Chapter 18 #2
She steps forward. “Hi, I’m Carly. Welcome to Harrods. “You must be Sage. Can we get you some refreshments? A cup of tea or a glass of Cristal?”
The other stylist, Lauren, introduces herself with a warm smile.
She picks up a tablet and swipes it a few times.
“Now, Sage, your fiancé called ahead, so we already have your skin tone and basic body measurements. Looking at you, I’d say you’re a soft Autumn, but I’ll need more information if we’re going to build you a dream wardrobe.
Since you’re getting married, you’ll need clothes for all the events surrounding your big day, too.
Come, sit, and tell me what colors and cuts you prefer to wear while our tailor measures you properly. ”
Soft Autumn?
And how did Troy get my measurements?
I shoot a look at Troy, who suddenly looks like he’d rather be elsewhere. In fact, mid style-questionaire, he makes his excuse to step out to make a few phone calls.
“Do not leave here without me. Call me when you’re done. Actually, just keep hold of my card. I’ll find you.” And then he’s gone, leaving me his gunmetal Meridian Vaults bank card burning holes in his jacket pocket.
For the rest of the afternoon, I’m trapped between Lauren and Carly as they fuss over every part of my body and abuse Troy’s card to death.
When it’s all over, both stylists wish me the best of luck and remind me that the new wardrobe will be delivered tomorrow, then they release me back into the store.
I wander on my own for a bit. I can’t call Troy to come and get me because I don’t have his phone number.
Well, not one that I’m supposed to know.
During the fittings, I hid Troy’s phone and the other items Nola gave me inside my shopping bag, but now they are back down my pants.
With Troy’s jacket, the bulge they make is less visible.
I’m running a hand over a beautiful hand-carved rocking chair when I hear, “You spent over a hundred grand; what more could you possibly need?”
Shit. I didn’t realize it was that much. Lauren and Carly just kept throwing clothing options at me, and to speed things up, I just kept saying yes to it all.
I look over my shoulder to see Troy, working obviously, set up at one of the coffee tables in the furniture section with his laptop and cup of coffee. I’m fairly sure you’re not supposed to do that, but no one seems to have informed him.
“Honestly, I don’t need any of it. You can take it back.”
He raises his brows. “And what would you wear instead?”
I glance down at the clothes that Kathy lent me. “This?”
Troy narrows his eyes. “You look like you made it from curtains.”
“It belongs to Kathy.” It’s a chenille top in a flowery print with matching trousers, neither of which is in my size or my style.
“Well, that explains it. Kathy loves making her clothes from old curtains, especially those from my mother’s old linen chest. I prefer not to have flashbacks of my childhood horror stories when I look at you. In fact, you should take that off and change into one of your new outfits.”
“Why?”
“Because I just spent a hundred grand and I want to see what I paid for. Plus, I really want my jacket back.”
“I-I can’t get undressed here.” I cross my arms, hoping he won’t try to drag the jacket off me
“Is that a challenge?”
Immediately, I regret the choice of words out of my mouth. “Then, how about you don’t look at me.”
He rolls his eyes again, but then he looks me up and down, his gaze drinking me all the way in. I bite my lip. I hate it when he looks at me like that.
No, you love it.
“You’re…hard to miss. Even lost inside my jacket.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Come on. I need a drink.”
I follow Tory to a very glamorous cocktail bar on the ground floor. The host knows Severin by name and even has a table in the corner ready for him.
We each take a seat, and Troy orders himself a White Hart and then looks at me. “Would you like a drink, Sage?”
“Not really.”
He raises a brow. “Not really?”
I don’t want to say my mother wouldn’t allow me, so I smile and choose something called a Sour Temple. When it comes, it’s bright red with glazed fruit on top and tastes like sour cherries. I absolutely love it.
“Another one?” Troy asks when I’ve downed my second.
“I shouldn’t.”
He cocks his head. “You keep saying that. And yet, here we are—two drinks in and no regrets. Imagine the damage you’ll do when you should.”
I look back at Troy Severin, the view of him slightly blurred along with my senses after two drinks on an empty stomach. Why do I never have anything remotely witty to say back?
Because you’re not me. Nell titters.
“Okay then, hit me.” I shove my glass towards the barman, who catches it just in time. That makes me laugh. The barman shakes his head, but he’s smiling too as he takes my empty one away and brings me another.
When I look at Troy again, he’s giving me the strangest look. It makes me so self-conscious that I have to turn away, my fingers having nothing to do but fiddle with the buttons on his jacket.
But not for too long, because I can’t not look.
Troy is too beautiful, and I’m a little bit tipsy, so I don’t care anymore. I go back to staring blatantly at him, but Troy seems lost in his deepest darkest thoughts now, staring into the bottom of his glass. It’s like catching the Devil in mourning.
God, he’s unfairly handsome…all sharp cheekbones and brooding intensity.
With his dirty blonde hair (lighter under the artificial glow) mussed just enough, making him look carelessly gorgeous, like he just woke up and doesn’t care.
The sight of him, all grumpy and melancholy, tugs at my heart, and I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s the words he said earlier, childhood horror stories. He practically admitted that he’s the Swanley heir to me—a boy who lost his entire family. That’s horror enough for anyone.
I keep having to remind myself that he’s the reason they’re gone.
He’s a killer, even if I don’t have proof he killed Nell yet; that skittery feeling I have around him is a big indicator of how scary he is.
I shouldn’t feel sorry for him. He shouldn’t tug at my heart.
I should still be reeling over him attacking me three times since I got to the island.
Three times. Four, if you include the stairs.
But it’s hard. He might be horrid most of the time when he’s at Grayfleet, but when you put him in a place like this, he acts perfectly normal, human even, making you forget he’s a monster.
You only see a mask of polished wealth—until you get closer, and then you notice the rougher edges, the scars.
It makes me want to hug him.
I shouldn’t, though.
And I probably shouldn’t thank him for the clothes and for saving my life the other day, either.
A sigh escapes me. There I go, shouldn’ting again. Even when drunk, I’m censoring myself. I should say what I want to, but the words won’t cross my lips. Instead, something else comes out entirely when I open my mouth.
“Why did you buy Grayfleet if you’re never there?”
Troy’s eyes narrow as they seek me out. “What do you mean, never there?”
I squirm in my seat. “Kathy said you’re hardly ever at home, I mean, usually, you’re not….”
He frowns. “The estate has a complicated history. Like me, I guess. Seemed apt at the time when I was looking for a place to live.”
“Even though it’s dangerous?”
“No more than anywhere else.” There’s an odd silence, and then he adds, “Did you know it wasn’t always an island?” He’s staring intently at me now, no longer off in deep thought.
Like I matter.
Like I’m not invisible.
I shake my head. I didn’t know.
“Used to be part of the floodplain, before they started digging. It was supposed to be a conservation area. But they paid off the council, then dug to excavate the gravel after stripping the estate bare. Now the house is sinking, and the only way to cross the wetlands when it rains is by boat. Which is all the time in this damn country.”
I try to take it all in. “I didn’t know that. Grayfleet isn’t sinking now, though, right?”
He cuts me a look. “Of course not. After I bought it, I had supports put in to stop any more flooding—wait, you didn’t know any of this?”
Why would I? I heard about the conversation efforts, but not the stripping and the sinking. I don’t know what to say, so I shake my head and mumble something like, “What was it like before it was an island?”
“Before? It used to be proper farming fields around the estate. Crops. Cattle. Stud farms. The locals could really live off the land. Pity. Now it’s all water and reedbeds and the money’s in lake views, and holiday homes.
The families who have lived around Fleet for generations have sold up and moved away. ”
“I’m sorry.” And I mean it.
He shrugs. “That’s how business goes. Hopefully, now that there’s no one left, there won’t be any more tragedies.” He lets out a breath and drinks a mouthful of his whiskey.
Tragedies. Like what happened to Nell. My heart pounds as I wonder if this is his way of confessing. I glance at the bottle of White Hart that was unopened when it was brought over. It’s now half full.
“Do you mean the curse?” I ask softly, proud when my voice doesn’t waver.
For the first time since we sat down, Troy’s composure cracks slightly. He stares right at me, eyes slightly glazed from the alcohol.
“There is no curse.”
“But the locals—”
He takes a mouthful of his drink and then sighs. “Fleet loves to make up old wives’ tales and superstitions. You know that, you grew up here.”
I do know that. Bad things always happen in the graveyard of England, especially when people don’t heed warnings.
“Since we were kids, we’ve always crossed ourselves three times before crossing water, or carried lavender or pearls for luck.”
He nods, eyes hooded, mouth in a thin line. “Well, now that you live on an island, crossing yourself three times isn’t going to cut it, apparently.”
“Is that why there’s lavender in every room?”