Those Three Words: A Single Dad, Billionaire Boss Romance(78)

I don’t push for more. I just wait till she feels comfortable enough to elaborate.

“I don’t want to lose Eleanor. I feel like I’m abandoning her.” Her lip quivers and it breaks my heart that she’s been struggling with this alone.

“Oh, Margot,” I say, standing and pulling her in for an embrace. “You’re not losing her. You’ll see her every day at school.”

“It’s not the same. I’ll miss spending one-on-one time with her, teaching her piano and singing with her.” Her lips turn down into a frown as tears pool in her eyes. “I’ll miss watching her line up her My Little Ponies every night before bed.”

She brings her hands to her face as sobs rack her body. I pull her against me, wrapping my arms around her tightly as I rub her back.

“You can come over anytime and see her, Margot. I promise.”

I release her and place my hands on either side of her face, looking in her eyes. “I’ll never keep her from you.”

She nods her head and I wipe away a few stray tears that have tumbled down her cheeks.

“It’s just not going to be the same though. I’ll miss it all.”

“Margot, it doesn’t have to change, you know.”

She looks at me, blinking several times. “What do you mean?”

I reach down and grab her hands, bringing them to my lips. I place a kiss on each one.

“You’re following your heart, taking this job that will allow you to fulfill your dreams and goals. I would never want you to change that because you took this job and felt like you were abandoning Eleanor. I want you to be happy. I want you to be fulfilled and love life.”

“What do you want?” she asks softly.

“Total transparency?” She nods.

Fuck it.

“I want to marry you. I want you to be my wife. I don’t want you to move out, unless it’s moving out of your room and into mine. I want us to both build a life together and memories with Eleanor.”

She stares at me, her eyes unblinking this time.

“You’re good for me. You remind of the value in life and love. You make me a better man. I don’t say all this to pressure you or scare you. I’m not asking and I don’t need an answer. I’m just being honest. I love you, Margot Silver, with every fiber of my being.”

A small smile spreads across her lips and it feels like the elephant on my chest gets up, the tension slowly releasing that I didn’t even know was building as I expressed my feelings.

“Do you love me?”

I’ve wanted to ask her that so many times, but I’ve been too scared.

“Yes,” she says, nodding her head.

“Tell me again.”

She smiles wider this time. “I love you, Graham Hayes.”

She launches into my arms, and I bury my nose in her hair as I hold her tight. Finally, we break our embrace and step back. I grab her hands and look into her eyes.

“So,” I say nervously. “What happens now?”





27





MARGOT





ONE MONTH LATER…





“Are they happy tears?”

I nod my head, cupping my hands around my mouth as we step out of the bar.

I turn and throw my arms around Graham.

“I can’t believe you remembered it was The Bluebird.”

He grabs my hand and ushers me inside.

“I came here once about five years ago. Mom was still alive, but the cancer had already taken so much of her. I barely stayed through two songs because I couldn’t keep my composure.” My breath is a little shaken, but I squeeze Graham’s hand to calm my nerves.

We approach the hostess. “Hello again, Mr. Hayes. Your table is right this way,” she says, smiling with an outstretched arm.

“Hello again?”

“I stopped in after work to make the reservation.”

I look around the dimly lit space as we snake our way through some tables and up onto a platform that has a red velvet booth.

“Here you are. A waiter will be with you momentarily. Enjoy your evening.”

We thank the hostess and I slide into the booth when a photo on the wall behind it catches my eye. I freeze, my eyes taking a second to register the image. It’s an 11x15 photo of my mother.

She looks radiant—in her element. Her red hair is pinned back at the sides, her bangs curled off her forehead. Her hair contrasts against her forest-green dress that cinches at her waist, creating an hourglass shape, her delicate shoulders highlighted with capped sleeves. She looks like a young Susan Hayward.

“How?”

“When I stopped by, I asked the manager if they happen to have any old photos. He put me in touch with the owner’s son Bobby who still runs the place and he let me go through all these old boxes in the back.”

I can’t stop staring at the photo. I’ve never seen it before. I turn my head to Graham. “Are there others?” I ask hopefully.

“Yes, only a handful but there are. I’m having them restored and framed at a photo shop.”

My lips tremble and I fan myself so I don’t completely fall apart and ruin my makeup. I look below the photo and see a gold plate with an engraving that reads: In loving memory of Lydia Silver, our desert rose.