Chapter Fourteen
Crystal Clear
Lincoln
Ebony wanted to kiss me again.
I saw it burning in her bright hazel eyes. Right out in the open, in the middle of that parking lot where anyone and everyone could see, she looked at me like she needed me to be the one to step up this time, and I really wanted to.
Jesus , for all that is good and holy in this world, the urge to tug her flush to my body and feel her soft skin, her tender lips moving greedily against mine—it was there. In spades.
But I just kept asking myself, What are you going to do about it, Linc?
And the answer wasn’t, Fuck it! Just kiss her until she ’s teetering on the edge of release. Take her, out here, so all of Ellswood can see I’m damn good enough for her.
No. Nah.
Instead, a highlight reel flashed behind my eyelids, burning into my skull. I could see it—that look Ebony gave me when she saw me standing there in the crowd at Whisk & Whistle. Her eyes seared me, full of hurt and humiliation. She didn’t need to say a word.
I already knew.
And then the fury that followed—molten rage clenched my fists, made my knuckles ache as I watched that bastard’s hand on her. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to lunge at him. But I just stood there like I had nowhere else to be, no one else to be with.
Alexis’s disappointment felt like a physical weight pressing down on me as I muttered some hollow excuse as to why I needed to step away. I was supposed to be over Ebony. I promised myself I would be. But here I am, still torn between loyalty and that damn ache in my chest that refuses to die.
Whatever happens next between Ebony Grace Livingston and me, it’s got to be her move.
I won’t be her fallback. My intentions have always been plain. I’ve made my moves. The next has to be hers.
So, for the last week, I’ve been giving her space—as much as I can with us both at the manor. In the meantime, working on the finishing touches for the wedding party suites with the crew is helping me keep my distance.
“Wallpaper is going to make all the difference.” Vincent takes wide strides across the room, his hands framing the visual he’s painting for Manny and me.
“Think about taking that unfortunate rosebud motif and magnifying it so it gives us a bold, original pattern. That way, it makes the space feel cozier, warmer. Still historically accurate, but surprisingly contemporary.”
Neither of us says a word.
My budget is tight enough as it is. Exorbitantly priced wall rosebuds? When I’m already cutting corners to update restrooms, relocate poorly placed outlets, and add more lighting? Yeah, that’s not in cards.
Vincent sucks in a deep breath and holds it, visibly incensed.
“Listen, I’m going to need verbal feedback here, and now.
It’s already mid-July, honey. We’ve got a couple months left, and I don’t do half-assed, so…
” He drags in a deep breath. “Let’s just say, with your input, I’d like to finalize this as soon as possible. ”
Okaaay.
“Well, are there cheaper—”
He tilts his head, impatience smoothing his expression.
“Bridges, honey, we’ve got to be decisive, and beautiful things cost money.
Right now, we’ve got botanicals, but if that’s not budget-friendly, say that.
I’ve got less elaborate wall coverings, from damasks to large-scale murals, medallions, and paints.
Don’t even get me started on fabrics, baby, because silk is just the beginning of the textiles I can—”
CRASH!
The commotion came from downstairs, but Manny, Vincent, and I freeze, listening for movement to pinpoint which room the sound originated in.
At first, the entire manor seems still. Then a stampede of footsteps and voices groan through the floorboards.
The three of us dash into the hall and quickly descend the stairs, following the jumble of chatter until we enter the grand ballroom, and my heart stalls at the double doors.
“Mr. Bridges, we don’t know what happened. They just fell,” one of the guys says.
“We can fix it, no?” asks another.
I walk slowly to the center of the room and crouch down, mentally scouring my contacts to determine where I can, first, find a skilled artisan from whom I can source a half-dozen matching nineteenth-century hand-cut chandelier crystals that’ll preserve the original craftsmanship and historical accuracy of this piece.
But then this savior’s got to fit us in—and complete the work—in less than eight weeks.
Give me a break.
“Can someone get me a drop cloth?” I groan.
A horrified gasp sounds behind me, and all I can do is close my eyes.
“ Oh my goodness!” Ebony scurries into the ballroom and drops to her knees at the perimeter of the broken glass. “The legend—”
“Is still intact. I’m sure of it,” I say, with more confidence than I actually feel, taking the cloth from Manny and gently gathering the fragments.
“It’s lasted a few centuries. We’ll replace these crystals and preserve the authenticity, just the same as the wood and plasterwork throughout the manor. ”
Ebony looks at me, her eyes pleading, as if she’s asking if I’m certain.
“I’ve got an entire list of trade craftsmen.” I give her a reassuring nod, smiling. “I promise, I’m going to reach out to them right now.” And pray someone can work magic .
Relief sags her shoulders. “Thank you. It’ll really mean a lot to Hailey.”
“And Ellswood’s history,” I add, softly. “I want to preserve the legend as much as you do.”
For a beat, she stares at me, as if she’s reading the truth in my words.
She knows what it’s been like for me—constantly relegated by the likes of the Livingstons to the outskirts of this community my ancestors built.
Always fighting against the grain to preserve our history, reclaim my identity before they erase us completely.
“I know how important this is to you.” Ebony gives me a small smile.
She walks back to the billiard room with me, where I’ve been working lately. And, of course, my desk is buried underneath blueprints and piles of textiles that Vincent’s forcing me to wade through to “feel the richness” of the fabric.
Ebony laughs. “You can take the mess out of the office, but, uh…”
“Hey, I know it looks like chaos, but it’s organized.
” I chuckle, scrambling to remove the clutter on top of my laptop, shoving fabric, tassels, and motivational paint swatches out of the way like I can pretend this isn’t the most usual state of my desk since—well, since she walked into my office in the Sterling building.
Once I’ve cleared the surface, Ebony settles on the edge, crossing her legs and giving me a glimpse of her smooth bronze thighs.
“…hard.”
My attention snaps up, guiltily. I gulp. “Wh-what did you say?”
“Working hard ,” she repeats, giggling, absolutely at my expense. “I mean, aside from the fact that a centuries-old legend might be in jeopardy, the whole place is really looking great, Linc.”
She knows what she does to me.
“Thanks.” I laugh. “Always working hard. But, uh, let me see who I can reach about the chandelier…”
Grateful for the distraction, I flip open my laptop, quickly scanning my glazier contacts who’ve worked on glass repairs for me in the past.
In the first five minutes, my go-to lady asks for a picture, which Ebony eagerly supplies, along with a snapshot of the carnage inside the drop cloth. My lady takes one look, then immediately wishes me luck because, apparently, I’m going to need it.
I didn’t know how right she was.
The second person at least gives me a name for it—nineteenth-century Georgian-style cut-crystal chandelier, handcrafted in England somewhere between 1860 and 1880—which would have been super helpful, if he wasn’t set on buying it from me instead of selling me replacement crystals.
By the sixth artisan—a referral from the third craftsperson—I’ve got two more offers, a handful of best wishes, and it’s feeling like I’ll be stepping out on a wish and prayer.
Until the sixth artisan says she knows a guy.
Don’t we all.
Except I look him up, and lo and behold, the guy is legit.
Bonus, he’s a specialized artisan who both understands and values historical integrity.
And double bonus, he lives in Dawsonville—that’s roughly a ninety-minute drive from Atlanta.
So easily less than two hours from Ellswood.
Most importantly, he schedules me for a same-day service appointment in two weeks, on Saturday, August second.
That leaves over a month before the wedding, just in case anything comes up and we need to make other arrangements—so what if my budget is busted?
“Sounds like you’re headed on a road trip!” Ebony hops off the desk, rounds the corner, and leaps into my arms, and I don’t even care because it feels like a win.
The legend of the chandelier lives!
But as I set her back on her feet, the air crackles with electricity.
I settle on the edge of the desk, my heart crashing like cymbals against my ribcage.
And then she steps between my thighs, clasping her hands behind my neck, searching my eyes.
“You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about dating.
” She pauses, and her gaze briefly slips to my lips before she meets my eyes again.
“The first one was…not it. Let’s put it that way.
” She laughs. “The next one wanted to hire me, and I’m starting to wonder if The Divorcétante Chronicles is bringing all the weirdos out of the woodwork. ”
I swallow, unsure where she’s going with this, or if she’s even aware how wrong it feels to talk about other men with her face only inches from mine.
Either way, I just go with it.
“Could be.” I shrug.
“At this point, I think I’m out of practice.” She eases closer still until her warm, sultry scent leaves me dizzy. “How would I even know if a man is really into me?”
“He’d have to be a fool not to be.”