Say You Will(68)
“Really.” She lifted her eyebrow caustically.
He leaned in. “You know me. You knew I like to drive fast and that I have a soft spot in my heart for English cars. You knew I wasn’t happy at work and wanted to make a career shift. You knew I loved Summer, enough to do anything for her.”
Rosalind said nothing.
But she hadn’t turned away, and she wasn’t protesting. Figuring he was doing as well as could be expected, he dared to take her hand. She stiffened, but didn’t draw away, so he continued. “You know I haven’t had time to furnish my house and that I want someone to fill it with me. You know I want a family. You know I want you, that I crave you, because even in your anger you can’t deny that I showed you this every time I touched you.
“You know I love you,” he said, squeezing her hand. “You can argue that I was a bloody idiot by lying, and I was. You would probably even be justified by making me pay for this for the rest of our lives. But you can’t say I don’t love you.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know, Nick.”
“I do.” Letting go of her hand, he reached for the bag and gave it to her. “I know you as well as you know me.”
She glanced at him in question before peeking into the bag. She reached in and one by one, pulled each item out, lining them up in front of her.
“I know who you are, and you know me. In your heart, you know exactly who I am.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, her cheek, and then placed a soft kiss on her inert lips. “I love you, Rosalind.”
He paused a moment, but he knew she wouldn’t say anything. He nodded and stood up. “You’ll want to think about this and explore all the angles before coming to a conclusion.”
“Will I?” she murmured, looking at the things piled in front of her.
“For all your creativity, you aren’t impulsive. You mull things over.” He smiled, sticking his hands in his pockets. “It’s okay. Good things are worth waiting for.”
It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, to turn and walk away. For a moment, he almost went back to toss her over his shoulder and carry her off, like Luca thought he should do.
But he had to give her space. He had to trust that she’d forgive him and come back to him.
Chapter Thirty
A pink-ribboned box of macarons. Salted caramel.
A bottle of rye.
A pickle bottle—just brine, no gherkins.
A colorful vintage scarf, frayed at the edges.
A brand new camisole and matching knickers, frilly at the edges.
Rosalind stared at the things Nick had brought her. Flavors. Textures. New and old.
“It looks like Christmas in here,” Portia said, popping her head into the study. She looked around. “Is he gone already?”
“Yes.”
“And you aren’t naked.” Her sister entered the room. “It must not have gone well for him.”
“I can honestly say I’m not sure who lost out most.” She unwrapped the foil around the top of the rye, uncorked it, and took a swig. It went down smooth, warming the pit of her stomach.
Portia sat down on the floor next to her awkwardly. She took a moment to figure out how to arrange her legs before she held her hand out. “May I?”
Shrugging, she handed it over.
Portia daintily tipped the bottle to her lips. She winced as it hit her palate, and then coughed twice. Passing it back, she said hoarsely, “Good.”
The corner of her mouth quirked, which was saying something because she’d never felt less amused in her life.
“Knock, knock.” Bea breezed in, her heels clacking with authority on the marble floors. She arched her brows at them as she set her bag down on a side table and unwrapped her scarf from her neck. She took in the scene in one quick sweep. “Did I forget someone’s birthday?”
“Rosalind’s beau is courting her.”
“The lying bastard?” Bea joined them on the rug, frowning as she reached for one of the gifts. “He’s courting you with pickles?”
“Pickle juice,” she corrected. “To go with the rye.”
Bea’s patrician nose wrinkled. “That’s disgusting, Ros.”
She shrugged. Nick got her, but just thinking that made her sad.
“At least he has excellent taste in knickers.” Bea grabbed the satin and lace bottoms and inspected them. “These are Agent Provocateur.”
“I like that style.”
“And he knows it.” Her sisters exchanged looks.
She frowned at them. “What did that mean?”
“What do you think it meant?” Smiling like a cat at the cream, Bea opened the macarons and popped one in her mouth.