as Whit parked in the circular drive.
He stared at the house for a moment before answering, “My house.”
I said nothing as Whit led me up the stairs, seeing the house with new eyes. When he opened the door, I gasped in awe at the grand spiral staircase, the crystal chandelier in the foyer, the art that was both modern and classic at once.
It was remarkable. And everywhere I looked, I saw touches of his personality.
“This is stunning,” I breathed, turning in a full circle.
“Come,” he said, grinning. “Let me show you around.”
Although all the other rooms were just as beautiful as the foyer, nothing compared to the view.
Whit led me through a massive second-floor library to French doors that opened onto a terrace with a magnificent view of the ocean.
I drifted toward the railing, my breath catching as the sunset painted the sky in an explosion of color.
Whit came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist.
“Whit,” I breathed. “This…”
“I thought you might like it,” he whispered near my ear.
“I’ve always dreamed of living close enough to the ocean to see a sunset like this, hear the waves crashing,” I confessed.
“I know,” he murmured. “You told me once.”
I turned enough to see his face. “I did?” I asked, frowning. “I don’t remember telling you that.”
He glanced down, caught my gaze briefly, then returned his attention to the sunset. “I remember. As soon as you said it, I knew I’d have to bring you here.”
I remembered what Henry had said about being happy at Whit’s house. Had he dreamed about Whit bringing me here? Or was it just a coincidence? “Don’t suppose you have a spire, do you?”
Whit looked at me curiously. “No. Not on this house. Why?”
I snuggled back against him, smiling contentedly. Even if this wasn’t the house in Henry’s dream, I was definitely happy. “No reason.”
As the sunset eventually slipped toward twilight, Whit stepped back and took my hand, leading me toward a small table I hadn’t even noticed.
Candles in the center threw shadows onto the white tablecloth, the flames dancing eerily in the gentle breeze.
Two plates covered by silver domes sat beside a set of delicate wine glasses and champagne flutes.
From within the library, soft music drifted out to the terrace.
“Where did these come from?” I asked with a surprised laugh.
“Butler,” Whit said offhandedly, pulling out my chair. “He’s nothing if not discreet.” He then lifted the silver dome with a flourish. “Your dessert, mademoiselle.”
My eyes widened. On the plate were three exquisite desserts that looked too beautiful to eat. “What are these?”
“Dark chocolate torte with pistachio crumble,” he said, pointing to the dense triangle of chocolate. “Rhubarb and orange trifle there in the glass. And the last is my personal favorite—strawberry mille-feuille.”
He then poured wine and champagne for each of us. “I hope you like these,” he said. “I chose them myself.”
“I’m sure I’ll love them then,” I told him. I lifted my champagne flute and took a sip, closing my eyes to better enjoy the experience, delighted by crisp bubbles that tickled my tongue. I grinned and licked my lips. “Delicious.”
When I opened my eyes again, he was still standing beside the table, his expression a smoldering blend of pleasure and desire. “Indeed.”
We took our time with dessert, the wine and champagne making me a little bolder than usual. Questions I’d been hesitant to ask no longer felt off-limits.
“This house is beautiful,” I mused. “But it seems so sad, so lonely, Whit. Do you live here alone?”
He leaned back in his chair, draping his elbow over the back, and turned his attention to the ocean. “Yes, except for staff. But I rarely see them. I’d always hoped to have a wife and children here to fill the house with love and laughter. Things I didn’t experience growing up.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “I can’t imagine Mr. Monty not being a loving father.”
Whit grunted dismissively. “I told you before, my father was not the saint you imagine, Zellie. I have no doubt he loved me in his own way, but I was raised by nannies and tutors, with an occasional visit from dear old Dad when he wasn’t traveling on family business or enjoying his latest conquest.”
This was all entirely at odds with the Montgomery Proffitt I’d known—a man who was kind, genuine, caring. “How could your dad and the man I knew be so different?”
Whit swirled his wine thoughtfully before answering.
“I was a disappointment,” he finally said.
“I wasn’t interested in the traditions that mattered so much to him.
I didn’t care about preserving his legacy.
And I certainly didn’t give a damn about my stepmothers who were barely around long enough to get to know, let alone care about. ”
“How many did you have?” I asked. “Stepmothers, I mean.”
Whit shrugged. “I stopped counting.”
“I thought my mom was bad with her boyfriends,” I murmured. “Was he still married when he died?”
Whit shook his head. “Widowed. His wife Jessamine died after they’d only been married a few years.”
“Jessamine?” I repeated, the unusual name tugging at something in my memory.
“Heard of her, have you?” he asked, catching something in my expression. Before I could respond, he added, “June and Earl don’t talk much about their daughter, so I wasn’t sure if they’d mentioned her.”
I shook my head, then asked, “So, Addie…?”
“Is my sister,” he said, lifting his glass and finishing off his wine. “June still hasn’t forgiven my father for Jessamine’s death, nor me by extension, I suppose.”
When Whit didn’t elaborate on what he meant, I let it drop, though what he’d shared explained the tension I’d sensed between him and June.
By the time we finished dessert, stars filled the sky, reminding me how remote we were. Even the location of the house felt lonely and withdrawn. When Whit took my hand and turned to lead me inside, I instead pulled him gently toward me and took his face in my hands.
“You’ve been lonely too long, Whit,” I told him softly. “But you don’t have to be lonely anymore.”
I pulled him down to press a kiss to his lips, but that one kiss turned into another and another until we were lost in each other. At some point, we began to sway together to the music that still drifted out from the library, my head resting against his chest.
I don’t know how long we danced under the stars before by unspoken agreement, we finally stepped apart. And this time when he took my hand, I let him lead me inside, through the library and down the hall. But as we passed one of the rooms, I released his hand and wandered inside.
The furniture was dark, masculine, the stark white walls and deep blue bedding and rugs a striking contrast. But there was also an airiness to the décor, the ocean breeze coming in from open French doors lifting the white gauzy bed curtains in a hypnotic ballet.
I immediately realized it was Whit’s bedroom.
I don’t know how. I just knew, like I’d been there before—perhaps in one of my many dreams of him. Had they actually been prophetic and not just fantasy?
I swallowed hard, erotic memories of my dreams rushing back to me.
“Zellie?”
Whit had entered the room and stood just inside the doorway, his hands deep in his pockets, his brows drawn together as if struggling against the urge to move forward, to embrace what was before him for fear of what the wrong move might cost him.
But I was tired of struggling, of denying what I wanted, what I needed.
I said nothing. Instead, I slipped one of the dress straps from my shoulder and then the other, letting the dress slide down my body.
“Zellie,” he said, his voice rough, “I didn’t bring you here expecting anything from you.”
I held out a hand to him. “I know.”