And maybe she didn’t want to lie anymore. Maybe she was tired. “The internship.”
He stopped walking. So did she.
“She was at Monaghan and Stowe?”
She nodded, but didn’t look at him. “She was consulting.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“She’s your friend,” Bea said softly. “Your family friend.”
“So?”
“So I didn’t want to seem like I couldn’t handle it.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
She looked up at him then. “It’s not your job to manage other women for me.”
“It’s my job to protect you.” His hand was warm over hers.
Bea shook her head. “You didn’t see it. You were never there. It’s not your fault.”
“It is,” he said, stepping closer. His height cast her in his shadow. She could smell his cologne, sharp woods and citrus, slicing through the dust of the vineyard path and the sweetness of crushed leaves. “Because you didn’t feel like you could tell me.”
That broke something in her.
She inhaled once, shallow. The tears didn’t fall. But they burned. The sun had begun to lean west, the air had started to cool, and through her lashes the sky blurred into brightness she couldn’t quite hold.
“I didn’t want to make it hard for you,” she finally said the words out loud. “Didn’t want to make you choose.”
“I already did.” Gage reached up, touching the ends of her hair with his other hand. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever chosen that wasn’t already on the plan.”
The wind stirred the leaves behind them. It felt like something was being cleared.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her throat raw.
“No.I’msorry.” His eyes were so blue. So sure. His thumbs brushed her tears back gently. “I won’t let it happen again.”
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning, Bea once again found herself seated between Gage and Nate for breakfast. Once the plates were cleared, Nate pushed back his chair. “King. We’ve got to move.”
Gage rose, fingers brushing the inside of her wrist as he passed.
Words lined up in her mouth like they were waiting for clearance. She hesitated, just long enough for it to register. Gage turned to Nate, gave a slight nod for him to go ahead. He looked back at her, expectant.
“Did…Catherine fly back with you from London?”
He met her gaze without flinching. “She was on the jet. But it wasn’t just us. Nate was there. Legal was there. She was in the back row,” he said, then added, “She invited herself.”
Ah. So not a nostalgic gesture. Not even a logistical one. She’d hitched a ride. Sixteen hours staring at the back of his head, trying to make it mean something.
One arm curled behind her body. She could probably deduce this. And yes, technically, the past was inadmissible. But she had to know.
“Also…did you really insist on teaching her to ride a horse when you were younger?”
“Sweetheart,” he said, dry as quartz, “do I look like a man who would?”
