Ruthless In A Suit(80)

So we’ve moved our camp from Allston to Edgartown. It’s a classic Cape Cod–style home on the beach with plenty of land to keep the neighbors and other prying eyes at bay. My closet has clothes already in it, mostly summer beachwear but also some sweaters and wool pants because my staff is always prepared. There aren’t many off-season stores out here to buy warm clothes for Emily so we scoop up what we can and put in a huge order online for the rest.

“I don’t need all that,” she says as I put in my credit card information.

“Your hands and feet are blocks of ice no matter how much I turn up the heat,” I tell her. “You actually, literally need it.”

“But we’re not staying here forever.”

I pull her close and say, “Why not?”

The fire is roaring and we’re bundled under cashmere blankets. We have the essentials—a bunch of dry pasta and sauces, a cellar of wine, and each other. As corny as it may sound, it’s all we need.

“There is one thing missing,” I tell her, holding her hand. “If we’re truly engaged, then you need a ring.”

“God,” she says, like I just suggested we go clean the toilets. “If we’re truly engaged then you won’t buy me some gaudy monstrosity.”

“Hey, I take offense to that. I happen to have good taste.”

“No, you hire people with good taste.”

I nibble her neck, holding her tight as she squirms. “Whatever kind of ring you want, you can have,” I tell her. “Tomorrow I’ll call Samuel at Tiffany’s. They can come out here and show you a variety of rings. You can pick out whatever you want.”

“That’s romantic,” she says. It takes me a moment to realize she’s being sarcastic.

In the end, she finds a ring in a vintage store just off Main Street that she absolutely falls in love with. It’s a medium band of rose gold, art deco with an oval center of a peachy-pink morganite stone.

“Are you sure you don’t want a diamond,” I say. “I do have a reputation to uphold.”

“No,” she says, holding her hand out to inspect the ring on her finger. “It’s perfect.”





Emily





Everything is perfect.

When Jackson appeared in that coffee shop, half of me wanted to run away (maybe slap him first) but the other half, the truer half, wanted to fall into his arms. Just by showing up, I knew he loved me.

I’m sitting at the kitchen island as he prepares us another gorgeous breakfast. I still haven’t figured out how he makes his scrambled eggs so dang good. Since he had a crate of food delivered out here—the far reaches of the island—we have been eating well. And I love watching him cook.

“So what happens next?” I say. “We can’t just hide out here forever.” It’s been a week and although it’s heaven, I do have a life to get back to. I called in to work and told Jules I needed a little time off. As for school, Professor Stanwick found out what Brent had been doing to me and arranged for me to take time off from all my classes. In fact he told me to take all the time I need. I think he’s worried I might try to sue Brent—or the school—for harassment or something.

“That was my plan,” Jackson says as he slices fruit. I swear, his hands are as deft with a kitchen knife as they are with my body. So smooth and assured.

“You are not the kind of man who can just walk away from work,” I say. “I don’t know how you’ve lasted this long without your phone.”

He’s checked it a few times but the Wi-Fi is spotty. There’s a house phone we can call out of but Jackson doesn’t know the number. We really are out here on our own.

It’s been so easy being with him. We’ve spent our days bundling up for walks on the beach. In the evenings we cook—or rather, I sip wine while he cooks. Then we watch movies together—I never would have guessed he has a love for old westerns. And at night, we make love. His kisses on my skin make me float away, and his hands make me feel safe and sexy, all at once. We sleep late because we stay up late; we have created our own schedule, eating when we please, drinking wine at lunch, napping, staying up until three in the morning. We have no responsibilities. We’re like teenagers on summer vacation.

“I don’t care about my phone,” Jackson says. “I suppose I miss working, but not necessarily my work. How about you?”

I look into my glass full of orange juice. “I miss working. I mean, I know it’s only been a week but I’m wondering what they’re doing, what they decided on with some things we were talking about right before I left. I wish I could work full-time but there’s no way I could keep it up with my school schedule.”