Wherever It Leads(71)

“I’d really appreciate that. No one gives a shit about Brady. Grant, his employer, the government—they all just left him there to die. If you have anything, as small as you might think it is, please let us have it.”

“I will. You have my word.” His voice wobbles and he stands, wiping his hands down his pants again. “There was another reason I wanted you and him to come to Pano.”

“What’s that?”

“Because I needed to know . . .” he groans and sweeps his hand through his hair. “I needed to know if you wanted Grant back or not.”

“I told you I didn’t.”

“You told me you loved him.”

“That doesn’t mean I want him back.”

“If love is what you told me it was, then if you loved him, you might want him back.”

“Now you’re going to get all philosophical on me? You go from not saying hardly anything to being profound?”

“I’m not being profound. I just wanted to see how you looked at him.”

My chest tightens. I almost can’t say it. “Why?”

He just shrugs and grins a twisted grin that melts me. “I wanted to know if you looked at him like you look at me.” He stalks towards me, his eyes boring into mine. “I needed to see if that twinkle in your eyes, that one—right there,” he says, pressing his fingertip lightly on my eyelid, “if it was there when you looked at him.”

“Was it?” I breathe.

“No.”

Finally, his arms wrap around me and I make no resistance. I’ve been craving his touch for far too long. I melt into him as his lips find mine. They work together effortlessly, like they were created for this very thing. My hands go to his hair and I brush back the silky strands as I pull back.

“Have any more questions, Miss Calloway?” he asks, wrinkling his nose.

“I sure don’t, Mr. Abbott.”

“Does that mean what I think it means?” His fingers drag around my hip and across my pubic bone.

“That means, now, we f*ck.”

“But we’re in the middle of my restaurant,” he says as blandly as he can manage, all the while fighting a smile.

“So we are.”

He takes my hand in his and pilots me to the door. A knock raps from the other side just before we get there and Fenton tells them to enter.

The server comes in and stops, a confused look on her face. “Is something wrong?”

“We’re leaving,” Fenton says. “Tell the chef it was fine, we just had a change in plans.”

“Sure . . .” She steps out of the way as we charge by, me struggling to keep up in my heels.

“Fent! Slow down,” I giggle.

He turns and swoops down, picking me up. I shriek, tossing an arm around the back of his neck, my legs dangling over his arms.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting you out of here.”

“Why?”

“I’m taking you home. With me.”

He strides through the entrance and I spy his car sitting below. I’m in the passenger’s seat and we’re tearing through the parking lot before I know it.





It’s exactly how I envisioned it.

Fenton’s living room reflects everything I know about him. Sturdy, brown leather furniture sits around an oversized cinnamon-colored rug. One wall has a dark hued, built-in entertainment center with framed photos, books, and small trinkets that I’m dying to get a closer peek of.

It’s a mixture of responsibility and fun, of classic and modern. The room is sophisticated in some ways, yet comfortable in others. It’s just so Fenton.

He pulls me through the room, sliding one frame of glass to the side, and out onto an expansive deck. The view is stunning. The sea is as far as we can see, although I can’t currently see too far because of the night sky. Silver stars twinkle above, the water pushing in and going out, creating our own private white noise.

Each side of the house is lined with trees, so even though he has neighbors, we can’t see them. There are no lights. Just serenity.

I stand at the railing and gaze across the water. I feel him come up behind me, sense his presence, before he nuzzles his face against my neck.

“Do you like it here?”

“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.

“My father built this for my mother.”

“Did you grow up here?” I ask, imagining a little Fent playing on the beach below. Maybe a dog chasing him or a group of little boys playing tag.

He laughs. “No.”

“You must love it though.”

“I feel close to my family. My mother loved this place. Dad had it built a few years before he passed away and it’s where she lived out the rest of her life.”

“What happened to her?”

“They said a heart attack, but I figure it was a broken heart.”

His arms come around me, grabbing the rail on either side. His chest is pressed against my back and I let my head fall back on his shoulder. His body rises and falls, his breathing regulating with the waves.

I’ve never felt so peaceful with a man before. Even though I’d prepared myself hours earlier to walk away from him, now after his explanation, I feel my walls crumbling. It’s so easy being with him, such a natural give-and-take. I don’t feel like I have to be anyone, give anything, or do anything I don’t want to, and that’s in stark contrast to any relationship I’ve ever been in before. And even though this isn’t a relationship per se, it is . . . something . . . and I like it, even if I can’t define it.