Page 99

I hope.

28

LUCIEN

The drive to Charleston takes just under two hours, and Cameron is quiet for most of it.

His discomfort is evident in the way he keeps his hands folded in his lap and stares out the window at the passing landscape without really seeing it. I know he’s thinking about Gwen. About meeting her in person. About the fact that the girl whose pictures I used to catfish him is about to become real.

I should say something, acknowledge and reassure him, then tell him it’s going to be fine.

But I don’t because if I acknowledge it, I have to face the possibility that what we have could shatter the moment she walks into the room. That all the trust we’ve built could collapse when Cameron sees her face and remembers what I did.

So I drive in silence. One hand on the wheel. The other resting on Cameron’s thigh.

He doesn’t pull away. I give him a squeeze every so often and stroke the inside of his leg. I hope it soothes him. He still stares out the window, not saying much.

The wrought-iron gate on Church Street is tall and elegant with the Ashford family crest worked into the metal. I punch in the code and the gate swings open, revealing the garden path that leads to the front entrance.

Cameron adjusts in his seat, taking it all in.

The garden is immaculate, even in winter. Boxwoods trimmed into perfect spheres. Camellias blooming pink and white. The brick path lined with gas lanterns that flicker in the fading afternoon light.

“This is where you grew up?” Cameron asks quietly.

“Part of the time,” I say. “When I wasn’t at school.”

I pull the Range Rover into the porte-cochère and park.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

“You okay?” I ask.

Cameron nods.

I reach over and squeeze his hand. “It’s going to be fine.”

He doesn’t answer.

The front door opens before we reach it, and my mother is standing there with her arms already outstretched.

“Lucien, hi, honey.”

My mom is striking. Dark hair swept up in a loose chignon. Creamy skin that barely shows her age. She’s wearing a cashmere sweater and tailored pants that make her look effortlessly elegant. Her voice is dripping with a Charleston accent.

“I swear you’re taller,” she exclaims.

I grin. “Maybe you’re shrinking.”

She turns her attention to Cameron.

“And you must be Cameron,” she says. “I’m so glad Lucien was able to make such good friends at St. Silas.”

Cameron manages a smile, though I can see the tension in his shoulders. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Ashford.”

“Oh, please, call me Caroline.” She steps back, looking between us. “Are you boys hungry? Do you want anything to drink? I can have Alan make something.”

“No, we’re good. Mom, we’ve got bags in the car.”