“Yes. I do. Very much. Jessica has amazing taste, and she, and you, spent way too much money. Thank you.”
“I’m glad they please you. I would have sent you yourself but you wouldn’t have gotten what you need.”
I grab a tag. “I don’t need a fifteen-hundred-dollar dress.”
“You do if it pleases you.”
“Shane, I don’t need you to do this. I need you. Not clothes, but I don’t want to sound unappreciative. You doing this is special, but I don’t need you to take care of me.”
“No,” he agrees. “You don’t. And somehow that only makes me want to take care of you more. I’ve never had anyone I wanted to take care of until you.”
My hand balls at my chest and my eyes actually pinch. “Okay. That just took me off guard and made me get emotional.”
He closes the space between us, his warm hand sliding under my hair to my neck. “Why did that make you emotional?”
“Because no one has ever really tried to take care of me and to tell you the truth, letting you do this scares me.”
“Why does it scare you?”
“What if I forget how to be on my own? What if it changes me?”
“Nothing will change you that you don’t allow to happen. Of that I am sure. And I don’t want you to remember how to be alone. But since we’re talking about money.” He reaches into his pocket and produces a credit card.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not taking that.”
“I have made a lot of money and I invest it well. How much? I’m going to tell you so you won’t be afraid to spend when you need or want to spend. Millions. I’ve made millions. Money that has nothing to do with my family or their business. It’s blood and sweat and I have never wanted anyone to share it with me, until you. Take the card.”
“Millions? You’ve made millions?”
“Yes. I have. Does that make you feel better?”
“No. Not at all. I mean, I’m amazed and impressed at everything you are, but it’s not my money. I still want to make my money.”
“You can make your own. I’ll support you any way you want, even if that means you only let me cheer you on when you buy your Bentley with your money. But you’re still sharing mine.” His lips curve. “And I’ll share yours.”
“Could anything be more perfect?”
“I’m glad it’s perfect. Take the card, woman.”
I reach up and take it. “I’m not going to—”
“You will,” he says. “Because you’ll have to if you’re a part of my life.”
A part of his life. It is exactly what I want him to say, and still it terrifies me. “What if we decide this isn’t going to work?”
“I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“What if I snore?”
“You don’t.”
“What if I start?”
“I’m quite sure it will be sexy when you do.” He changes the subject. “We had an early dinner last night. I’m starving. Are you hungry?”
“I’m starving too.”
“Your normal omelet?”
“Yes,” I say. “My normal omelet.”
He kisses me. “I’ll wait twenty minutes and then order.” He releases me but I catch his arm, inspecting his hand, which is now black and blue.
“Does it hurt?”
“The memory of doing something that ridiculous is what hurts. It’s fine. And when Jessica asks you how I did it—”
“I’ll tell her an alligator jumped out at us on the way to the car, and you were the hero that fought it off and saved me from it.”
His lips curve. “Where did that come from?”
“Random stuff just pops into my head. It was actually very helpful in law school.”
He laughs and kisses my forehead before walking to the door, but before he leaves he turns and faces me. “Do you know what I love about you?” He doesn’t wait for a reply. “Aside from the alligator story, which was adorable, before that you told me exactly what you feel and want. The only games you play with me are in the bedroom, and those I welcome.” He turns and disappears into the bedroom.
I stare after him, and I want to be pleased with those words, but all I can focus on is his use of the word “games.” He’s used that to reference his father often and it tells me where his head is this morning. Death is still on his mind and it will guide every action he takes today, and my gut tells me that is a reason to worry.
*
Eager to get downstairs and try to have some time to talk to Shane, I quickly shower, allowing myself only a few minutes of excitement over the huge makeup selection I find at my disposal in the bathroom. I choose Urban Decay shades of pink for my eyes, a gorgeous pink stay-on lipstick from Chanel, which I dab on my cheeks as well, and I finish everything off with powder and Chanel mascara. Even my new flatiron is amazing, and between it and new shower products, my hair is a rich, shiny brown that almost makes me forget how much I liked being blond. The memory of law school slips into my mind and I shove it aside, thinking instead of the stack of files downstairs filled with ventures Brandon Enterprises might undertake. I’m about to exit the bathroom, when I pick up the eye shadow palette again. Makeup. Yes. Makeup. An investment that’s low risk, high reward. Every woman wants it, and some men.
Feeling excited about exploring this idea, I hurry to the closet to dress. Bypassing the ribbed tights for sexy thigh-highs, which I think Shane will prefer, I slip on my fitted pink Chanel suit dress, and now I’m thinking about high fashion. Makeup or clothing, or both, could be an amazing part of the Brandon empire, but I need to evaluate the potential and find an opportunity before I say anything. Focusing on finishing up, and getting down to breakfast, I slip on a pair of amazing strappy black Versace heels and complete the look with my new black and gray purse that has an adorable buckle. I stroke the leather, thinking about a purse line for Brandon Enterprises, but my mind goes elsewhere. Suddenly, I am remembering the day I’d walked into a pawnshop several weeks ago, after no contact from my brother for weeks, and given up my Hermès. I’d been alone and scared, upset over the loss of law school, and now I’m wearing Chanel and Versace, thinking about investments, and about to go have breakfast with a man I absolutely love.
The doorbell rings, no doubt with our food. I grab my new black Versace trench coat, which I adore, hurry back to the bathroom, and spray myself with the Chanel No. 5 on the counter before heading downstairs. Once I’m in the foyer, I hang my coat and purse on the rack, and walk through the archway to find Shane standing at the island facing me, talking on the phone with his head bent. As if he senses my entry, he looks up, his eyes traveling my body and warming with appreciation.
“I’ll have the check cut by noon,” he says, motioning me forward. I walk toward him, and he rounds the counter to meet me. “I’ll call you back,” he says to his caller, ending the conversation and setting his phone on the counter.
His hands settle at my waist. “You look beautiful, sweetheart. Do you like it?”