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My parents could have picked worse for me.
But now they’d thrown a spanner in the works, all because they got greedy. Well, my mother had. I suspected my father may have put up a little resistance, but my mother always had the final say. She cared far too much about money and what others thought of her.
With everything that had happened back at the house, I hadn’t given myself a chance to understand why they’d borrowed money from Jacob. They’d never once indicated that we were short of money. In fact, my mother came home almost every day with new purchases after a shopping spree, her bags filled with designer clothes, handbags, and shoes.
Before I could stop myself, I twisted to face Jacob, his dark gaze focused on me just like I had thought. “Why did my parents borrow money from you?”
“Because they’re broke,” Jacob replied with zero hesitation. “Your father’s company went bust two years ago, but your mother kept spending money as if it was still rolling in. She couldn’t bear to face her friends and admit that she didn’t have any money.”
My brows lifted sky high. My father’s business went bust? My mind worked overtime to piece the last few years of my life together, yet there wasn’t a single indication that he’d not only lost his job, but the printing company too.
“How?” I asked, more to myself.
Truthfully, I wouldn’t have been upset if we lost our wealth. Maybe then, my parents would have cared less about their social standing, and more about their daughter’s happiness.
“I couldn’t tell you.” Jacob shrugged, his tone still void of any emotion. “All I know is that they approached my father to borrow the money; he’s an acquaintance of your parents. When he wouldn’t lend them a single dollar, they came to me, and I foolishly said yes. And you know the rest.”
“Yeah,” I scoffed. “They’d rather hand their own daughter over to a stranger than admit to their friends that they don’t have any money.”
I glanced back at the window so that Jacob couldn’t see the tears forming in my eyes, but I didn’t know if they were tears of anger or tears of hurt. Likely both. The faces of my parents flashed in my head, and a wave of betrayal flowed through me like a steady stream.
“I don’t want to be a stranger, Charlotte.”
“I don’t know you,” I replied, refusing to look at him despite a strange invisible pull to want to face him.
“You will, though, angel. Give it time.” At my continued silence, he added, “I’m sorry for what they’ve done to you.”
Frustration boiled over, and my head whipped in his direction. “I’m sure you are,” I hissed, brushing the back of my hand against my cheek to wipe away a stray tear. “What do you want from me anyway?”
Jacob’s gaze roamed over my face as if he were committing every inch of my features to memory. “I don’t think you’re ready to know that, angel. Not yet.”
My brows furrowed at his reply. What sort of reply was that? “Try me.”
His deep brown eyes held mine, a million emotions passing through them that I couldn’t understand. Tentatively, he reached out and took my hand, and for reasons I would never understand, I allowed it.
My heart fluttered at the warmth of his hand and his gentle touch, and for several seconds, I forgot how to breathe. I tracked his thumb as it ran over my knuckles, but when he started speaking, I met his heated stare.
“Angelus meus. Omnia a te volo. Cor tuum, mentem tuam, corpus tuum, et animam tuam volo. Quotidie in pulchritudine et luce tua perfusus degere volo. Te volo me servare ne in perpetuas tenebras incidam in quibus vixi donec te inveni. Causa esse volo cur mane expergiscaris, et causa esse volo cur proximum spiritum ducas. Omnia tua esse volo. Sicut tu mea es.”
I gaped at him, clueless as to what he’d just said, but with the way he had said it, like he was confessing his love for me, I was unable to look away.
“What language was that?” I whispered when I finally remembered how to speak.
“Latin.”
“Oh.”
He grinned, deep dimples popping in his cheeks and sending my heart into a frantic rhythm. “I speak several languages, angel.”
“And what did you say?”
“I promise I will tell you when you are ready to hear it.”
He raised my hand, placing a small kiss on the back of it, and when he released it again, I pulled it back, confused as to why I felt bereft of his touch. I stroked my fingers over the back of my hand where he had laid a kiss, the skin tingling, and for several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Inhaling a deep breath in hopes it would calm me, I instantly regretted it when his masculine scent filled my nose, a mix of sea salt and spices. A shiver traveled along the length of my spine, my stomach tightening as my core clenched.
How could a man smell so damn intoxicating?
