The Last Eligible Billionaire(26)
I jerk to a stop. “My mother came into the bedroom last night?” That wasn’t a dream. “What did you say to her?”
“I shushed her and told her you’d had a few long days and that you needed your sleep.” She tilts her head. “She was really horrified. Is it a Rutherford family thing that you’re not supposed to be shirtless with a woman in bed in real life in your own home?”
“Yes.”
She studies me, and when I tug her hand to move again, she doesn’t move. “Is it the hair dye? I was worried yesterday about leaving it on too long, but I actually like how bright it turned out. It’s like, hello, world, Begonia is ready to experience all of you again. But hair dye isn’t against your family’s principles and image, is it?”
“Yes. It’s the hair dye.”
“Are you always a bad liar, or are you just trying to make me stop talking?”
“Yes.”
The confounding woman laughs. “So sleep doesn’t make you more charming. Noted. Were you up early enough to see the sun rise? It was glorious this morning. Like Monet painted it. I know it’s totally cliché for an art teacher to say Monet’s her favorite, when I could pick Berthe Morisot or Alfred Sisley, or a non-impressionist, but Monet’s colors are like—looking at his water lilies collection is like seeing the full potential of my soul on display. They make me happy and peaceful and hopeful all at the same time.”
I frown. “Have you been to Musée Marmottan Monet?”
“No, but it’s totally on the bucket list. I started a Paris fund the day I left Chad, and if I budget right, I can get there in two years.”
Her face is shining, eyes lit up, her smile wide, as though the idea of pinching pennies to afford a trip to Paris to see a gallery featuring hundreds of pieces by her favorite artist makes her happy.
And not a small amount of happiness, but more excitement than I’ve ever felt over anything in my life since—
Dammit.
Since I got my first pet. “When I was six, my parents got us a puppy for the holidays. I came down with a horrible cold the same day and lived in utter misery for a week while hugging that damn dog at every opportunity until my nanny suggested I was allergic to it.”
She squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry. That’s heartbreaking.”
“We had fish tanks instead for the rest of my childhood.”
“My dad ran a summer camp. Mom hated it, which is why they got divorced, but I loved it. Hyacinth and I spent every summer there, running wild and playing on the ropes course and shooting archery and swimming in the pool and riding horses and fishing in the lake. We had minnows for bait, but neither of us could bear to actually hook them, so we’d sneak them back to our cabin and try to raise them as pets.”
“We had jellyfish and stingrays in our tanks.”
Her eyes go wide, and after a moment of her eyebrows arching wildly, she bursts out laughing. “Of course you did.”
A reluctant smile tugs my lips. “There was a very large grouper that I named O-face.”
She snorts. “You didn’t.”
“I was informed quickly that the grouper preferred to not be mocked for its expression, and it was renamed Theodore. And the octopus that I named Octopussy was rapidly renamed Harrison.”
Her laughter mingles with the sound of the surf, and for the first time since my phone rang with the news two weeks ago that my cousin Thomas had passed, I feel as though I can take a full breath.
It’s one small moment of peace without the weight of grief and familial expectations and my sudden status as the world’s last eligible billionaire bachelor.
This is the respite I sought when I left New York for Maine.
She was right to insist we walk, for more reasons than appearances.
“Hyacinth named an entire batch of minnows after all the roles Jonas played one summer,” Begonia says.
My sigh is so automatic, I can’t stop it.
“Do you not get along with Jonas?” she asks. “Or does it just annoy you that everyone thinks he’s so perfect?”
“You accused me of setting you up yesterday, but I’m beginning to wonder if the opposite is true, Ms. Fairchild.”
“Don’t Ms. Fairchild me, Mr. Rutherford. I saw you in dancing hamster pajama pants. Fancy doesn’t work between us anymore. Also, I work with teenagers, and I have yet to see any set of siblings who adore each other all the time, even the ones who like each other most of the time. It’s not natural to not have conflict with your family. If Hyacinth was as famous as Jonas is, I’d probably sigh like that too. And we might be twins and adore each other, but we fight plenty too. Hello? Signed non-disclosure agreement? You have a very rare opportunity to bare your soul to someone who won’t repeat a word, won’t judge you and who’s had enough therapy in the past year to probably say some very insightful things about your life that just might make you smile more often. Hit me with it. What’s the story with you and Jonas?”
“He got married.”
“You wanted his wife for yourself?”
“Dear god, no. I didn’t want to be the richest single man in the world. It makes me a target for more attention than—”
“Hayes!” someone calls from the road above. “Oh my gosh, Hayes! That is you. Hi! Hi, I’m Martina.”