Chapter Nine
721 Words
The east bedroom had not been where she ended up.
She woke in his room— the master suite with its pale gray walls and tall windows— to early light and the sound of London beginning its morning, and the warm, solid reality of Julian beside her, his arm loose around her waist, his breathing still deep and even.
She held very still.
He was different like this. She’d been with the CEO, the strategist, controlled man in his controlled house— but last night she’d been with someone who lost control, who said her name like it was the only word he trusted, who touched her with a thoroughness and a care that made her feel like being truly seen for the first time.
She was, she realized, in serious trouble.
He woke the way he did most things: all at once. His eyes opened and found her immediately, like he’d known exactly where she was.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning.”
A pause. Neither of them moved.
“I should— she started
“Stay,” he said. Quiet, unperformed . Not an order but a request.
She stated.
He made coffee— she hadn’t known he could; she’d assumed the kitchen was Mrs. Patton’s sovereign territory— and they sat at his window with their cups and the city below and silence was not awkward. It was the most comfortable silence she’d experienced in this house.
“Tell me something about yourself,” he said.
She looked at him, surprised.
“We’ve been married for five weeks,” he said,
“I know your sister’s name and that you reorganize things when you’re thinking, and that you take your coffee with half a spoon of sugar. I’d like to know more.”
Something warm moved through her. “You noticed the sugar.”
“I notice most things.” He set down his cup.
“Tell me.”
She told him about studying business at Salamanca because her father had wanted someone to take over and Isabel had always been more interested in art. About the years of quietly making herself indispensable at the Mendez Group while Isabel charmed rooms and Cara fixed whatever Isabel left untidy. About the apartment in Madrid she had saved for and the life she’d been building there before the call came to put on the dress and walk down the aisle.
He listened. He asked questions— precise, genuine questions, the kind that showed he was actually tracking what she said.
“You gave it all up,” he said.
“For now.”
“No.” His eyes were steady. “You have it all up. Your apartment, your job, your plans for a company that’s not even yours.”
She held his gaze. “It’s my family.”
“Most people with your capabilities wouldn’t have.”
“Most people haven’t met my father.”
He was quiet a moment. “I admire that,” he said. “I should have said it sooner.”
She felt the weight of those words from this man.
“Tell me something about yourself,” she said.
His mouth curved— the rare curve. “My coffee order.”
“Something real.”
He looked out at the city. A moment passed.
“I’ve been running this company since I was twenty- four,” he said. “My father built it but he was — absent. In the ways that matter. After my mother died, he ran the company instead of raising his son, and I watched that and I decided the company would not do that to me.” A pause. “And then it did. I’ve spent fifteen years doing exactly what I swore I wouldn’t. Building instead of living.”
She felt the weight of it— the particular loneliness of a person who has been successful and knows it isn’t enough.
“You could do both,” she said.
“Could I.”
“You made coffee this morning.”
He looked at her.
“That’s something,” she said.
He shook his head, but the curve was still there. “Cara.”
“Hmm.”
“You’re the most confounding person I’ve ever met.”
She lifted her cup. “I know.”
- Writer
