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“It’s my passion. This is all I’ve ever wanted to do and—”
“No, Claire. This is just nonsense.” She sighs dramatically, like she’s exasperated after dealing with a child. “What you need to do is come home. I expect you in New York next week because I’ve secured you a date with a Rothschild.”
My chest convulses. A bitter rage brews within me, but I don’t let it out in the scream that teases in my throat. I can’t run from my mother forever. She’s already found me here. She foiled my hopes to elope into a loveless marriage once. Why did I ever think I could escape?
“Shall I remind you that I paid for you to go to school in Paris? Hmm? I pandered to your whims and so-called dreams. I gave you a chance to get that silliness out of your mind.”
“No! That money is mine. It is rightfully mine, Mother. It was left to me when my father died.”
She draws in a short sharp breath, cut off with that line of reasoning. She never liked it when I reminded her of the details of my wealth. My father wanted to see to my future up until his death.
“I’ll find a lawyer. Here or in New York.” I bet Dalton and Caleb can still help. I hope they can. “If you don’t leave me alone, if you don’t stop with your matchmaking crap, I’ll find a lawyer and have them deal with you.”
She chortles, a nasty, wicked sound. “I’d like to see you try.”
“You think I’m bluffing?” I stand and pace. “I’m sick of you meddling in my life and trying to dictate what I should do and who I should be with!”
“No lawyer you find will ever get around mine.”
Oh! I grit my teeth, slitting my eyes.
She laughs again, louder, like she’s tolerating a toddler’s tantrum. “The ticket home will be in your emails.”
“I don’t care.”
Her sigh is heavy and dramatic. “Your trust fund had stipulations, dear. You can access it when you marry, and only someone of my choosing. That’s what your father wanted.”
No! My father loved me. I was his only child, the apple of his eye. He cared for me and doted on me the best he could, with my mother trying to rule his personal life. I cannot fathom how he ever would have added such a detail to the will. He set that trust fund up to provide for me, not hinder me and trap me into a situation lacking true love. My mother always put me off when I wanted to see a copy of the will, but hopefully, with Dalton’s help, I can get access to what my father left for me.
I don’t have a chance to argue.
She hangs up, and the click of the disconnected call burns another hole in my battered soul. I refuse to admit defeat. I will not agree with what she claims, but the world presses in on me, rendering me numb and empty. Shell-shocked once again.
I sink to the floor and hug my knees to my chest. With my face smashed against my knees, I steady my breaths and will this hopelessness to fade away.
She can’t win.
It’s a horrible thought I don’t want to allow myself to believe.
But it seems like no matter what I do, with my head or heart ruling me, I can’t win either.
Chapter 19
Sawyer
I do my best to keep busy after I drop Claire off at that luxury cabin. If I’m too idle, if I have too much time to think and second-guess myself, I’ll overwhelm myself with doubt. I leave the trailer where it should be ready for the upcoming workdays, and after that, I head to the construction company’s warehouse to set the supplies out for my crews. Every time I think back to the exact moments when I picked up all the items, though, I’m bombarded with memories of Claire. Of how she smiled at me or how we’d joked about something trivial. She was so animated, talking about her dreams for a custom shop for her bridal gowns, and I fell right back into the rabbit hole of obsessing about her all over again.
Wasting time at the warehouse doesn’t help to distract me, so I head home to shower and prepare for the next day. Nothing’s set on the schedule, just odds and ends of errands and tasks I need to see to at home, and with this morning gone and the afternoon stretching out with too much free time, I struggle to get over her.
Claire is on my mind. She has burrowed her way under my skin, and I can’t dislodge her. If I zone out, I’ll recall the image of her naked on that bed, open and willing and trusting me. If I turn up the radio as I tidy up my condo, I’ll think back to how each time she moaned or growled my name made me that much harder.
“Dammit.” I toss my phone to the couch and drop my head back against the headrest.
Nothing I can do will pull me from thinking about her, and I know that’s clearly a bad sign.
I open my eyes and scowl at my living room; all the details of the modern and minimalistic layout a blur I don’t notice. Jason never fails to tease me about my residence. It’s all modern, with sleek angles and gray tones. Nothing rustic or earthy, which, according to him, is expected from an outdoorsman like me.
It’s not just the mere thought of her that is irritating me. If I’m being honest, she’s been on my mind since the day I met her. It’s the way I left her. The way I went overboard in setting up boundaries between us the morning after I ravished her.
