Page 53 of The Suit

“Giving you plans,” I replied, stepping on the gas and miraculously roaring through the next two set of traffic lights. “Put your seatbelt on.”

“Latham, drop me off at my hotel.”

“For you to fester and cry all weekend? No.”

“This is none of your business!”

I took a left at the next turning, hitting the road that would lead us to the interstate taking us directly into the Hamptons. “That’s right, it’s not. And you don’t have to tell me what’s upset you, but my father brought me up to never let a woman cry if he could do something to stop it, even if he hadn’t been the cause, so that’s what I’m doing.”

I could see her scowling at me in my periphery, holding the string of expletives she wanted to shout on the tip of her tongue, and it warmed my heart. After two more sets of traffic lights she huffed, slid further down in her seat with a swipe at her nose, then resumed the staring out of her window. “Are you going to at least tell me where you’re taking me?”

“Best place on earth, you’ll see,” I replied with a wink, and I swear I saw the side of her mouth curl upward, the dimple peeking out before vanishing again. But that tiny movement had my heart jumping in a way I’d never felt before and had me questioning myself once again.

What the actual fuck was I doing?

The boys were going to have a field day.

11

Rafe

The gates swung wide, and I forced the car to crawl up the expansive, mile-long driveway, slowly enough that she could soak in my favorite view.

The Atlantic Ocean curled around my parents’ house, built on a peninsula offering uninterrupted views as far as the eye could see. The sunset alone was worth the hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar price tag the house could be sold at. Not that it would ever be sold – there would be a lot of dead bodies behind mine before that happened.

“Where are we?”

It was the first thing she’d said the entire car journey.

I glanced at her, still staring out the window. “This is my family’s house.”

“You own this?”

“Yes, our family trust does.”

She was silent once more, at least for the remaining two minutes it took to pull up in front of the house where Cynthia was waiting as I knew she would be. I hadn’t had a chance to warn her I wouldn’t be alone, but it wouldn’t matter. Like Rory could do no right, I could do no wrong.

I knew the second Beulah had seen her, because she immediately sat up straight.

“Who’s that? Is that your mom? I’m not coming to meet you family, Latham.” She hissed out that last part so convincingly I made a mental note to check for a forked tongue next time she used it on me. It would be one explanation for why it was so wicked.

I laughed at the horror on her face. “You won’t, don’t worry. That’s Cynthia, our housekeeper.”

I cut the engine and turned to Beulah; her hands rammed between her legs in a display of discomfort I had never expected.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she muttered, although the more I heard her say it, the more I was beginning to think it was more for her benefit than anyone else’s; as if saying the words aloud would convince her to leave.

“Okay, let’s get one thing straight. Whether you should or shouldn’t be here is irrelevant. You are here. It’s the weekend, and we could both use some time out of the city, and work.” I added, “If you want to leave, I’m not stopping you. In fact, I’ll drive you back, but you’re not going to be alone this weekend. Your choice.”

I meant it. Anyone who cried until they couldn’t breathe was not someone I was about to desert - even if that person was Beulah Holmes.

“But what about Cynthia?” Beulah’s eyes darted over to where she was standing outside, waiting, no doubt wanting torope me into a hug.

“What about her?”

“What’s she going to think?”

That had me laughing in her face at the sheer absurdity of the question - and who’d posed it. “Since when did Beulah Holmes give a shit what people thought?”

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