“I’d invite you in, but I feel like this is the perfect place to end this night.” I run my hand down the lapel of his suit coat, gaze pausing on the buttons of his shirt as I recall his adamancy on leaving it on the other night.
The Bennett Schoenbach walking me to my door at the end of our date is different from the one who showed up mere hours ago, flowers in hand. His eyes are softer. His posture more relaxed.
I know now that he attended Harvard School of Business. His father was a businessman. His grandfather founded Schoenbach Corporation shortly after World War II with a five-thousand-dollar bank loan and unstoppable perseverance. His relationships with his mother and brother are strained and he wasn’t close with his adopted sister—though we never ventured deep into those territories. Another time, perhaps. The man was an open book, suffering through my incessant questions with polite smirks and witty answers, and I didn’t want to press my luck.
“Thank you.” I remove my keys from my clutch. “For tonight. For everything.”
He checks his timepiece. “It’s still early if you want to grab a drink at Ophelia’s.”
Shameless.
We might have had a perfectly lovely time tonight, but beneath it all is a man who wants more than anything in the world to sleep with me for some insane reason.
Lifting on my toes, I kiss his cheek. “Goodnight, Bennett.”
And then I head inside, smelling of his opulent cologne, half-wishing he was truly the man he pretended to be tonight.
Twenty-Two
Bennett
* * *
“Honor, I’d like you to meet your uncle, Bennett.” Jeannie takes the girl by the hand, walking her through my foyer, her glittery canvas shoes scuffing against the freshly-waxed floor as she stares up at me with the biggest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Her pigtails are shiny and curled, accented with pink ribbons. It reminds me of the day my mother brought Larissa home, fluffed and decked out like a show dog.
I imagine Jeannie wanted to ensure the child made a good impression, but it’s unnecessary because my mind’s already made up.
I crouch to her level. The vague scent of strawberry ice cream and baby powder fills my nostrils—a scent this penthouse has never known.
She isn’t smiling as she was in her school photos.
In fact, she looks downright terrified.
“Lovely to meet you, Honor.” I extend my hand. “I look forward to getting to know you, and I hope you’ll be quite comfortable here.”
Astaire’s words from our date eight days ago echo in my mind, the way she spoke of her adoptive mother, the way that woman changed the entire trajectory of Astaire’s life for the better with just a few short, meaningful years.
I’m not a sentimental man nor have I ever been emotional in any sense of the word, but her story moved me in a way nothing has before.
If only Larissa had a “Linda” of her own, things might have been different.
It takes a moment, but Honor releases Jeannie’s hand, her rosy lips curl up at the sides, and she runs into my arms, nearly knocking me over in the process. Her arms wrapped around my shoulder in a grip tighter than a kindergartener should have.
For an endless second, she breathes me in and holds onto me for dear life.
I don’t know this child.
I don’t know why her mother left her to me.
I still don’t know if I’m capable of being what she needs in this world.
But I do know she didn’t ask to be born into this family—and I’m going to do everything in my power to see to it she doesn’t suffer another minute for it.
I let her hold onto me a while longer, her heart beating so fast against mine it knocks my spirit down a humble peg.
“Would you like to see your new room?” I rise.
She nods, though still not smiling, and I take her hand. She slides it into mine willingly, and then she walks with me to a room down the hall.
“If you hate the color, we can have it painted.” I imagine she’s never heard those words in her life. “And I’m working on stocking you up with some good toys. I wanted to wait first. Wasn’t sure what you were into.”
She releases my hand and walks to the white canopy bed centered between two large windows. Climbing up, she settles in the middle, the pillowtop mattress and abundance of pillows and pale pink blankets cocooning her.
“So soft,” she whispers, running her tiny hand along a plush accent pillow.
I hired a local decorator to get the job done, giving her an impossible timeline but free rein and a generous budget—as long as it was appropriate for a five-year-old girl.
“Do you like it, Honor?”
She nods. Vigorously. You’d think I was offering her cotton candy and baby dolls.
“You’ll be staying with your foster family another couple of weeks. I’ve hired a very nice woman to take care of you while I’m working, and she isn’t able to start until the end of the month.” I add, “Her name is Eulalia.”
Honor slides off the bed and makes her way around the room, starting with the nightstand with the pink elephant lamp and making her way to the extra-wide rattan dresser with the gold framed antique mirror and the collection of children’s classics wedged between ballerina bookends. She slides one of the books down, flips it open, and plops onto the floor, paging through it with wide eyes.
“You like books?” I watch her run her tiny index finger along the sentences.
She nods. Again, vigorously.
“Honor is an excellent reader for her grade level,” Jeannie says from the doorway behind me. “Ms. Carraro says she’s at the top of her class.”
Ms. Carraro …
Astaire’s profession came up in that background report, I had pulled on her the other week, so I was aware she taught at an elementary school before she shared that with me on our date last weekend, but I didn’t pay attention to the name of the school.
There are fifteen public primaries in Worthington Heights.
What are the odds there are two Ms. Carraros teaching kindergarten?
“I’m pleased to hear that, Honor,” I say. “I’m a fan of literature myself.”
She peers up at me, nose wrinkled. “What’s lit-er-a-chur?”
“Books,” I clarify. “Shall we continue our tour?”
Honor pops up, slides the book back where she got it, and skips across the room. Slipping her hand back into mine, she peers up at me with those familiar blue eyes and a smile that takes up half of her face.
I show her to her private bath.
Then to the study, the gym, and the laundry—not that she’ll be accessing those things regularly … just want her to get her bearings.
We finish with the living room, dining room, and kitchen, where she climbs onto a bar stool and helps herself to a banana in the fruit bowl.
“Honor, you need to ask,” Jeannie gives her a gentle reminder.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Everything in this apartment belongs to her now.”
I imagine I’ll need to teach her proper rules, boundaries, and manners, but for now, I want her to feel comfortable. I want her to know that this is her home. She isn’t a guest.
Everything here is just as much hers as it is mine.