CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

 

Brant

 

“Thanks, Jacob,” I said to the doorman as the elevator closed between us. The ride to my penthouse was the longest minute of my damn life. I loosened my bow tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt so I could breathe a little bit easier. It didn’t help.

Edwin Bruce had texted me hours before and told me Belle had gotten home safely. I’d called the cell phone I’d bought her again and again, but she hadn’t answered. Fuck! She never answered that damn cell. I was constantly finding it somewhere, completely uncharged.

I’d left as soon as I possibly could, even though it meant eschewing some of the speeches and toasts I’d been expected to be at in different sections of the club.

I began punching in the code, my fingers stalling as my heart sped up. My breath came out in a sharp gasp as pictures flooded my mind of another room I’d walked into once after a woman had caught the man she trusted kissing another woman. So much blood . . . My skin broke out in a light sweat as I leaned my forehead against the wall. Stop it, Brant. Get a hold of yourself for Christ’s sake.

I stood straight, gathering myself as I punched in the code and pushed the door open. “Isabelle—” Her name died on my lips as I spotted her, sitting on the couch in jeans and a coat, her hands between her knees.

For a moment relief swept through me, but then my heart dropped to my feet. Her luggage was packed beside her. I approached her warily repeating her name, a question this time.

“Hi, Brant.” Her voice was soft, lacking in any emotion, and that scared me. My heart was thrumming against my ribs. What was this?

I glanced at her suitcase and then at her. “What’s going on, Belle?”

She sighed, tucking her hands more deeply between her legs, as if they were cold. My sudden impulse was to take them between my own, to warm them, to do anything to relieve even her most minor discomfort. “I’m leaving.”

For a moment I didn’t—couldn’t—speak. “Why?” It sounded choked, incredulous, but I couldn’t say I was honestly that surprised. You idiot, Brant. You damn idiot. “Belle, what you saw with Sondra—"

“I know you pushed her away, Brant. I saw that.”

“Of course I did. Sondra kissed me, Belle. I didn’t expect it, nor did I do anything to invite it.”

She stared at me for a moment, her eyes moving over my face, to my hands that were clenched at my sides. Hope flashed through me, a trickle of deep relief. What she’d seen had understandably upset her, but I could fix this. I could make this right.

“I would never cheat on you, Belle. I’m not like him. I’m not like my father.” Even I heard the intensity in my voice, the plea that she believed me. It was the truth.

She looked at me again for a long moment, nodding, though her expression contained . . . disappointment. “I believe you,” she said. “But I’m still leaving.”

“Why? I don’t understand.”

Something came into her face, some expression I hadn’t seen before. She looked resigned. My Belle, the woman who never gave up. Ever. My survivor, my fighter, had given up on me.

On us?

“I don’t want you to be faithful because you’re afraid of turning into your father, Brant. I want your devotion to be pure, not inspired by fear, but inspired by love. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Is that what this is back to then? Love?” I ran both hands through my hair, squeezing it in fistfuls and letting out a frustrated breath. “Belle, I told you—”

She put her hand up. “I know. You’re not capable. Only, you’re wrong. You’re scared for some reason I can’t understand because you won’t talk to me.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

She clenched her eyes shut and then opened them, her expression bleak. “I’m losing myself, Brant. Losing my soul. Every hard-earned piece of it I managed to gain back.” Her voice was weak and, combined with her sorrowful confession, I felt stricken, as if she’d slapped me with her words. “Somehow . . . I don’t know, but I’m not happy here.”

“It’s just temporary, Belle.”

“Yes, but it won’t always be, will it? I won’t be happy with this arrangement indefinitely. And I doubt you will be either. I don’t fit in your world, Brant, and you need someone who does.” She offered me a small smile, but it was laced with sadness. “I guess I’m old-fashioned after all. If we’re not moving toward . . . more, there isn’t a point.”

I threw up my hands and dropped them. “Jesus, I’m the one who asked you to marry me and you said no.”

“Because I didn’t want a marriage without love. Not again. Tell me about the bourbon.”

Confusion overcame me again, a sense of emotional whiplash. “The bourbon?”

“Caspian Skye. Why didn’t you tell me there were barrels ready to be bottled?”

“What?” I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to clear my brain. “I didn’t know, at least not when we talked about it that night in the distillery. I found out later and . . . fuck, so much was going on. You told me about the money you found . . . I was working on my opening, we started planning this trip—”

“Did you ask me to marry you because it was the only way your father would give you the barrels and everything that comes with the name? Is it why you’re with me now?”

What the fuck? I wondered. Where was this all coming from?

“Edwin Bruce,” she said as if reading my mind. “He thought I knew. And then I overheard Sondra say something similar.”

My father’s words returned to me now, from the day we stood on the front porch after I’d spent the night with Isabelle in the distillery.

. . . if you married Isabelle, you could share Graystone Hill, and the distillery would be yours. Seems like a good deal to me. She gets her horses, and you get the distillery and everything that comes with it.

“No.” I shook my head, but I was suddenly confused, tired . . . fuck. I didn’t feel like I knew up from down anymore. What had happened to us? “I mean my father, he . . .” I blew out a breath, trying to remember what the hell I’d been feeling. “He wanted us to get married. He feels protective of you. I told you that. He threw in Caspian Skye to try to convince me, but—”

Isabelle stood, her arms hanging limply by her sides, her expression full of so much despair it made my heart clench.

“Isabelle, no, it wasn’t like that.” But even I heard the doubt in my own voice. “I wanted to marry you—”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you want to marry me?”

“Because it made sense. It . . . we talked about all of that.”

She stared at me then shut her eyes for a moment as if she were searching for strength. Against me. “We want different things. We’re broken, Brant, and I’m leaving.”

“How can we fix anything if you leave?” I asked, desperate, throwing my hands in the air and letting them drop. “Just stay, Isabelle. We’ll fix this. We can—”

“No. I . . . I can’t. I’m withering away here and I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I’m sorry, I love you”—she took a deep breath, pressing her lips together momentarily as if the words had escaped and she wished they hadn’t—“but I can’t stay here.”

She picked up her suitcase and made to move past me but I grabbed her arm. “Please,” I rasped.

She tilted her head and I could see tears in her beautiful eyes. “It’s my fault, Brant. I . . . I took a chance. I hoped for love. You didn’t break any promises to me.” She smiled, but it was so damn sad it wrenched my heart. “I broke them to myself.”

She stepped around me and my hand dropped from her arm, sadness and desperation coursing through my blood and making me feel out of control, crazy. I breathed, trying mightily to rein in my swirling emotions, my mind searching frantically for something that would convince her to stay. But the only word that slipped free of my lips was, “No.” The word was broken, but far too quiet for anyone but me to hear. I raced out the front door, into the empty vestibule. The elevator had already come and gone and I jabbed at the button, a string of swearwords breaking free. When the elevator finally arrived a few minutes later, I rode downstairs, my heart beating a mile a minute in my chest. You’re losing her. You’re losing her. This is it.

Bursting out of the elevator, I ran toward the front door, almost colliding with Jacob. “Sorry, Jacob, Isabelle—”

“She just left, Mr. Talbot. A taxi to the airport . . . Mr. Talbot, are you okay?”

I lifted my arm to acknowledge his question, stepping back on the elevator. The door closed, and I leaned my forehead against the cold metal of the door. She was gone.

 

**********

 

The morning sun streamed into the room. I’d forgotten to lower the blinds the night before after drinking several shots of bourbon and falling into bed. An empty bed that still smelled like Belle. The scent was delicate, just barely lingering. Like our relationship, I guessed. At the thought, pain radiated through me that had nothing to do with the mild hangover I was also suffering. Rolling over in bed, I stared at the ceiling, unable to stop seeing Isabelle’s anguished face as she’d told me she was leaving the night before.

And yet her expression had been the polar opposite as we’d traveled to my opening—full of nervous hopefulness. She’d looked stunning, such a classic beauty in her gown, her hair swept up, the sight of the purple orchid pin I’d given her making my heart roll over in my chest. She’d worn it for me, I knew. I knew.

I winced. God, she’d had an awful experience at my opening, how could she not? Between the idiot fashion reporter making fun of her outfit, being left alone while I was called off to fix problems, and then walking in on Sondra and me—her night had been nothing but miserable. Embarrassing. Humiliating.

Goddamned Sondra. I’d just fixed several issues when she’d appeared in my office, making snide remarks about Isabelle and then taking me completely by surprise by grabbing the lapels of my jacket and kissing me. It’d taken me all of half a second to unlatch her death grip on my clothing and push her away, but long enough for Isabelle to see. Even though I was pretty sure she believed the kiss had been all Sondra’s doing, it was still a vision that would probably remain in her head. Christ. What a clusterfuck.

It wasn’t only that, though. It was being here in general. Here in New York, I was able to retain that stiff control, that focus I’d perfected since I’d left Kentucky and began a new life. So yes, maybe I seemed more rigid, more . . . straight-laced. But that was because here, I had to be. Here, where I ran million-dollar establishments, it was expected of me.

Buttoned-up blowhard.

Despite myself, I breathed out a small laugh that turned into a groan. Because I knew the truth. That version of myself was capable of keeping her at arm’s-length. It was part of what made me feel safe, in control. It was the part of me that had run her off.

I’d not only run her off, I’d made her cry when I’d vowed to care for her, to protect her. But vowing to protect her didn’t mean vowing to love her and that . . . Fuck, that I couldn’t do.

I love you. Her words echoed in my brain, tormenting me, making me hate myself, and yet sending a wave of euphoria through me too, just as they had when she first uttered them. God, I’d wanted to say the words back. They’d risen from my chest and lodged in my throat. Trapped. I’d wanted to say it, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. Was it as she said? Was it because I was so afraid of loss that I’d rather hold myself away from her—from everyone—rather than risk feeling too much? Maybe. But that was wise. Wasn’t that wise? How could Belle—who’d lost far more than I had—risk loving again when I could not?

And what the fuck was I going to do about this situation? I missed her. She hadn’t even been gone twenty-four hours and her absence pressed on me like a ten-ton weight. I was suffocating inside my own skin.

I sat on the edge of the bed, hanging my head as I massaged the back of my neck. And yet, I didn’t have anything more to offer her than this. This . . . I sat up, leaning back as I surveyed the room. Riches, luxury, excess even. I moved forward and knocked on the shiny bedside table. What was this made from anyway? Whatever it was, she didn’t want it. She didn’t want any of it.

Of all the women I could have chosen, I’d chosen the one who preferred a pair of dusty jeans and a frayed ribbon in her hair to an evening gown and a string of jewels.

Speaking of fancy clothes, I should get dressed. I had a meeting scheduled at nine. Despite that personally, my night had gone to shit, business wise, the club opening had been a great success. People had crunched numbers for me, gathered online reactions to the new venue, and a hundred other things. I needed to be there, at the very least to thank everyone and apologize for skipping out early.

I reached for my cell phone and dialed.

“Graystone Hill. This is May.”

“Hi, May.”

“Brant. How are you?” I heard some scuffling, as if she’d taken the phone to another location, her voice lowering as she continued. “Is everything all right between you and Isabelle? This morning when I saw her, she said she was back because you were immersed in work, but she seemed off . . . sad.”

I sighed. “No, things aren’t great, May. Listen, I can’t get into it, but can you put Isabelle on the phone?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, she’s out riding. Left bright and early. Said her soul was yearning for it.”

Guilt crept over my skin. She’d told me that too, and I’d dismissed her, told her she should go shopping instead. Fuck.

I released a frustrated breath. Her cell phone was still sitting on the bureau. Even if she’d taken it with her to Kentucky, she probably wouldn’t have answered it while she was out riding. Or when she saw it was me.

We’re broken, Brant.

“Okay. Thanks, May. Will you tell her I called when she gets in?”

“Of course I will.”

“And how’s my father doing?”

“He’s actually had a good couple of days.”

“That’s encouraging to hear.”

She sounded worried again as we said goodbye, and I wished I could do something to make her believe everything was going to be okay, but I couldn’t even convince myself of that.

What a fucking mess. And I’d dragged Isabelle into it. Isabelle, who deserved a life of peace and joy for the rest of her days. I’d just thought . . . ah Christ, I hadn’t thought. I’d wanted her and I’d convinced myself that I could make her happy, never truly stopping to consider her deepest needs. Protection, yes, comfort yes, but also horses and pastures, Kentucky bluegrass and wide-open skies.

And love.

Isabelle needed love. She deserved it. And whether I myself thought it was a risk worth taking or not, Isabelle had decided it was.

I took a chance. I hoped for love, she’d said.

She’d given her heart to me, a man who didn’t come close to deserving it. And if I truly meant to protect her as I’d said, to ensure she lived a life containing the love she wanted, the children, the most selfless thing I could do was to let her go. No! My brain—the logical side of myself—said one thing but my heart screamed another.

My fucking head hurt. I picked up the phone again, dialing my assistant. “Josie?”

“Good morning, sir. How are you?”

“Fine. Josie, I need you to book a flight for me to Kentucky, leaving about noon?”

“Of course, sir. I hope it’s not your father—”

“No. I have some other business to attend to there. My father’s condition hasn’t changed.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I’ll email you your flight itinerary.”

“Great. Thanks, Josie.”

I headed toward the shower. I had no fucking idea what I was going to do. All I knew was that the answers were not here. They were in Kentucky.