Accidental Tryst (Charleston #1)(63)

I inhale and lean back against the seat. I probably would have enjoyed getting to know my grandfather as an adult.

"All that said," Isabel continues, her voice wobbling, "I made mistakes, dreadful, heart-shattering mistakes . . . but I tried to fix them. Maybe not hard enough. I guess we were both too stubborn to make things right before it was too late. But please"—she looks at me, her watery blue eyes fixing on mine—"never think you don't have a family. That you don't belong. We're honored to have you be a Montgomery."

I sit forward. Then unsatisfied with that, I stand. I walk to the table and rest a finger on the stack of letters then turn. The door. God, I want to leave so badly. I look back at Isabel. She looks so hopeful. Sad too.

"It'll take some getting used to." I finger a paperweight next to the letters, picking it up and hefting the weight. "I've never had a family."

Isabel's eyes flicker at my statement.

"But rest assured," I go on, "I have no intention of being unreasonable regarding your income."

"That's not—Oh, Trystan. That's not why I wanted to talk to you."

I manage a humorless puff of laughter and replace the paperweight.

"Of course. I just wanted to make sure you knew that."

She purses her lips.

"I'm going to go," I tell her then look at the letters. There are only a few. I'm not sure how hard she tried, or if I believe her, but I guess I'll have to see for myself. "Can I take these?"

Isabel stands, hiding any offense well. "Of course. Though, Trystan"—she wrings her hands—"I hope you know you always have a home here. I hope you do come here. Back to Charleston. The company could use your presence. I can't help thinking Wilson had a greater plan in death than he did in life."

"Thank you for dinner." I smile stiffly. "Please give my excuses, but I need some air."

"Of course."

Twenty steps later and I'm on the sidewalk of East Battery. I follow the salt breeze to the left and make my way across the park I was in that very morning and finally reach the water's edge. Standing at the metal railing on the seawall, I breathe in deeply, trying to fill my lungs. I think I do believe my grandmother. And none of us can say we've lived our lives without regrets. But how big are they? And how long until you realize and start trying to make better choices?



* * *



My phone buzzes.



* * *



It's a message from Emmy, but it begins:



* * *



This is Armand . . .





30





Emmy





The cab from the airport pulled up at the corner of my pedestrian-only street. I'd had the driver stop at the other end so I didn't have to walk past my own place to Armand's, but still I peered warily ahead. To think I'd left here at the beginning of the week totally clueless at how sideways life could go so fast. Four days and three nights later and everything looked the same, but I was a completely different person.

I hadn't even gotten laid, but I felt vulnerable and a bit screwed over. How weird was that? Had we had sex? Did phone sex count? It felt like it did. If I was honest with myself, it felt categorically like the most intimate sex I'd ever had.

My wheelie bag made an absolute racket as I walked up the road, bouncing along the stones, but it drowned out the fact my heart was pounding in my ears. I started jogging as the gate to Armand's place around the side of his little café came into view, and I didn't stop until I'd made it through his gate, past his little courtyard, up the iron stairs that hugged the building and was banging on the door to his studio apartment.

I'd barely gotten in three knocks before the door swung inward.

"Something chasing you?" Armand asked, his eyes wide and amused.

"Just my self-esteem," I grumbled as I breezed inside. I let go of my bag and went straight to his French doors with the Juliette balcony that looked over the street. Sweeping my gaze left and right and not seeing anyone but a group of tourists outside the art gallery four doors down, I breathed out a huge sigh of relief.

"Is it out there?" Armand asked, settling himself onto the corner of his futon he'd probably gotten up from to answer the door. He was in jeans and a black button down and looked great—already dressed for our night out.

"No," I answered and turned back to the room.

He was drinking a cup of something with one leg propped up, ankle over knee. "Trystan came by. You just missed him."

I turned sharply. "He did? Did you tell him I was coming home?"

"He asked as if he already knew.”

I swallowed. “What did you tell him?"

"When I realized he'd figured out you might be coming home, I told him he could stay at your place, that you made other arrangements."

"Oh. Good."

“I told Annie we were going out dancing tonight. Maybe she texted you and he saw it. I don't know. I forgot to tell her about the phone situation."

So all my deciding what to tell him was for nothing. And now I felt horrible as if I'd lied.

"Emmy, he seemed like a guy who just got brushed off by a girl he really liked. He seemed . . . disappointed."