Tinsel (Lark Cove #4)(87)

She waited, knowing there was something bothering me. I think she’d been waiting for two weeks for me to tell her why we’d flown out of my mother’s house so quickly.

The last thing I wanted was for her to feel unworthy. She wasn’t. But my own personal hang-ups were fucking with me.

Her money was still an issue for me. Her heritage. If Dad hadn’t died, maybe these things wouldn’t be plaguing me. Maybe I would have had an easier time saying fuck it all, because he’d be around and I could try and win him over.

I loved her.

I needed her.

Sofia was my one, like Mom was for him.

But he wasn’t on this earth any longer. His ghost wasn’t going to change his opinions.

“It’s nothing, babe.” I stood and went over to her for a kiss on her bare lips, tasting a hint of mint. “I’ll get coffee.”

It hurt her when I shut her out. I saw the pain flash in her eyes. But I kept quiet, hoping I’d get my head lined up before we had our talk.

I left the room and went to get the coffee going. When it was done, I took her mug back to the bathroom, another part of our routine.

“What do you want for breakfast?” I set her coffee down on the vanity.

She found my gaze in the mirror. “The truth.”

“Sofia.” I sighed. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t do that,” she snapped, diving into her makeup bag. She spoke to me through the mirror as she furiously swiped on some moisturizer. “You know what I learned after two failed marriages? I never wanted to really talk to my ex-husbands. I didn’t really care what they had to say. With you? Every cell in my body cares. Every word means something, I care so much. Do you?”

“You know I do.”

“Then talk. Be honest with me. Please,” she begged. “I’ve never had honest, and I’m aching for it.”

Christ, I couldn’t say no. This conversation was going to end one of two ways. Either we’d come out of it stronger. Or she’d be on a plane back to New York with my broken heart in her handbag.

I’d dealt enough poker games to understand odds.

These were not in my favor.

“I don’t know where to start,” I admitted, setting down my coffee cup. Then I went to the toilet seat, sitting down and letting my shoulders hunch forward.

“How about with the basics? Do you want to live in Montana?” she asked.

“Yes. Do you?”

“No. Not full-time.”

I sighed. “I have to work. I have bills to pay. Which means I need to live here.”

“I have money. We could pay off your properties and buy a hundred more if you want. You don’t have to work at the bar unless you want to. Isn’t that the goal of your properties anyway? To leverage your investments so you can travel and be free to come and go as you please?”

“Yes, it is. Which is why I have to work. I’m not taking your money.”

Sofia was bent close to the mirror, putting on some foundation with a sponge. She froze at my statement, the sponge poised right next to her nose. “Really?”

“Yes, really. I’m not that man.”

“Are you serious?”

I gave her one nod. “Yes.”

She rolled her eyes, dabbing the tip of her nose and putting the sponge away. She yanked a brush from her makeup bag and a small black compact. She opened it, pressing the brush so hard into the powder that little pink dust particles flew around her hand. “I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

I sat there waiting, thinking she’d come up with something soon. But she just went about putting on her makeup.

She went for the eyeshadow next. The entire time she put it on her eyelids, her nostrils were flaring. After that, she swiped on some liner and then mascara.

I still waited, thinking words would follow the makeup. But she put her cosmetic bag away and got out her hair dryer. The noise it created blocked out any chance of conversation. With every angry stroke of her brush through her hair, I heard her though.

I knew better than to leave the room. So I sat on the toilet, biding my time.

She finished with her hair, put away the dryer and turned to me with a hand perched on her hip.

This was it.

Make or break time. She’d either understand I was a man and there were certain lines I’d drawn. Or this would be a hurdle we couldn’t get over.

“Your pride is foolish.” She was fuming, but her voice was eerily steady. “Foolish male pride.”

“It’s not—”

“It is.” She stopped me with a hand. “I’m not giving up my money because you have some caveman, animalistic desire to be the provider in the house.”

“Babe, that’s not what I’m saying. I want you to have your money.”

Her anger deflated, confusion taking over. “Then I don’t understand.”

“I’m never going to be able to provide you the life you’re used to.”

“That’s what I mean!” She stood tall. “That’s just prid—”

“Hold up.” I stood from the toilet, walking to her and putting my hands on her shoulders. “I’m never going to be able to provide you the life you’re used to. I made peace with that a long time ago. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to take your money. I need to be successful. On my own.”