God, she’s sweet. A little too sweet. I remind myself that this isn’t a game. If she remembers, even a little, the whole thing could go nuclear.
“I’ll give you some space,” I say. “Get dressed, and I’ll meet you in the restaurant okay? Take your time.”
She nods, shutting the door softly behind her.
I exhale, tension coiling tighter in my belly. I want her so badly my hands ache. I want to push her against the wall, make her remember with her body, if not her mind. But that’s the old Hunter. The one that got us into this mess.
I call the concierge again. “Send up a dress and shoes for Ms. Daisy. Tasteful, please.”
He gets it. Sanctum staff always get it, and they move fast too.
This is going to be fun.
When Daisy walksinto the restaurant, for a second, I don’t move. I just stare, chest tight, the way a wolf might stare at a rabbit before remembering he’s supposed to play nice.
Her dress is soft blue, cut just above the knee, sleeveless, showing off that big bust and ivory skin. Her lips are pink, bare of gloss, and she’s nervous, working her hands together in her lap. She’s never looked more innocent. Or more ripe.
I cross the room, pretending I don’t notice the staff glancing at us from behind the bar. Sanctum’s service is flawless, but gossip here moves faster than cocaine at a tech launch. I ignore the glances and extend my hand. “Ready for brunch?”
She takes it, trusting, her palm warm and tiny in mine. “Are you sure I’m dressed okay? They sent it up?—”
“You look perfect,” I say. I mean it. I mean it way too much.
The dining room is cathedral-sized, with double-height windows and crystal chandeliers so clean they don’t just reflect light, they fracture it, hurling rainbows across the floor and up the white plaster walls. Every table is set with fresh roses, blood red and pink, arranged in crystal vases that look like they’re worth more than my first car. Fortunately, the restaurant is empty this morning except for us.
Daisy floats in behind me, still gripping my hand. Her eyes dart everywhere, starstruck.
“This place is…” she starts.
“Ridiculous? Over the top luxurious?” I supply.
“Yeah,” she says, and giggles, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard in months.
We get a table in the sunniest spot, far from the door, with a view of the snowy city. The waiter bows, calls her “Miss Daisy,” and offers a menu hand-lettered in gold ink. Daisy stares at it like she’s holding a magic spell.
I order for both of us—omelets, fruit, more coffee. When the waiter leaves, Daisy leans in.
“I don’t want to be rude,” she whispers. “But what is this place? Is it a country club?”
“Something like that,” I say. “Private, but not for golf or bridge. It’s known for its discretion.”
She frowns, puzzled.
I try again. “It’s a place for people who value their privacy, Daisy. They pay a fortune to belong.”
“Oh.” She blinks. “Do you have a lot of secrets, Hunter?”
More than you could imagine. Instead, I just smile and sip my coffee. “A few.”
She smiles back, tucking a golden strand of hair behind her ear. Her nails are short, and polished a light pink. She picks up her water glass with both hands and stares out the window at the city. After a beat, she says, “Thank you for not leaving me last night. I mean, I can tell I wasn’t your problem, but you didn’t just dump me at the ER or?—”
I cut her off, gentle. “You’re not a problem. Not to me.”
Her cheeks flush. I see a little of the old Tara in that look, the one that drove me crazy in the first place.
I watch her eyes trace the chandeliers, the impossible bouquet in the middle of the room, the staff waiting attentively. She’s noticing everything. She always did.
After a silence, she says, “I keep thinking if I look hard enough, something will click. Like, a table, or a flower, or your face—” She stops, embarrassed, like she’s said too much.