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His brow knitted. "Never?"
I chuckled. "Never." I moved around him and toward the walk-in cooler. A final thought came to mind, and I spun, pointing a finger at him. “Oh Billy?"
"Yes?" he asked weakly.
"Don't hurt these kids. They fall in love easily. I don't give a damn if you stay or go, but don't hurt them." I stared him down until he nodded, held the eye contact until I was sure he understood, then I pulled open the door to the cooler and stepped in.
Chapter 12
Three months after our first official date, I ran my hands lightly through Brant's hair, his steady breathing forecasting a better night of sleep than I would be getting. He was beautiful at rest. The thick brush of his lashes. The bones of his face that created the perfect canvas. Brilliance and beauty all rolled into one.
I didn't understand why I was his first relationship. Once he completed his journey into manhood, why had he continued to use escorts for sex? Why didn’t he have any friends, any real ties to anyone other than his parents and Jillian? It didn't make sense, especially because he seemed custom-built for a relationship.
He wasn't perfect. I'd found some flaws. He got distracted, didn't always listen to conversations, or plans, had a memory that would qualify him for pharmaceutical help. Just last week, he’d missed another date. Just hadn't shown up at all, his cell phone going unanswered until the next morning, when he provided a weak excuse about falling asleep at his desk. A different man, I would have suspected of cheating. But Brant made it clear early on where his focus lied. Work and me. Nothing else, no one else. The man's dedication was impressive, might have even been alarming, had I not been gunning for a relationship with both throttles wide open. I had no other men waiting in my wings. I’d ended any casual flings after our first real date. Every tool in his shed was superior by two to any other suitor. And my interest had been heightened by the fact that his aunt would pay seven figures just to keep me away.
I loved that he was different than the men of my past. He didn't have the cloak of aristocracy, wasn’t aloof or snooty, and didn’t care if we played by society's rules or wrote our own. In three months together, we had created an igloo of sorts in San Francisco society. Our relationship was a haven of two, a place where I felt comfortable saying 'screw it.' My world was expanding, my boundaries blurring, and I was moving in the right direction toward happiness. Brant, in his oblivion to anything but work and us, was pulling me there.
Love? The word hadn't been verbalized yet, but it was coming. In our eyes, touches, in the affection. But both of us were cautious, guarding our virgin hearts with ineffective hands. I kept reminding myself that it had only been three months since I’d finally returned his call and we’d both dove headfirst into this relationship.
I rolled to the side, breaking the view of his beautiful profile and turned around until my body fit into the curve of his, his arm tightening around me as he sighed into the back of my neck.
It didn’t make sense. He was too perfect. How was I the first woman to tie him down?
In the morning, we were driving two hours up the coast to meet his parents. Maybetheywere the reason my perfect boyfriend was still a bachelor. Maybe they were satanic and would ask for a sample of my skin. Maybe they were doomsday preppers who would teach me to can vegetables and show me their collection of guns. Brant didn't say much about them, his primary point of contact being Jillian. The internet provided even less. But maybe they were the reason for his singledom. I pressed a soft kiss to Brant's forearm and tried to go to sleep.
* * *
"Would you care for more lemonade?" The delicate lilt of Gloria Sharp caused me to lift my eyes.
"No, thank you." I took a sip and set the glass down, trading glassware for silverware, and cut a small piece of chicken and placed it in my mouth.
Food. The excuse we all had to avoid talking. I chewed slowly, grateful for the action. To put it mildly, the Sharps seemed unaccustomed to company. They stared at me as if I was a new species, on display at a museum, and looked frequently between Brant and me, as if trying to put the pieces together in a puzzle that didn't match.
Brant stood, his plate in hand, and leaned over to kiss the top of my head. "Excuse me for a moment."
I looked up with a polite smile but begged him with my eyes to stay.
He ignored the request. "Restroom," he explained.
I watched him as he headed out of the dining room, mentally pulling on his red polo shirt to no avail. I turned my gaze back to his parents and found both of their attention on me. Not chewing, just staring. I cleared my throat. "I love your home. The fact that this is where Brant—"
"Ms. Fairmont," Brant's father spoke in a thick and strained voice, one of a man older than his years.
I smoothed my napkin in my lap and waited for him to continue. Smiled. God, I hated using that smile. "Yes, Mr. Sharp?"
"You should probably know that we don't think it is a good idea for Brant to be in a relationship. You seem like a very nice girl, but you should think about moving on."
It was a good thing I'd mastered the expression. Knew how to keep my eyes relaxed, my face muscles loose so the smile looked natural, not forced or tight. You could tell so much about a person from the way they smiled. But not me. My smile gave away nothing and it now worked in overtime to maintain my composure. "Why is that?" I asked lightly as I cut another wedge of the chicken and glanced at Brant's mother, whose gaze was now down, her hands fighting with her napkin.
"Brant's done better in life when he hasn't had a girlfriend."
Brant's a grown man. I kept the smile in place but brought it down a level, so I didn't look deranged. "I care very much for your son. He's a brilliant man. You should be very proud of where he is in life."
His father gave me an exasperated smile, as if he was ready for the bullshit to be over. "We'd just like it if you could keep your distance. Restrict your time with him to a minimum. Let him focus on work. He does best when he does that."
There was the sound of a door and then the soft thud of Brant’s steps. When he re-appeared in the doorway, I placed my fork down. "Dinner was delicious, Mrs. Sharp. Thank you both for having me over. Brant?” I met his eyes. “Do you mind showing me the basement? I'd love to see your old workshop."
His mother's mouth twisted, his father's hardened, and they could both kiss my ass because Brant was an adult, one more intelligent than the rest of this house put together, myself included. The woman rose and snagged my plate, a glance at my half-eaten meal not going unnoticed.
