Page 71 of The Invitation

Sounds easy, doesn’t it? But, I admit, I’m scared about what he might say. And what I might confess.

I met this guy a couple of weeks ago, and it’s been a roller coaster since. And frighteningly, I fear this is just the start of the ride. A thrilling but scary ride.

I should get off the roller coaster. I don’t need or want this kind of complication in my life. The aftermath, this uncertainty, isn’t why I came to Arlington Hall today.

So why am I still here?

Chapter 18

I question whether I should go to dinner. Whether—after what happened in the steam room—he’ll even be there. But then a card is pushed under my door confirming my reservation. For two. So it looks like I’m staying on the roller coaster. I’m trying not to forget that I just walked away from a man for wanting what I couldn’t give him. And now I’m getting involved with a man who wants something I can’t give him. Control. But isn’t that okay to an extent? To allow himsomecontrol? Take freedom from the pressure when I want it? Is that how this could work? And is that realistic?

Fuck, I don’t even know.

Talk to him. Just talk. That’s my plan for dinner. Lay my cards on the table and see what he says. I can take the fling. Want to, actually. What I can’t take are the interludes of drama and conflict spiked by his mood swings and extreme reactions.Possessive.

Except I’m not his to possess.

So why the fuck am I slipping into the underwear he’s bought me?

I close my eyes, hiding from myself in the floor-length mirror, as if avoiding explaining myself to myself, as I shimmy into my satin slip dress, pulling the straps into place. The material, cut on the cross, skims my hips, falling just below my knee, the low-scoop neckline sitting only a fraction above the balcony cups of the bra he chose. I sit on one of the armchairs and slide my feet into my slingback gold stilettos and stand,taking my hands over my shoulders and lifting my hair, pushing it away so it tumbles down my back.

Ready.

But not.

I leave the suite and make my way down to the restaurant, smiling mildly at Anouska as I pass her in the lobby. “Enjoy dinner,” she says, a touch of knowing in her tone.

“Thank you.” The moment I reach the doors to the restaurant, I see him. He’s at the far back of the Orangery, at a table for two, looking out across the rose garden. As if he’s sensed I’m here, he cranes his neck and looks over his shoulder. And the moment our eyes meet, my heart turns. I’m winded. He literally takes my breath away. His face. It kills me, the raw, rugged beauty. His eyes sparkle as he gets up, revealing himself in his full, devastating glory. He’s in a light-grey suit, his shirt stark white, his darker grey tie perfectly knotted.

I’m fucked. So completely fucked. It defies reason. It defiesme. This guy, in all his visual perfection, has some serious issues—I should run in the opposite direction, end this slow creep into the unknown. And yet ...

I’m here begging for more. Begging forhim. He’s definitely struggling with something, and I have an unshakable desperation to know what. I have to know him. What makes him tick, who he is, where he’s been, and where he’s going.

The maître d’ approaches, and I point to Jude. “I’m with Mr. Harrison,” I say quietly.

“Oh yes, of course, please.” He sweeps an arm out, and I start walking on shaky legs through the tables to Jude, admiring his faint smile as he slips his hands into his pockets, getting comfortable in his stance, and watches me.

I slow to a stop before him, my heart going crazy. “I’m glad you came,” he says, his voice deep but soft. Did he think I wouldn’t?

“I wondered whether I should,” I admit, keeping his gaze. His eyes are a muted grey this evening, a hint of green around the edges of his irises. He’s calm. It’s insane that I can tell that from the shade of his eyes.

Nodding very slightly and removing just one hand from a pocket, he leans in, almost cautious, and slips it around my lower back, kissing my cheek. “You definitely should.”

That’s yet to be determined.

Releasing me, he pulls out my chair, and as I lower, I glance around the restaurant, feeling eyes on me. I’m not wrong. My presence has attracted interest from various guests, including the woman I saw in the lobby this morning. Katherine. She’s at a table with a man on the other side of the restaurant. She smiles, and I return it, smiling at another three people all looking this way before getting back to the man opposite me. The man who, obviously, doesn’t dine with women here often.

That settles something in me.

“Wine?” Jude asks, passing me the menu.

I don’t take it.Let me do all the thinking.“What do you recommend?”

He falters, retracting the menu, a wave of satisfaction travelling across his perfect face. He likes me handing the reins to him. It’s just wine. “I recommend Krug.”

“Champagne? Are we celebrating?”

He waves the waiter over and orders a bottle before looking at me across the table, resting back in his chair. “Why do people think they can only drink champagne when they’re celebrating?” he asks, his face straight but light. “Every day we get to live is cause for celebration.”

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