“Well, I’m glad I’m able to help you maintain your dignity.”
The way his striking blue eyes twinkle takes my breath away, even as part of me warns that the lines in my life are becoming too blurred.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Max
After dinner and putting everything in the dishwasher, Rhys gives me a tour of his home. It’s even bigger than it appears from the outside—three wings, each with its own kitchen, a theater and a courtyard full of various blossoms, mostly fancy-looking orchids, lilies, jasmine vines and hyacinths. The halls have fresh flowers and oil paintings on the walls. The east wing has landscapes, the west features modern, abstract art, while in the main one hang portraits of people who bear a remarkable resemblance to Rhys and his father.
“The family portraits,” he explains when my eyes linger over them. “That’s my grandfather, when he was young. I think this was done a year before he met my grandmother. That’s his cousin, who supposedly also wanted to marry my grandmother, but lost the battle for her heart.”
I gaze up at the men. “Why’d she pick your grandfather?”
“A bigger trust fund.”
“Cynical.”
“Truthful.” He points to a painting of a ballet dancer on a straight leg ending inpointe, her torso tilted forward and the other leg raised high behind her. Every line is long, graceful and effortless. “That’s Grandmother when she was twenty-five.Piqué penché en pointe. Grandfather’s favorite.”
“Why didn’t he keep it?”
“She has a photo of this exact pose that she likes better, so they kept that one instead. There are tons of pictures from her Mariinsky years at their place.” Rhys sighs a little. “She’s probably still unhappy about the fact that her injury ended her career the way it did. She would’ve had to retire anyway as she got older, but there’s a big difference in deciding for yourself and it being suddenly forced upon you.”
I recall the woman who sat with rigid control in his office. Someone like her would value being the mistress of her fate.
The east and west wings are designed specifically for hosting parties and guests, while the main wing is for the owners and has a fully equipped gym. The layout is perfect if you ever need to invite guests who don’t get along with each other, even though I can’t see Rhys hosting anything of that nature in his home. The only bullshit he tolerates is from his parents, probably out of obligation.
The white sheets covering the furniture in the side wings prove me correct. Even some of the extra bedrooms in the main wings have their furniture covered. The home office and the master bedroom are the only rooms that look regularly used, although one guest bedroom seems ready for an unexpected overnight visitor, assuming Rhys would let them stay.
The office is a replica of the one at the firm, except for a comfy-looking leather couch and a Barcalounger. Makes sense, though. Rhys is a man of habit. He prefers everything to be the same at work, as it supposedly keeps him productive. He doesn’t go on business trips by himself because he finds every deviation a distraction, and wants somebody—usually me—to handle it.
The master bedroom is spacious, at least twice as big as my old apartment. It has a bed that’s definitely a California king, with pale cream-and-sage bedding plus more pillows than I can count. A bench with the matching color scheme sits at the foot. There are a couple of plush armchairs occupying a sitting areawith a round cherry table between them. An antique lamp with a stained-glass shade sits on it. Cove lighting on the high ceiling casts a soft glow to the space, making it look surprisingly cozy despite its size.
The walk-in closet is so huge, it could be converted into an en suite bedroom. All of Rhys’s suits hang neatly, and the island holds his watches, cuff links and belts on the top glass display case. Impeccably polished shoes line the racks. But there’s still a lot of space for more things—if he ever decides to go on a shopping spree. The carry-on I left behind in Tokyo sits in a corner like a child in timeout.
“Which bedroom?” Rhys asks as we head to the car to grab my things.
“The master.”
“No quibbles, no pillow border?” He raises an eyebrow.
I laugh. “If a flying roach attacks me, I’ll be able to hide behind you. Besides, the bed is a proper king, not some ‘king bed,’ and we pretty well crossed all the border there was—unless you think we can roll back time.”
He studies me for a moment. “Huh. Very interesting.”
“I’m just forward looking.”
“Yes, but you also hold on to the past. Like your father and Slick.”
I grab the plastic bags. Rhys takes my clothes, and we head back inside. “Just remembering past lessons so I don’t repeat them,” I say. “I’ll never marry a man who isn’t loyal, or give him the power to hurt me or make me question my self-worth. And I will also do my absoluteutmostto ensure any child I have won’t end up with a father like mine. Mom was the best. She loved me, and I loved her back, but it hurts to know my father didn’t think I was worth it. When he blamed Mom for not giving him the son he desperately wanted, I wished I hadn’t been born at all.”I press a hand over my mouth, to stop the flow of the words. It stuns me that so much has slipped out.
“It wasn’t your fault.” Rhys’s voice is gentle.
“Well…yeah. I know that.” I pause. “Now. But back then, it felt like it was all my fault.” My eyes are on the floor as I lower the bags.
He drapes my clothes over the back of the armchair and cradles my face. His palms feel shockingly hot against my cool cheeks. “It’s his loss.I’mglad you were born, Freckles, and I’m happy as hell he didn’t break you.”
The skin around my eyes grows heated with unshed tears. I’ve never told anybody how Dad’s blatant disdain hurt me. Not even Mom. It would’ve broken her heart, and I was terrified of being a burdensome child. I should regret sharing it with Rhys, but when he looks into my eyes like he means every word, I can’t feel sorry.
