She was quiet for a moment.
“Why me?” she asked. “Surely you must know someone from your business days who would be better suited.”
“True,” I said. “You aren’t really qualified.”
She didn’t like that. I saw her shift in her seat, and her chin tipped up ever so slightly. Why was teasing her so much fun? Was it flirting? Was I flirting? My history with women had never included this sort of back-and-forth. It was always much more straightforward with me being rich and the women I dated wanting to be with a guy who could pay for the lifestyle to which they wanted to become accustomed. None of those relationships, if I could even call them that, had lasted more than three months, a fiscal quarter in businessman’s terms.
“Again, why me?” she asked.
“Because this is mutually beneficial in that you need a big client, and if you do this for me, I will be delivering you one,” I said.
“Delivering or coercing?” she asked.
“Does it matter?”
“I’d prefer to work with someone who actually wants to hire me,” she said.
“Once they see your work, they will,” I said. I gestured to her house. Visible through the window, hanging on the wall in the living room, was the portrait she had done of Sir—he really needed a better name—when he’d been lying in the lemon tree. I remembered the day she’d painted it. I’d watched from the window, noting the sunlight on her hair and her eyes narrowed in concentration. I wished I could join her and felt ridiculously jealous of the cat for having her to himself. The painting’s colors were vibrant, and the likeness of Sir was incredible. “You are a major talent.”
Even in the dim light, I saw her face turn pink. Embarrassment? Pleasure? I didn’t know. I just had the driving urge to make it happen again.
“Who exactly is ‘they’?” she asked. “You’re not a mobster, are you?”
“ ‘They’ is a woman,” I said. “Her name is Lexi Brewer.”
Annabelle didn’t say a word, but I could feel her gaze on my face while I studied the leaves of the nearest tree, watching them flutter in the faint nighttime breeze. I don’t know why I didn’t tell her that Lexi was my sister. It wasn’t as if it was a secret, but I was trying to maintain a boundary between myself and Lexi, and by not acknowledging our family tie, I felt as if this made the whole thing more of a business arrangement.
“A woman?” she asked. Her tone was speculative. “Huh. So this woman, is she an ex-wife?”
“Never been married,” I said.
“Really?” she asked with a note of disbelief. I turned to look at her, locking my gaze on hers, and asked, “Do I really seem the marrying type to you?”
“Is there a type?” she countered. “It’s been my experience that marriage just sort of happens.”
“Just sort of happens?” I repeated. I couldn’t keep the horror out of my voice. “It’s a legally binding relationship with endless ramifications, not the least of which is losing half of your net worth if it doesn’t work out.”
A sigh slipped out of her. It was the sound of someone who knew the opposing argument so well that they didn’t feel the need to hear it again.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you telling me you’ve been married? You have an ex-husband?”
She propped her elbow on the chair arm and then rested her chin in her hand. She regarded me steadily when she held up her other hand and wiggled two fingers. “I have two.”
“What?” I was appalled. Not that she was divorced so much as that she’d ever thought marrying was a good idea to begin with. But how exactly did she have two exes when a cursory glance at her rental papers had informed me that she wasn’t even thirty yet?
“Shocking, isn’t it?” She grinned and then she laughed. “I told you I’m impulsive.”
“You also said you were reckless,” I reminded her. “I feel like two marriages at your age falls more into the reckless category.”
“I went through a very hard time after my mother died.” She fingered the tattoo on her wrist. Her eyes seemed bottomless with sadness. It made my chest ache, and I wanted to hug her. I was not a hugger. I resisted, but it was harder than it should have been.
She was very young when her mother died. She must have felt so very alone. I knew what that sort of loneliness felt like. I supposed the two marriages made sense in light of her grief. “I’m sorry.”
She nodded in acknowledgment. “The grief was so immense, like a great big black hole. I latched on to whatever, or more accurately whoever, I thought would fill the void. It took me a long time to figure out that I had to fill it myself and that it would take a long time.”
“And have you filled that void yet?” I asked. I told myself I was just being polite. I wasn’t asking for the seven-year-old boy who’d lost his parents to addiction, his sister at fourteen, and himself at thirty-five.
“Not really, no.” She shook her head, and her dark curls bounced almost as if inviting me to reach out and twine my fingers in them. “But maybe I will someday.”
“And what about your exes?” I asked. My curiosity was making me rude. I didn’t care. “Are you still friends?”
“No,” she said. “One of them is most definitely unhappy with me as I turned down his surprise second proposal—”
“Whoa, hold up.” I held up my hand. “Explain.”
“Ugh, I don’t want to,” she said. “I don’t come out well in this story.”
“And now you have to tell me,” I said. I was going to be as immovable as a boulder on this.
“Fine,” she said. “Annotated version only on the condition of no judgment and no laughing.”
“I’d never.” I put my hand over my heart.
“All right, so every year my ex and I celebrate our divorce by going to a fancy dinner, but this year signals got mixed and he thought we were in a place we were definitely not in, and he was about to propose . . .” She paused. A pained expression crossed over her face and I waited, literally on the edge of my chair, afraid to move in case it startled her into not sharing.
“Well, I caught on that he was about to propose, and I cut him off by saying I was moving here and then I downed my champagne.”
“And?” I prodded. Surely, that wasn’t it?
“And he’d put the ring in my glass and I choked on it,” she said. She gave me a look. “Please note if and when you ever propose to a woman, do not put the ring in her food or beverage. It took three whole days for the stupid ring to pass. The last contact I had with him was a terse text from him, informing me that the professionally cleaned ring had arrived at his place.”