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“I don’t know,” she said, her eyes chasing glimpses of the lake whenever she could get it. “There was something almost ethereal about the winter. The trees, the water, the fog that rolled in each morning.” She sighed. “I really loved it.”
He glanced at her, lips quirking downwards. “We’re on the same page there.” He turned back to the road. “In winter, when there are fewer tourists, the place is perfect.”
“Did you come here with your family?” She asked gently, almost nervously, wondering if he might refuse to answer, before reminding herself that the point of this trip was to get to know each other, for real this time.
“No.” His Adam’s apple shifted. “I bought it after they died.” His voice was wooden. “I didn’t tell anyone about it.”
“Not your family?”
“Especially not my family. When you meet them, you’ll understand why.”
She arched a brow.
“They’re busy bodies,” he snapped. Then flashed a tight grin, as if to signal that he’d intended it as a joke. “They use interference to show love, but I didn’t need kindness or words of compassion. I just wanted to get away, to be on my own.”
She angled her face, considering that. “I was the opposite. I mean, I can see why you’d have wanted to do that, I did too. When my parents died, I wished there was some way I could just stop time so I could deal with what their loss meant to me. But I couldn’t. The boys were young enough to really need me in practical ways, like helping with their lunch boxes and uniforms for school, as well as in emotional ways, developmental ways. They had so much going on, I had to throw myself headfirst into taking care of them. Which left very little time for wallowing.”
“What happened to your parents?” He asked, voice still flat, his own grief heavy between them. He drew the car to a stop and she stared straight ahead, looking out at his house, memories slamming into her.
“My mother had a stroke. Well, a series of strokes, as it turns out, over about a week, but the first were mild enough that she didn’t notice and nor did we. Then, she died. It was awful. Just awful. My dad was heartbroken, quite literally. Shortly after her funeral, he had a massive coronary. I don’t think he wanted to live without her.”
Dante’s hand came out without hesitation, curving over her knee. “That must have been devastating.”
“In so many ways,” she responded, surprised by the way her lower lip trembled and her eyes brightened with tears. She’d become good at speaking about her parents without showing the depth of her grief.
“I wasn’t prepared. Who could be? We were such a normal family. I’d been accepted into the degree I wanted to study; I had to defer, and then eventually let my place at school go.” A tear slid down her cheek.
“You couldn’t have studied and cared for the boys?”
“Not these boys,” she said with a tilt of her lips, fondness for her brothers touching her heart. “They’re great kids, but just way too smart. There was a lot to navigate with them, in high school. I wanted to do it properly, to make sure they were okay.”
Dante moved his hand and her leg felt instantly bereft. He went to open his door and she did likewise but before she could step out of the car, he was there, one hand on the frame, so close to her she lost her breath.
“Thank you for coming here. For agreeing to try to make this work.”
Her heart twisted. Portia had said there was this side to Dante; she just hadn’t expected to see it for herself. Inwardly, a voice issued a stern warning. She couldn’t forget that he was still the same man who’d unceremoniously turfed her and her sprained ankle out after they’d slept together. Like anybody, he had many facets. But if he could find it within himself to be like this, she was glad.
He moved around to the trunk and removed her suitcase. He hadn’t brought one, and of course that made sense, because the house was filled with his things.
“So this place just sits empty most of the time?”
“Yes.”
“What a shame. It’s just so beautiful,” she remarked, eyes raking the wall on this side, which was basically all glass.
They walked towards the front door together, and when he unlocked it and pushed it inwards, he stepped inside, holding the door open for her, which meant Georgia brushed close to him and trembled. Her eyes jolted to his and held so she saw the darkening of his irises, the slight narrowing of his gaze.
“How long did your ankle hurt for?” The question was benign enough, but neither broke eye contact, which lent the words a weird gravity all of their own.
She swallowed past a lump in her throat, remembering that morning, and the way she’d left. “A couple of weeks.”
Did he step closer, or did she? Somehow, they were almost touching. “You should have let me catch you.”
She bit into her lip; his eyes dropped to the gesture. “I think I was afraid.”
“Of me?”
His question whispered through her soul, making obfuscation impossible. “Of something in you. Or something in you that spoke to something in me. I guess I was attracted to you, and I didn’t want to be.”
