“What’s this?” I ask. We already dropped our things off at oursuitein the Ritz-Carlton—the amount ofspaceinside, with a living area, double sinks, the king bed, a floor-to-ceiling window view of a pool down below; it feels like we’ll go back and it’ll be gone—and now we’rehere.
I asked Storm how I should dress for our lunch plans, and he’d told me what I had on in the car was fine. Which was fleece sweats and a white T-shirt.
Obviously, I’d never wear that to lunch, and so I’d changed into designer denim, cheetah print heels, and a baby pink top that ties crisscross down my back, but now, as I clutch my leopard print Coach purse—thrift store find—I’m not so sure this is even enough.
Storm is in his Tom Ford bomber, an expensive-looking white T-shirt, and dark denim.
He looks like a fucking model andwelook like opposites. Him dark, me light with the pink and blond hair, flowing in waves down my back.
“It’s lunch,” he finally answers me, a dimple flashing in his face.
I take a breath. “Hopefully they’ll let me in,” I mutter to myself before glancing at the heavy red entrance door. I start to walk up the steps, ready to get this assessment over with, when he grabs my wrist and pulls me back close.
He wraps an arm around my back and stares down at me, both of us oblivious to everyone trying to get by us on the sidewalk, even though it’s there, in the back of my mind. That I’m inconveniencing somebody.
Storm doesn’t seem to care.
“Nothing is barred to you,” he says quietly, his fingers entwined with mine, his palm pressed to my spine. “Nothing, do you understand that?” He speaks so seriously, and my comment was little more than a flash of half-joking insecurity, but I clutch my bag tight in both hands and don’t look away from him.
On the way here, Remi texted me to have a good time, but not too good, and she put a lot of emojis so it felt light, but her follow-up text was more severe.
We need to talk when I’m back.
Understatement of the century.
I push it all back now though, staring up into Storm’s eyes and feeling dizzy.
Like I’m on the edge of a precipice right here on the sidewalk, four hours from home in front of a castle that’s a metaphor for the beginning of the rest of my life.
The gun Storm pulled last night on Dax, the red around his eyes, his sneezing this morning, the bitter taste on his tongue, it’s all here, in my head, and so are his words, and the future, and who knows who he has as his equivalent to Dax, who knows if that’s why he hasn’t been trying to fuck me recently and…
“Answer me, ma princesse.” The French rolls off his tongue like he speaks the language and a little breath of shock leaves me, then a laugh after, my head thrown back, the smile so high it hurts my cheeks.
He leans in close, his lips over my ear. “I love when you laugh. But it doesn’t change what I said. This is yours.” I know he means the castle. Today. Maybe tonight. “But you can have so much more.” His mouth comes to my cheek and lingers, but the laughter dies in my throat.
What did he mean?
I can have so much more?
With or without him?
He takes my hand in his as he straightens, then leads me up the stairs.
The look in his eyes is distant, and I think he means without.
“There’s so much herethat reminds me of Edinburgh.” I pick up the black cloth napkin on my lap embroidered with the letterF,forFarewell,the restaurant. It sounds ominous, but the food is divine. I just finished off a roll of the most exquisite sushi I’ve ever had in my life.
I was surprised to find so much of it on the menu, but Storm was watching me carefully, like he was waiting for me to see it.
Our table is situated in one of the dungeons—apparently, there are multiple—and private, too, only stone walls and floors and lit sconces in the wall to keep us company. Music plays, ambient piano, it’s dark and melodic, and the room is cold in a way I like. There are no windows, but the flickering black candle on the table between Storm and I is enough, and so are the white glasses of wine the waiter left behind for both of us.
Storm has his glass in hand, tattooed fingers cupping the stem and bowl. He tilts his head, his food gone. He ate the rare steak like he hadn’t eaten in days, and I stole french fries off his plate, and he only grinned at me with his mouth full of food and candlelight dancing in his eyes.
“You’ve been to Scotland?”
I snatch up my wine and take a gulp, averting my eyes. “No,” I admit. “Not yet. But when I graduate?—”
“In the spring,” he adds, his brows lifted.
