Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
FERN
O f course, I don’t realize I had fallen asleep until I hear Elliot’s husky voice waking me up gently. “We’re here. Let’s get down, and then you can go back to sleep.”
“Mmm?”
As usual, it’s impossible to structure cohesive words when his musky, woodsy scent is around. As I open my eyes, his stormy gaze focuses on me. “Hey, how are you feeling?”
I shrug, straightening myself and looking around. We’re on some kind of patio or… we’re not outside my house, that’s for sure. “Where is here?”
“My place,” he mumbles.
“You could’ve just dropped me?—”
He squeezes the wheel tightly with both hands before saying, “Can you do me a favor, Fern?”
“Yeah?” I might, after you stop being so hot and thoughtful and… why do I want to have sex with him again?
“Let me take care of you, sweetheart.”
I’m almost breathless. He wants to what ? I can do it myself. How dare he use his smoldering voice to… I’m an independent woman who doesn’t need anything or anyone. He’s asking a lot from me. Any other female would jump into his arms and say, please. Not me. I can look after myself.
“That’s not necessary.”
“Humor me,” he says, getting down from the truck.
When I look out the window, I notice the palms and the lack of buildings. There’s no Golden Gate Bridge around or— “Where are we?”
“Home,” he says, opening the truck’s passenger door. “I didn’t want you to cancel your weekend by the ocean because of motion sickness.”
That’s sweet, but I should ask him to take me home. It’s not like I don’t want to be with him. It’s that… what if I never want to leave him?
Scanning the areas, I spot a three-level Tuscan-style villa just a few feet away. It’s gorgeous. If we weren’t in California, I’d believe he transported me to Italy. This isn’t a small house but a mansion.
“Who lives here?” Then I remember he said home. “You surf couches but own a big ass house? My entire family could live here.”
He flinches.
Something is off, and before I set foot in the house, I need to know more about him.“Who are you?”
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants. “No one, really.”
“I have the feeling that you’re more than just a nobody jumping from one country to another.” I study him, and I wish I knew him better.
Why lie and make me believe that he can’t hold a job or…
I exhale slowly, trying to figure out what to ask. It’s something I learned while my siblings were teenagers. You ask the right questions, not the logical ones. “Did North Bay donate their time and resources, or did you pay them?”
“Does it matter?”
It’d be such a cliché to say I feel like I don’t know him, but actually, I don’t know much about him. He hides a lot about himself and his origins. I tried to google him, and nothing appeared. He doesn’t have a digital print, which is absurd because those aren’t easy to erase.
Unless you know the right people. Maia hides her private life and ensures people have just enough information about her.
I cross my arms. “Do you really know the owner of the construction company?”
He nods and tilts his head toward the entrance. “Can we go inside first?”
Reluctantly I follow him. It’d be ungrateful to ask him to take me home when he rescued me from the yacht—and the twins’ big bash. We’ll have a quiet dinner at my place on Monday followed by homemade cake, which I promised to bake.
When I enter, I’m in love with the house. There’s so much light, high ceilings, terracotta tile flooring, and rustic furniture. The place is cozy and inviting.
“This house is gorgeous, and it smells like the ocean and new. Did you just buy it?”
“It’s not new, but no one has lived here.”
“But it’s yours,” I don’t ask, just state what I assume is a fact. “When did you buy it?”
“In theory, it is mine, and I didn’t buy it. I built it.”
It feels like one of those times when my siblings find a loophole to explain why they lied. “You’re not making sense.”
“The lot was for sale. I could picture the perfect house for it. Building is my passion, and sometimes I use it as my hobby. I purchased it right away. Though I brought in some people to work on a few things, like the foundation, plumbing, and roof, I did most of the construction myself. After I finished it, I decided to furnish it. I planned on selling it, but many things happened in between, and I never got to do it.”
I look around, taking in the big windows looking at the ocean, the patio built to entertain, and the surfboards organized on a rack. “Who surfs?”
He taps his chest a couple of times. “I did—do. I stopped some time ago, but while I was working on the Brentwood project, I had the need to go back to it. I drop by early in the morning before I go to work, or… I find the time.”
The place is perfect for a family. A vacation home away from the city. Why not use it, unless… “Were you planning to move in with your wife?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all.”
His breathing makes me wonder if he’s having trouble with his past, the present, or this house. There’s a meaning or a memory here. What is it?
I don’t want to push him, but I have to know more. “What are you hiding? Who are you hiding from?”
He gives me a sad smile. “I’m hiding from my past, family, and probably the future.”
The pain in his voice almost shatters my heart. I want to hug him and promise him that everything will be fine. That he can be himself and try to build a new life. But I can’t because I avoid life and messy entanglements like him.
I’m just better at pretending that I have my act together and am willing to take risks. But I’m not. I want to ask what his wife did to him.
Instead, I go with, “So you’re an architect and used to own a construction company. You’re friends with whoever owns North Bay?”
“It’s my company,” he mumbles.
My jaw slackens, and I adjust it before it falls to the ground. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
So, Elliot McPhee is filthy rich. He’s part of the one percent, but he’s pretending that he doesn’t have a cent to his name. I don’t know why I’m upset with him.
I’m so fucking mad.
“What else do you own? The coffee shop where we met?” I snap at him. “You’re a liar.”
I move back and forth from the foyer all the way to the kitchen and back. Then, I stop and look at him. No, I glare at him. I’m fuming. “You know everything about my family. The least you could do is tell me who you are, be honest. You lied to us.”
He lets out a breath. “I don’t go around telling people who I am unless it’s strictly necessary. Like when Gatsby called to ask why the fuck I wanted to work on that project as a volunteer when I owned North Bay. He understood my motives.”
“Wait, Gatsby knows?”
He nods.
“I’m going to fucking kill him. Why couldn’t he trust me? Why didn’t you trust me?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time. If I told you who I was, you wouldn’t be asking for more.” He shrugs.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“You have trouble asking people for help. I tried to make it easier by remaining anonymous.”
I point an accusatory finger at him. “You lied to me. I don’t know who you are.”
“Elliot McPhee. Former CEO of North Bay Construction.”
“I need more than that.”
He goes into the kitchen, pulls out a glass from the cupboard, and pours water. He gives it to me. “Stay hydrated. Let me cook something while I tell you my story.”
I peek at the fridge when he opens it and it’s full. “I thought you said no one lives here.”
“No one does, but knowing that I’d be coming, I made sure someone stocked the fridge and put out fresh towels.”
Who has people at their beck and call? My brothers. “You’re filthy rich,” I repeat.
“I’m comfortable, just like you.”
“Nope. My family has money. I don’t,” I argue.
He sighs the same way my brothers do when we bicker about the Spearman wealth. “We’re not getting into that discussion right now. What do you want to eat?”
“Fresh fruit and your story,” I answer automatically.
“My story.”
“Yes, including what you hide from everyone.”