CHAPTER FIVE

 

Isabelle

 

I brought my legs up under me, snuggling into the upholstered armchair in the corner of the library. This was my favorite room in the house. A sanctuary of sorts where I could sip a cup of tea and lose myself in someone else’s story. Although after today’s episode in the truck, I’d decided doing some reading that pertained to my particular story was timely and necessary. I’d been doing so well lately, had found coping mechanisms that worked to keep the nightmares at bay. A small backslide wasn’t unexpected, especially when triggered by something specific. But still, I had fought long and hard for every inch I’d climbed out of the dark well of desolation since the day my world imploded, and I would fight to hang on.

I heard a door close somewhere down the hall and wondered if Brant had turned in for the night. Brant. Several emotions pricked at the inside of my skin when I thought of him. Anger at his arrogant demeanor, as if he knew everything there was to know about a person without asking any questions whatsoever. Anger, yes, but also hurt. He’d pre-judged me, made assumptions, and I didn’t like the way it had felt when he’d glared at me as if I’d wronged him greatly and he was barely tolerating being in the same room.

Why I even cared, I had no idea. I had bigger fish to fry than Brant Talbot. I shouldn’t be wasting a precious moment of emotion on him, when in all likelihood, he’d be out of my life for good in a matter of days, if not tomorrow.

I’d seen him retrieving his bag from his car after he’d spoken to his father. I had to assume things had gone . . . decently, at least. I hadn’t asked Harry when I’d seen him after dinner, and I’d avoided Brant entirely.

Even more disturbing than his disdainful attitude toward me was the buzzing attraction I felt. It bewildered me, made me feel unsettled and edgy. And yet a current of excitement ran beneath my skin that I couldn’t understand, much less extinguish. Why?  

I turned the page of my book, my eyes skimming the lines, but not registering the words. I sighed, too distracted to read tonight, though I knew I should force myself to focus. The sudden sensation of prickly warmth on the side of my face made me turn my head abruptly. Brant was standing in the doorway, watching me, an unreadable expression on his far too handsome face. He was wearing jeans and a white button-up shirt and held a bottle of beer in his hand. I yanked my long nightshirt down, trying to cover up my bare legs. One side of his lip tipped up in a smirk.

“God, don’t sneak up on me like that,” I muttered.

“I hardly snuck up on you. I walked into a room I didn’t know you were in.”

I brought my legs down, placing my book on the table next to my chair and pulling my nightshirt lower on my thighs. His gaze followed my hands before he took a sip of beer, holding the bottle up to me in question. “Want one? May still keeps the good stuff in the refrigerator in the cellar.” His eyes looked slightly glassy, as if he’d had more than one already.

I glanced at my rapidly cooling cup of tea and shook my head. “No, thank you. I don’t drink.”

Brant chuckled. “As a bar owner, I have to say that’s disappointing.”

“Add it to the list, I suppose.”

“The list?”

“Of things you find disappointing about me.”

“I don’t know you enough to be disappointed in you, Belle.”

Oh for God’s sake. This was tiresome. “If you came in here to say something, Brant, say it. It’s been a long day. I don’t have the energy for mind games and insinuations.” 

Brant stepped into the room, walking along a wall of books, seeming to study them. He took another swig from the bottle before turning back to me, shrugging nonchalantly. “All right. How long did it take you to get the old man wrapped around your finger? Lucky break he got sick, huh?”

I gaped, my blood running cold. “Are you crazy?”

For a brief second, I saw his cool control falter and something almost insecure flared in his eyes. But as quick as that it was gone and I told myself I must have misread it. He walked closer, his eyes midnight blue in the low light of the room. “No. I’m also not old and easily snowed.” He took a drink, his tongue flicking out to catch a drop of beer on his lower lip. The internal muscles between my thighs clenched. Much to my deep, deep chagrin. “Why’d you call me anyway? To make sure I wasn’t going to cause trouble for you? Contest the will?”

“Contest the will?” I shook my head in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Brant measured me, expressionless. Bored almost. “He’s considering leaving Graystone Hill to you. Didn’t you know?”

“What? That’s ridiculous. He was goading you.” My modesty forgotten, I got up, taking the few steps to him so we stood toe to toe. “I called you because I thought you both might take the opportunity to find forgiveness for one another, to say goodbye. Not everyone gets that peace. It’s a gift. One I’m beginning to see is wasted on you, you buttoned-up blowhard.”

I went to step around him, feeling as if a balloon were expanding in my chest. “Now move out of my way.”

He caught me by the arm and I gasped, halting and glaring at him. “Did your precious Harry tell you what he did to my mother?”

I pulled my arm free, rubbing at the place he had touched, not because he’d hurt me but from the warmth that still lingered where his hand had been. I wanted it gone. I wanted him gone. Him, and his beautiful, accusing eyes. Him, and his presence that filled the house with electricity, distracting me and making it feel as if the earth had shifted, moved, rearranged itself in some unfathomable way. “Excuse me?”

His expression hardened, but I saw the very brief flash of pain that moved quickly across his face. “He killed her. Or he might as well have.”

I blinked at him. Was that the reason for their estrangement? He blamed his father for his mother’s death? He believed his father had driven his mother to commit suicide? Oh, if that were true, how much torment they both must have inside.

It still didn’t give him the right to be cruel to me.

A muscle jumped in his jaw as we stood staring at each other, both of our chests rising and falling, our wills clashing as the air sparked around us. I had the undeniable urge to reach for him. To offer . . . something. He looked angry, upset, his expression morphing from one to the other as if he was too conflicted to decide where to land. Or perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps he was lashing out because he was filled with hurt and bitterness and wasn’t sure where to direct it and had settled on me. Perhaps he was just a self-centered asshole. Maybe all of the above. And yet, even so, my heart softened for what he’d been through. I knew that anguish. To lose someone so suddenly, so shockingly . . . I lived with it every single day. “I’m sorry for what you suffered. I don’t know what happened in this house,” I finally said. “I don’t know what’s between you and your father. I was merely trying to give you the opportunity to figure it out before it’s too late.”

“It’s already too late.”

I turned, heading for the door, but stopped. Brant had turned and was watching me leave, his face still tense, eyes flashing with the same confused indignation. “Only because you’ve decided it is.” I shook my head. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, Brant, despite what all those fancy people in New York City might have told you.” I paused, drawing in a big, shaky breath. “Other people carry pain too. Even your father.”

“You’re the expert on my father, aren’t you?”

“Why the innuendos? I thought we were speaking plainly. Ask me what you’d really like to know.” I drew my shoulders straight. “No, let me save you the trouble. I’m not sleeping with your father. I’m not his live-in girlfriend, and I don’t have any interest in taking over Graystone Hill, nor as far as I know, does he have any plans of leaving any portion of it to me. I’m his secretary, just as I told you, and I . . . I hope his friend. I care about your father, and it’s breaking my heart to know that someday soon he won’t be here anymore. I regret calling you at all, although my intentions for doing so were good. You showed up here looking for a fight. Maybe you should think about why. But leave me out of it.” 

He didn’t say anything else as I turned and left the room, hurrying up the stairs to my bedroom. When I got there, I realized I’d left the book I’d been reading in the library. I didn’t want Brant to see it and for a moment I considered going downstairs to retrieve it. My hands were shaking though, and I didn’t want to face Brant again tonight. I’d just leave it—he was too self-centered to notice a book I left behind.

I stood against the door of my room, my hands pressed flat on the solid wood as I worked to get my heart rate under control. Other people carry pain too. That same emptiness that had opened inside me earlier that day yawned wide again, threatening to swallow me from the inside out. I suddenly felt so very alone. I could feel the hole in my heart expanding. I didn’t think I could bear it. Not now. Not at this moment where anger and bitterness hung heavy in the air of the house I’d made a home. My sanctuary. My solace.

I pushed off the door, removing my nightshirt, and pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. I left my room, moving as quietly as possible down the stairs and then quickly to the front door, only taking in a full breath once I was outside the house and beyond the place where Brant Talbot still was, likely brooding in his beer and self-pity.

I jogged to the stable, saddled Seneca quickly, and led her from where she’d been grazing on hay. “How do you feel about a night run, girl? Just you and me and the moon?”

I mounted her, pulling on the reins as she galloped out of the stable into the moon-drenched pasture. The night was cool and bright and the wind flowed through my hair as Seneca picked up the pace. We ran into the night, the sound of her pounding feet echoing my own heartbeat, but somehow calming it as well.

I felt the wetness on my cheeks as she slowed to a trot, the tears flowing swiftly. Seneca came to a stop, and I lay forward on her, hugging her strong, solid neck and allowing the pain to drain from my body in the form of quiet sobs.