Trillion(56)

My mother’s expression softens, but her posture stays rigid. She’s warming up to him, but we’re hardly past tepid.

“So tell me, Trey, what do you love about my daughter?” she asks. “Why are you in such a hurry to lock her down?”

To my mother, marriage is a prison sentence.

His gaze lands on me, and his mouth curls at the side. “Everything.”

“Such as?” she asks.

“It’s difficult to put into words, but I’ll try,” he says. “She’s the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning. The last thing I think about before I fall asleep. She’s beautiful, not just on the outside, but on the inside. She drops coins in charity jars when she thinks no one’s looking. She tears up at those ASPCA commercials they run on late-night TV. She happily snaps photos when someone recognizes me on the street. I’ve never met anyone as witty as her. Every conversation we’ve ever had has kept me on my toes. Some days, just when I think I’ve figured her out, she throws me for a loop, and I’m back to square one. Your daughter is a fascinating riddle of a woman. Strong-willed. Independent. And for all those reasons and more, I can’t lock her down fast enough.”

My heart gallops, my head dizzies, and my hands turn clammy.

I wasn’t expecting his answer to be so … heartfelt?

Mom leans back in her seat, her head angled, her stare less piercing than it’s been all evening.

“That’s so sweet,” Emmeline says. “Sophie, what do you like about Trey? I want to hear your answer.”

A heat flushes my cheeks as the spotlight moves on me. Nothing I can say will even come close to that—not because I don’t think highly of him, but because I don’t allow myself to think about all the ways he’s been wonderful to me this past month.

“Sophie’s always been private with her emotions,” Mom says.

“Yes.” Trey’s mouth forms a flat line. “I’m quite aware of that.”

I could say he makes me feel safe, desired. But I couldn’t tell them that I adore his honesty—that he’s been clear from day one that he only wants me for one thing—to make him a husband and a father. I also can’t tell them he’s as generous between the sheets as he is skilled. Or that I’m doing all of this because he’s offering me an insane amount of money.

Clearing my throat, I decide to wing it.

“Aside from the fact that he’s blindingly good looking,” I say with a teasing tone despite the fact that it’s true. “He’s the smartest businessman I’ve ever met. He’s ambitious. Driven. More sentimental than most people think. He’s honest. Curious …”

“Yes, but how does he make you feel? Obviously, Trey, we know you’re driven and successful or you wouldn’t be where you are today,” Mom says before redirecting her attention to me. “So what is it about him that’s made you throw everything out the window and marry someone you’ve only just met?”

She knows me too well. She’s starting to see through the thin veil we’ve created.

I’m going to have to do better than that.

Trey squeezes my hand under the table once again, a silent reminder that we’re in this together.

It hits me hard, the flood of reasons—real reasons—I admire him, and they have nothing to do with all those zeroes I stand to receive. It starts with his commanding presence, I think. The way everyone stands at attention the second he walks in the door, followed by the way my body melts with his touch. And when he looks at me, my breath hitches sometimes—but only when I let it. Last week, I overheard a conversation with his accountant where he mentioned he donates one hundred million dollars per month to various charities. That’s one-point-two billion a year that he could be funneling back into his businesses, but he chooses to do good things with that cash instead. And the fact that he’s never once brought that up to me tells me he does it out of the kindness of his heart, not because he wants recognition.

And he’s thoughtful. More than people realize. He had housekeeping change the laundry soap because it made me itchy. And after learning about my cantaloupe allergy, he ensured his chef permanently removed it from the shopping list. He’s detail-oriented and nothing gets past him. He can tell by the way I walk when my shoulders ache and he knows when I bite my lower lip I’m ready for him to pounce on me then and there.

He’s also respectful of my work ethic, never insisting that I quit my job so I can stay home and be a kept woman.

In all of my years, I’ve never met anyone quite like him.

So I say none of those things, because if I did, he’d know they were true. He’d know how I really feel about him. And that would open a door we’ve yet to walk through.

“When you know, you know,” I say before rising to clear the table. “Trey brought you gifts. Trey, you want to grab them?”

He studies me before excusing himself to retrieve the wrapped boxes we left by the rug at the front door. When he returns, he hands one to my mother and one to my sister. A minute later, Mom is holding up a vintage Pucci caftan that once belonged to Trey’s mother, and Emmeline is fawning over a signed and framed Fleetwood Mac poster.

“This is beautiful, Trey. Thank you.” Mom holds it up, and while I’ve no idea where she’ll wear that, the colors bring out the violet in her irises and the implication behind the gift doesn’t go unnoticed to me. It couldn’t have been easy for him to part with something that once belonged to his mother. The man has a box of his father’s cigars sitting on the corner of his grandfather’s desk. He could buy anything he wanted in this world, but those are the things he values.