Kian’s bleached blond hair covering his brilliant green eyes. How he’d cup my icy hands in his, blowing warmth into them. The gentle smile curving his lips when he’d give me pricey chocolates out of his budget—Geraldine’s—every time we’d meet here.
But he’d always say, “Anything for your smile.”
There were no five-course meals, no fancy cars. But there was one thing he gave me that no man unrelated to me ever did before or after him.
Genuine love. One stripped of my last name or bank account.
When I first met him, I went by my middle name because I didn’t want to betheLana Anderson, the precious Anderson princess. I wanted to be me—just me.
And Kian? He made me feel his Elise was enough.
And in those stolen moments—strolls in the park, dreams of the future—his presence and love were priceless.
Kian would look at me the way Dad stared at Mom in our photo albums.
And then he disappeared. I had no closure. My heart never moved on.
The wind lets out a mournful wail. My mitten-clad hands shake as I pull them off, fingers stiff.
Quickly, I open the box, push in a candle, and reach for the lighter in my pocket.
It sputters on, but a gust steals the flame away.
“Come on,” I mutter, sparking it again.
But nature doesn’t cooperate. Instead, frigid wind and thickening snow stab my face like glass shards.
Then, the snow stops.
Vetiver and smoke drift to my nose. My skin hums with awareness.
A spot of red—his umbrella—shields me from the elements, like some echo of a memory I can’t catch.
Elias stands next to me, silent in his gentleman gangster attire, all harsh lines and strong angles, complete with leather gloves.
He pulls his lighter out of his pocket, flips it open, and lights the candle for me.
My heart hammers against my rib cage.
Suddenly, I’m lightheaded.
“Why are you here?” I whisper. “And why do you have the acquisition permit for the gardens?”
He doesn’t answer either question. Gaze inscrutable, he faces me instead, his body blocking the howling wind, his umbrella protecting me from the harsh elements.
His smoldering eyes drift to the emerald pendant around my neck.
Slowly, he scrapes one finger down my cheek, lighting tiny fires on my skin.
I shiver.
“I protect what’s mine,” he murmurs, unbuttoning his coat.
Gently, he places it over my shoulders, wrapping me in its warmth.
A sense of déjà vu falls over me, but I can’t place it.
He holds my gaze for a few heavy beats, his throat rippling, like he wants to tell me something, to bare his soul and reveal his secrets.
