All that didn’t excuse him from what he’d done to them, to her. His lies rang in her head. “What’s true?” She wanted to know if at any time were his feelings a sham, too. Could he be that much of a liar?
“We are,” he said with such conviction that it shook her.
“Your eyes,” Charlie said now in stunned wonder, “are like his. I knew there was something familiar about you that first night we met here.”
Griffin reared back.
“Who?” Priscilla demanded.
“James Weatherford, your father’s best friend and attorney,” he announced. “Branded a thief by your mother. Held up to ridicule for seeking the truth. Arrested for supposedly stealing millions from King’s Department Store and the late Charles King.” He halted, allowing that to sink in. “I am his son. I am James Weatherford, Jr.”
***
Priscilla’s head throbbed as she moved with purpose, stowing as many of her clothes in a small suitcase and her toiletries in an overnight bag. The house pulsed with silence. His bedroom, now redone in crisp whites and shades of blue, jeered at her. She avoided looking at the big, king-sized bed she’d made love in with him.
Griffin James was a liar. Griffin James didn’t really exist. He was made up. His life was dedicated to hate, to destroying her mother. How could she believe anything he ever said again? How could she believe whatever he did with her and said to her meant anything to him?
Her McGruff.
She sucked in a sharp breath, nearly doubling over. “No,” she whispered brokenly. “It can’t be.” Grabbing the counter in the closet, she leaned her forehead against the cool surface. Memories of being in here, discovering him that first time—the jagged scar that sliced his shoulder, and then finding his medals—raced back.
His wound was real. His pain was real.
Her ragged breaths echoed all around her as moments they’d shared crept in her mind between the anger and utter disbelief of what he’d done to her.
I’m trying to protect you.
I can’t be trusted.
Not every man will be honorable. In the bedroom or boardroom.
He’d warned her. And she, the fool, boldly proclaimed she trusted him.
And his proposal, a three-month probationary period, to take her off the marriage market, protect her from her own mother’s control and manipulations, rang true, too. Lord, how he must have loved the fact he’d won her in his undercover vengeful attack where it crippled her mother’s ability to strike a deal with another prospective groom. That hurt, deeply and profoundly.
However, he allowed her to push his buttons, extend the boundaries of how far she could go with him, and pressure him into invading his space. He’d given her a place to stretch and grow.
Had he just humored her? “No, not Griff,” she said under her breath. Humor didn’t top his list of skills.
But he had lied. If not spoken, he hid it. Had he lied about them? His feelings? Did he even have any feelings? The memory of first meeting him, his cold, remote stance, rushed back. But his hot, intense stare sliced through her, touching a deep longing within her. His desire was real. So was hers for him.
He tried pushing her away. She refused.
She’d pushed back. He’d taken.
Her chest ached. She could barely breathe now.
Priscilla’s love for him, the man he’d slowly revealed to her in private, warred with every blast of doubt hammering in her mind.
What was real anymore?
With what little strength she possessed, Priscilla pushed herself up, sucking in a shaky breath and standing tall. She swiped the tears from her eyes.
She knew what she had to do next.
***
She didn’t care if he found her, didn’t care what he said. She had a mission to accomplish. This one would not be unveiled on the design blog. No, this was something she had to do. For herself.
A home reflects the heart of a person.
My heart is dark and empty.
Priscilla, having covered the furniture in plastic and the floors in a drop cloth, dipped the roller in the fresh paint. Applying it to the walls, she worked steadily through the long morning hours. Painting didn’t take much time at all since the professionals had given her many tips and shortcuts over the last several weeks.
Standing back now, she appraised her work. “Not bad,” she murmured. Heading to the nearest fan, she tilted it to hit the wall she’d just completed. Turning, she collected her paintbrushes and began to lug the gear out of the room.
Her back ached, but, she was far from done.
Hours later, Priscilla, with her things in tow, closed and locked the front door. Tears streamed down her face as she walked away from her pretend life. Her heart broke; it was only now that she truly realized with Griffin’s help, her dreams had come true, even the ones she never knew she had.