“Anyway, I called the police, even though Harper didn’t want me to, but I assured her my uncle would get it all sorted out. Which he did. The creep got arrested and Harper didn’t. But there was something about her. It was more than just feeling like I owed her, you know.” It wasn’t my place to go into Harper’s background, so I glossed over it. “Anyway, she wasn’t in the greatest situation and I kind of forced her to move in with me and I found out that the girl could cook. Especially desserts. And they were so imaginative and creative. She dreamed of working as a chef and I knew my uncle was friends with Jason Luton at Canterbury. He pulled some strings, got her an audition, and Jason thought she had potential. Harper has worked her way up over the years to become his pastry chef.”
“I love that story,” Patrice said. “Don’t you just love that story?”
Caleb’s expression had turned thoughtful, intense. “Harper sounds like my kind of person.”
A flare of unexpected jealousy shot through me.
“Oh, Harper’s a doll. Very talented. And I’m sure she would agree that she owes everything to Ava’s generosity.”
“No,” I said sharply, upset that Patrice would think so. “Harper would have found success no matter what.”
“Fiercely loyal.” Patrice reached over to squeeze my arm in affection, and then she threw Caleb a meaningful look. “I swear, this woman has no faults. I’m extremely lucky to have her as a friend and a designer.”
“Everyone has faults, Patrice. Now, if you don’t stop complimenting me, I’m going to die of embarrassment.” I softened my words with a pleading smile. “Can we please change the subject?”
She chuckled. “Of course, dear.” She turned to Caleb. “Tell us more about you, darling. We hardly know a thing.”
Caleb sat up in his seat. “Actually, Patrice, I dinnae mean tae be rude, but I have a very early morning tomorrow and need tae excuse myself.”
I felt relief that the conversational torture was over, but our disappointed host pouted. “Oh, well, what a shame. But of course.”
“I’m tired also,” I said, pushing back from the table. “I hope you understand.”
And just like that the disappointment slid right off Patrice’s face, her eyes bright with hope. “Of course, of course. Caleb, you must see Ava home.”
I almost rolled my eyes.
But Caleb just nodded. “Of course.”
We said good night to the Danbys and thanked them for dinner, and I tried to avoid Patrice’s wide-eyed Get in there look as she kissed me on the cheek good-bye.
Once we’d escaped the matchmaker and her husband, and I’d grabbed my coat from the cloakroom, I forced myself to look up at Caleb. “I am so sorry. She is the most obvious matchmaker in the entire world. Please don’t take her seriously.”
He flicked me a glance. “Dinnae fash yourself. I took it all with a pinch of salt.”
His refusal to meet my eyes made me uneasy and I found myself still needing to reassure him. “Good. I’ve never wanted to duck under a table before. Tonight was a first for me. What does ‘fash’ mean?”
Caleb didn’t even crack a smile but his hand came to rest on the small of my back as he led me out of the building onto the busy lamplit street. The Marquess was a mere five-minute walk from the Four Seasons. “It means dinnae worry yourself.”
“Oh.”
Tension crept up between us as we left the chatter of people on the sidewalks, and the hum of traffic made the silence between us more pronounced. I didn’t know if the tension belonged to anticipation of the night ahead or if it was because of the newfound personal discoveries we’d made about each other.
We turned onto Arlington Street. The tall streetlights placed evenly between the trees, along with the headlights of the cars passing us, lit the street so brightly you’d have to look up at the dark sky to even realize it was evening. As the silence between us stretched out, uncertainty filled me, and I felt the chill of the spring evening rush around my bare legs and seep under my light coat, when it had barely touched me moments before.
Something was wrong.
“I wasn’t lying,” Caleb suddenly said, his tone sounding distant and faraway. “I have an early morning. I should have put you in a cab back at the club. We’ll get you one at the hotel.”
He didn’t want me tonight?
Hurt immediately suffused me.
Or maybe the jetlag and our late nights had finally caught up with him … but I suspected that wasn’t why he was rejecting my company. Had we crossed some invisible line Caleb had drawn between us and now he wanted nothing to do with me? Had something Patrice said about me turned him off?
I felt a flare of pain in my chest that horrified me, and so with a carefully impassive expression, I said, “I can walk. I’m just across the Common.”
“I’m not letting you walk alone at this time of night.”
Silence fell between us again, and this time I didn’t just feel the chill; I felt cold through and through. Goose bumps prickled down my spine, and not the good kind. The more we walked, the less angry I became at his rejection and the more concerned I grew.
He’d hurt my feelings.
Hurt me.
I raised a trembling hand to brush hair that had come loose from my braid back from my face, and I used the moment to eye him surreptitiously. He was staring determinedly ahead, his expression hard and remote as his long strides quickened, making it harder for me to keep up.
His aloofness not only hurt me; it troubled me.
Somehow, impossibly, I’d developed feelings for my Bastard Scot.
Feelings plus sex?
Bad idea.
As we walked down Boylston Street, the dark red brick of the hotel building coming into view, I attempted to convince myself that Caleb’s rejection was a good thing.
That was easier said than done.
Caleb approached one of the doormen and asked for a cab, slipping him a tip. A sharp whistle rent the air and two seconds later a cab pulled into the hotel driveway.
I knew I should say good night, that I should let him know I understood and that this was for the best. However, I didn’t understand. I didn’t know what had happened back at the Marquess to chill his regard toward me, and frankly it was worrying that he had this control over my emotions.
Without saying a word to him as he opened the cab door for me, I got in and told the driver my address.
Finally, I looked up at Caleb. He frowned down at me, indecision in his expression.
Was he regretting his rejection?
“Good-bye, Caleb.” I grabbed the door handle and jerked it out of his hold, slamming it shut. “Let’s go,” I said to the driver, not once glancing back as we drove away.
Fourteen
I couldn’t sleep.
My sheets were wrinkled and abused from my tossing and turning the night before. I’d gotten up in the early daylight hours, changed into my running gear, and tried to sweat the unease and fatigue out of me. But running didn’t work like it usually did. By the time I walked into the office that morning I’d had three coffees in the hopes that I wouldn’t pass out from exhaustion later.
Beneath my elegant chignon, my tailored pencil skirt, pale pink silk blouse, and carefully applied makeup, were dark circles and a tired body. Worse, a confused heart.
I’d lost count of the times I’d reached for my phone to check for messages from him.
Not a peep.
I stared blankly at my computer screen, feeling blindsided, not only by my emotions, but by the way things had ended with Caleb. They’d ended in a whimper. There was no feeling of closure as I’d assumed there would be when he headed back to Scotland. Nor had it ended in an explosive argument, which, considering how things had started between us, I was almost sure would happen.
No, it ended because something had caused Caleb to climb too deep into his thoughts. But what?
Stop thinking about him.
My cell rang, making me jolt in surprise. It was Harper.
“Hey,” I answered, hoping she couldn’t hear the weariness in my voice.
“Still banging the Scot?”
I’d already informed Harper about my discussion with Caleb outside the restroom at Canterbury. Her reply was that I was a big girl, I could do what I wanted, but to just be careful. I should have heeded her words.
“I don’t think so,” I said, trying to infuse a wry I don’t care note into my voice.
“Oh?”
“We had dinner last night with Patrice. She tried to play matchmaker and ended up making us cross these lines we’d drawn. You know … like not talking about personal stuff. I went home alone.”
“You don’t sound that bothered by it.”
Huh, guess I was better at pretending than I thought. “It was just sex, Harp.”