Page 26 of Surrender
Gareth’s estate is a beautiful piece of art. Clearly some architect’s passion project nestled perfectly in the lush, green countryside. A perfect snow globe in the oasis of nature. The inside is as stunning as the outside. It’s richly styled with lots of comfortable furniture. Fun, funky accent pieces. And just enough unique tchotchkes to make it feel like it’s not simply ripped out of a catalogue.
I asked Gareth once if he built it himself and remember feeling a smidge disappointed when he said he didn’t. But he said as soon as he laid eyes on the property, he had to have it. He said it was important for his home to be completely different from where he grew up.
I wanted to ask what he meant by that, but I didn’t get the impression he wanted to share. I’m always acutely aware of when to push for more information and when to stop asking. My mom used to joke that I was an empath because I can sense a person’s mood and adapt myself until they feel comfortable. It’s not a skill I’ve ever honed. It’s just what comes naturally. I enjoy keeping the peace. Peace is good. Peace is calm. Everyone loves peace. Myself included.
It also means that I tend to avoid conflict, which is why it seemed easier to avoid Gareth for so long. But with how our last couple of interactions have been, I’m hopeful we can resume the peaceful existence we once had.
Gareth is standing on the front step of his house, waiting for me as I park. He’s dressed in a dark green sweater, his strong hands jammed into the pockets of his faded jeans. His scuffed leather Oxfords tie in perfectly. I bought everything on his body right now, and something about that makes my chest purr with pride.
That and I love Gareth’s style.
Yes, I realise I’m the one who selects all his clothes. But I have meetings with all of my clients to figure out their style before I purchase a single item for them. Gareth gravitates toward classic, masculine, and understated luxury. You wouldn’t know he’s wearing thousand dollar shoes unless you knew high-end clothing. There’s a beauty to that because he can go for a walk in a park or sit down in his agent’s office and always fit right in.
Callum only wore a few of the things I purchased for him. He always mixed and matched my things with his own selections. It annoyed me because he liked to think his style was superior to mine. The first night we met, he smirked down his nose at my Target dress.
When we moved to Manchester, he started asking me why I couldn’t dress like so-and-so’s wife. If it wasn’t for Sophia, I wouldn’t have lasted a month with him.
“You came.” Gareth’s deep voice vibrates in a place between my thighs as I nearly trip while climbing the stairs toward him.
“You pretty much forced me,” I reply, tossing his suit over my shoulder and trying to stop the blush that rushes through me as our eyes connect.
“Hardly,” he replies with an unamused look. “You look well, Sloan.”
“Um, thanks.” I tug at my sleeve, wondering why this feels like a freaking date all the sudden. “Here’s your suit.”
I hold it out to him. His eyes narrow conspiratorially for a brief moment before he smiles. “Why don’t you come in?”
I look up at the sky and pray for strength. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Gareth.”
He chuckles half-heartedly. “Why? Do you think something’s going to happen? You can’t trust yourself around me? Is that it?”
The challenging twinkle in his eyes has me squinting my gaze at him. “I can trust myself just fine.”It’s my libido I’m not so sure about.
“Come on, Sloan. I’ve missed you,” he goads, reaching out and taking the garment bag from my hand. “Get your arse in here and let’s catch up.”
Exhaling heavily, I follow him through the foyer. My eyes immediately land on the large staircase that leads up to his room. Flashes of that night pummel me like a ton of bricks.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks, snapping my attention to him standing beside me. “Water? Coffee? I don’t have any alcohol here.”
Frowning, I reply, “I’m working anyway.” Even though a stiff drink might help make this interaction a smidge more bearable.
“Right.” He grips the back of his neck and looks over his shoulder. Gesturing to the long, dark wood dining table located under a modern Edison bulb fixture, he says, “Let’s sit.”
He pulls out a tufted seat at the head of the table for me to slide into. Then he takes the spot adjacent to me.
“So, how are things?” I ask, desperate to fill the heavy silence. “How are you liking your clothes this season? Any texture issues? I know you hated that one Burberry cashmere sweater I thought might work for you—”
“Sloan”—Gareth’s voice stops me mid-thought—“I didn’t invite you in to talk about clothes.”
My eyes drop to the table. “I knew this was a mistake,” I murmur.
“You knew what was a mistake?” His voice is so smooth, I have to take a deep breath to keep myself sane.
“Me coming out here,” I reply, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I shouldn’t be here.”
Gareth shifts to the edge of his seat, his masculine scent hitting me like a wrecking ball as images of him naked fight their way to the front of my mind. “Sloan, you can’t just act like that night between us didn’t happen.”
“I most certainly can!” I argue, sitting back in my seat and feeling a nervous flush wash over me. I’ve been trying so hard not to ruminate over the memories of that night. With some success, I might add. “What happened between us was so long ago, Gareth. Honestly, why are you still thinking about it?” Surely he’s had at least a dozen other women since then.
