Page 27 of Whiteout

“And here, after all this time, I thought she wanted to see me.” A lone tear made a trail down her face. Swiping it away, Breanna got up and stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass. She snickered. “Silly me. Guess not.”

Derek came to stand behind her. He massaged her shoulders, his front pressing into the small of her back. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Though he was only trying to comfort her, he was too close, too familiar, and it made her uncomfortable. Breanna turned around.

Looking down at her, he offered up a sympathetic smile. “Hungry?”

“Starving.” Literally. She hadn’t had an actual meal in days.

“Shall we then?” Derek gave her his arm. She took it. “Francie’s duck is out of this world.”

He didn’t lie.

Roasted to perfection and paired with a blackberry-orange sauce, the duck was surprisingly delicious. Ready and waiting for them when they got to the family dining room, they served it with a medley of roasted root vegetables and arugula salad. Heavenly fresh-baked bread and butter. It was like being in an exclusive restaurant instead of dinner at home, then again, this was no ordinary house.

“Do you always eat like this?”

“Francie loves to cook,” he said with a chuckle, pouring burgundy wine into her glass. “She wanted you to feel welcome, same as I do.”

“You’ve both been so kind.” Breanna sipped on her Pinot Noir, glancing out the window.

“If you’re feeling up to it, I can show you around the house after dinner.”

“That’d be great.” Her eyes flicked back to him. “What did you mean, it’s left to me to settle my grandmother’s estate?”

“Just formalities. Documents that require your signature.” Derek smirked and cut into his duck. “We can go over everything tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay.”

Using his fork, he pointed to her plate. “What are you doing?”

“Picking out the beets.”

Carrots, parsnips, and fingerling potatoes, she could do—even rutabagas. But not beets.

Gross.

“Why?”

“They’ve always tasted like dirt to me.”

“They’re good for you.” He speared one from her plate, popping it into his mouth. “And delicious.”

“You can have them.” She placed her napkin on the table. “I’m stuffed.”

“No room for dessert?” His napkin joined hers. “Chocolate mousse. Francie adds a touch of Grand Marnier—exquisite.”

“That sounds good.”

“Tell you what, let me show you around.” Derek stood. Extending his hand, he assisted Breanna up from her chair. “And afterward, we can have our dessert.”

Escorting her from the dining room, his arm came around her waist. She didn’t want it there, but didn’t particularly mind it either. Besides, it would come across as rude if she shrugged him off, wouldn’t it? His touch didn’t thrill her as Sinjin’s had. No sparks. Her pulse didn’t race. Her breath didn’t catch. Though surely that wasn’t his intention, anyway.

Or was it?

Derek St. John, with his posh GQ clothes and suave politesse, seemed to be the type of man who’d go for a sophisticated woman. Someone who could play hostess at his dinner parties and make him look good. Breanna envisioned a trophy wife in his future, but then perhaps he already had one.

Beyond the three-story foyer that really couldn’t be called a foyer, he led her through a media room, game room, library, and study. That’s what Derek called it anyway, but it looked like a home office to her. A sunroom, he referred to as the solarium. Fancy schmancy. An outdoor fireplace and kitchen on the terrace.

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