I’m sure he has too.
Once the server is gone, I lean across the table, glaring at him when his gaze drops to the front of my mostly nonexistent bodice. “You need to start explaining.”
He reaches for the wineglass, taking a sip. Staring into it as he swirls the pale liquid within. “What do you want to know?”
“What happened with you and Leticia?”
Whit sighs, setting the glass on the table. “You would ask that first.”
“She was your future bride after all,” I say tightly.
“I ended things with her not too long after you ran away. She broke stipulations that were part of our contract thanks to her very nasty, very secret drug habit,” he says. “She’s been clean for over a year.”
“Goody for her,” I say, sounding like a jealous shrew. “You still talk to her?”
“I do.” He tilts his head toward me. “You have a problem with that?”
“Not at all,” I say haughtily before I sample the wine. It’s crisp, cold and delicious.
“Good. Her girlfriend doesn’t have any issues with us communicating either.”
I set my glass down with a heavy thud. “She’s a lesbian?”
He arches a brow. “You say lesbian like it’s a bad thing.”
“No, of course not,” I say defensively. It’s just that Leticia seemed so into Whit at that stupid birthday dinner…
“She’s bisexual, not that I should air her private business to you, but I’m sure she won’t mind,” he says. “That’s part of the reason she became so reliant on drugs. She couldn’t be who she really was. Her parents wouldn’t allow it.”
“And your parents are now allowing you to be who you really are?” I ask pointedly.
“Not particularly. I just don’t give a fuck anymore what they say,” he says as he drags his fingers across the pristine white tablecloth. Up and down, up and down, I watch those fingers move.
Imagining those fingers on me. Inside of me.
“Why did you run away, Summer?” he asks, his voice soft.
The words don’t come to me at first. All I can do is stare at him, hating how accurately he describes me. How I used to be. A runaway. A scared, meek little girl.
I lift my chin, refusing to let old memories and insecurities hold me back any longer. I decide to be completely truthful with Whit. “I didn’t run away. Your mother threatened me, Whit. She somehow had the journal and read sections aloud to me. She said I had thirty minutes to pack and she wanted me out of the house. She gave me no choice.”
His lips thin. “She told me she paid you off.”
“She lied,” I throw at him, anger suffusing me, making my voice rise. I wasn’t a runaway. I was forced to leave. What else could I do? “I figured you gave her the journal.”
“As if I would,” he retorts.
“Then why did she have it?”
His expression turns contrite. “I brought it with me to keep it—safe. I assumed she went through my things.”
“Lucky her, she found my journal and used it against me.” I slowly shake my head. “ I was afraid your mother would turn me into the authorities and I’d be arrested for murder. That’s why I didn’t return to Lancaster Prep. I came into a little bit of money, I got a new phone, shut off all of my social media and stopped communicating with basically…everyone.”
“People who run are usually trying to escape something they did.” He stares at me, his expression hard. I don’t bother correcting him about the running bit. “Did you start that fire?”
“Didn’t you read the journal?” I ask pointedly. He nods. “My confession is in there.”
I don’t bother bringing my mother up. I’m not about to tell Whit the truth. God knows what he would do with that information.
“I read it,” he bites out. “I also know you and Yates were…involved.”
I grimace, hating how that sounds. “Let’s call it what it really was. Yates forced me to have sex with him. Multiple times. And rather than cause a scene and upset our parents, I gave in to him and let it happen.”
Over and over and over again.
“You were a child.” Whit’s expression is filled with disgust.
With me?
“When we fucked, we were children,” I point out, just to annoy him.
“Not quite,” he says, his voice full of irritation. “We were practically eighteen. And I didn’t force you to do dick.”
“Please.” I scoff, grabbing my glass and draining its contents. I need more liquor to get through this conversation.
“Are you really putting me in the same category as your lecherous, dead stepbrother who would beat off in the bathroom while watching you take a shower? The one who forced himself on you?” He raises a brow. “If that’s the case, I may as well leave now. There’s no point in continuing this conversation.”
God, he’s infuriating.
“What do you want from me, Whit?” I ask, pounding my fist lightly on the table, making everything rattle. “Are you here for another go around with me, for old time’s sake? I don’t know if I could handle the likes of you. Not anymore.”
“So you’re weaker than you were when you were seventeen? Because you were pretty fucking strong back then, Savage. You took no shit from me, and definitely not from anyone else,” he says, his tone admiring.
That’s not true. I took all the shit from him, and then some. He was rude and degrading. He called me names and treated me like garbage, yet I kept coming back to him. There’s something about the way he looks at me. The words he says. His commanding touch and persuasive kisses that always had me at his mercy.
Maybe I don’t want that anymore. Despite the undercurrent of desire trembling through me at this very moment at his nearness, I’m starting to think Whit Lancaster isn’t good for me.
Not at all.
The server reappears with our first course, setting the tiny plates in front of us. I have no idea what it is, but I smile at the waiter as he nods and bows before leaving the room.
“I refuse to let myself get pulled in again,” I say once the server is gone.
“Pulled into what?”
“Your orbit.” I glance down at my plate. “What is this?”
“Foie gras, you peasant,” he says cheerfully as he digs into it with his fork.
We eat in silence until our plates are clean and the server reappears, whisking them away after pouring each of us another glass of wine. I sip from it, needing the liquid courage, hating how shaky I feel. I don’t want to be here with Whit.
Yet I do. I’m so glad he’s in the room with me, watching me with his careful gaze, taking note of my every movement. I’ve missed him. He was so abruptly ripped out of my life, and now he’s just as abruptly thrust himself back into it. I don’t know what to think.
I don’t know how to feel.
“Have your parents found another breeding cow—oh excuse me—another heiress for you to marry?” I ask.
Whit leans back in his chair. “Jealousy isn’t a good look for you, Summer.”
I clench my hands into fists. “I’m not jealous of anyone. I felt sorry for Leticia. As if her sole purpose in life was to marry you and give you sons to carry on the Lancaster name. This isn’t the Middle Ages.”