I imagine being a young child, being told you’d been adopted by your forever family, driving up to this beautiful estate … only to realize you’d been placed with the worst kind of people.
“My entire life was one giant chess game. Everything was a move. Strategic. Manipulative. Sometimes I was the rook. Sometimes I was the king. Other times I was a pawn. We all had our turns.”
Without thinking, I reach for him, sliding my hand into his.
“Remember last week when I told you what my brother was planning to do once he got custody of Honor?” he asks.
“Yes?”
“Wednesday I got a call from my lawyer. Turns out the idiot filed the paternity suit. I called Errol, invited him over, showed him the transcripts of the text messages. I told him if he intended to continue with the suit, I’d ensure that everyone he knows would get a copy of those.” Bennett’s thumb grazes the top of my hand. “He knew he’d been backed into a corner, so then he started asking questions about you. He was trying to sniff out how I felt about you. I couldn’t let him think I cared about you because he would’ve found a way to exploit that, to leverage it against me.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t know me. And I’ve got nothing to hide …” I haven’t a single skeleton in my closet, and I’ve never been embroiled in anything remotely scandalous. There’s nothing his brother could dig up on me.
“You don’t know Errol or what he’s capable of. He’s a sociopath. He has no moral compass. A skilled manipulator who feels he’s one step above the law. And my mother’s twice as bad. They make an awful team. There’s no telling what they’d do if it meant getting what they want—and they want Honor out of the picture.”
I glance at the house once more, and a chill runs through me. “Can we get out of here?”
“Of course.” He releases my hand and shifts into drive.
We’re a solid mile away before either of us speaks again.
“Do you understand why I had to say what I said?” he asks. “I had to protect Honor. I had to protect you.”
I nod. If what he’s saying is true … and my gut feeling is that it is … then it makes perfect sense.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that. And I’m sorry that you’ve spent the last several days doubting if what we have is real, but I swear to you, Astaire. It’s the realest thing I’ve ever felt. I can’t tell you how to feel, but it’s real for me.” We stop at a red light when he retrieves a large white envelope, folded in half, from the visor above. “This is for you.”
The envelope is blank on the outside. I peel it open and slide out a stack of papers, all of them with an attorney’s logo on top.
The first line says PURCHASE AGREEMENT.
“What is this?” I ask.
The light turns green, and we coast ahead.
“Just read it,” he says.
The paperwork is dated from this past Saturday.
I scan the legalese until I get to the line that clearly states the ELMHURST THEATRE is henceforth owned by ASTAIRE CARRARO.
“Oh my God.” I let the papers fall in my lap.
“You love that place,” he says. “You’d mentioned during the tour that the owners were thinking of selling, so I did some checking around with all my free time the last couple of weeks. Turns out they had a pocket listing on it with one interested buyer who had every intention of tearing it down and replacing it with condos.”
“You saved the Elmhurst …” I swipe away a single happy tear before interlacing my fingers with his. “You’re a saint. Really. You have no idea how much this means to me. But I don’t have the means to refurbish it … I don’t have the—”
“—I’ve set aside a trust that should generate enough in interest to cover the ongoing maintenance. I’ve also set aside an account to cover the refurbishments, current and unanticipated.”
It makes sense now why the owners didn’t send out an email. I bet Bennett asked them to keep it quiet because he wanted to be the one to tell me.
“Also, were you aware that the three floors above the theatre had been used as storage space for the past twenty years?” he asks.
“I guess? We never had any reason to go up there.”
“Honor and I toured the place last weekend, and we think it would make a wonderful place to live.”
“What …?”
“That neighborhood is in an up-and-coming area, family friendly, close to her school, plenty of parks …” he says. “She doesn’t need to grow up in a penthouse. She needs to grow up in a home. So we’re going to make it a home, and we’d be honored if you would join us in that process.”
“Are you asking me to move in with you?”
“I am.” He turns to me.
“Wow.” I lean back in my warm seat, watching the gray world blur past.
“I know it’s a lot to take in at once. And I want you to know that I don’t expect an answer right away,” he says. “And regardless of what you choose, the theatre and everything that comes with it … is my gift to you.”
I think back to my conversation with Ophelia last Friday, when she called him a rich, lonely man with a Batman complex.
I also think back to what she said about how he could have any blonde, twenty-something, kid-friendly woman in the world—and yet he wants me.
We ride back to my apartment in silence, together but alone with our thoughts.
“I’ll walk you in,” he says.
“Thank you for showing me where you grew up today. I imagine it wasn’t easy for you to go back there.”
He offers a pained smile. “That’s the first time I’ve set foot on my mother’s property in years.”
“I …” my words get caught. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you a chance to explain.”
“Astaire, please. Don’t apologize. What you heard was terribly upsetting. You had every right to take some time to cool off before hearing me out.”
“You told me once that I should believe people when they show me who they are,” I say. “And I’m kicking myself because from the very beginning, you showed me who you really were. Your heart of gold was in the details. In the little things. All along. And I hate that I doubted you for one minute.”
He closes the space between us, his hand lifting to my hip. “It’s natural to second-guess things, especially when they seem too good to be true.”
“It does,” I say. “This thing we have. It’s like a dream sometimes, it’s that good.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
I lift my hand to his cheek, fingertips grazing his sharp jaw, and his mouth lowers onto mine. Warmth blooms through my body, and for the first time in nearly a week, the tight void in my chest is gone.
“I love you so much, Astaire.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “You’re it for me. There’s never going to be anyone else.”
“I love you too.” I inhale his familiar scent, dragging it into my lungs and holding it for a moment. My mouth curls at one side and my finger skims his waistband. “You want to come in for a little bit …?”