Beauty And The Brooding Billionaire (South Shore Billionaires 2)

They drove to Halifax in just under two hours. The highway traffic was light, and they only hit one small section of construction. Bran used the car’s GPS to navigate his way to the art supply store Jess had picked, and went inside with her as she browsed and made her purchases. They stowed everything in his trunk, and then he suggested a walk in the popular public gardens.

The sun was bright, and there was a light breeze as they made their way to the entrance. “It’s a beautiful day,” she said, letting out a happy sigh. “This was such a good idea, Bran.”

“The gardens will be packed, but I hear they’re beautiful. If you like flowers.”

She patted her bag. “I’ll make a confession. I brought a small sketch pad with me.”

He laughed. Laughing was so easy with her, particularly when she looked up at him with a twinkle in her eye. “Of course you did.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t always have a notebook with you.”

He angled a wry look in her direction. “Of course I don’t.” Then after a moment, he added, “I voice record on my phone.”

But he wasn’t interested in dictating now. He just wanted to spend the afternoon with her, in the early summer sun, and live in the moment.

It was miles better than living in the past.

The garden was heavy with tourists and what appeared to be a couple of bus tour groups. As they entered the ornate iron gates, a strange amphibious vehicle approached the intersection, loaded with tourists and a guide narrating local history. They sent up a strange cry of “ribbit-ribbit” as they passed, and then Bran chuckled. “The Harbor Hopper,” he said, nudging her and pointing. “Want to go? From the look of it, it’s one of those land and sea tour things.”

“Oh, my,” she replied, laughing as the vehicle pulled away, the guide changing topic. “I’m not sure I’m dressed for th

at.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t fall in.” He took her hand in his. “But if you did, I’m a strong swimmer.”

“One ocean rescue is enough for me.” She pushed up her sunglasses. “Oh, Bran. You were right, this is gorgeous.”

They wandered along the paths, meandering slowly around all the different flower beds, examining species of tree and shrub and bloom. Couples posed for pictures and selfies on a small stone bridge, and Jess kindly offered to snap photos of a couple on their honeymoon. The smell was absolutely heavenly: fresh-cut grass and the heavy, sweet scent of lilacs; rhododendrons in various shades of purple, the size of cars, were in full, showy bloom, and the annual flower beds offered bright rainbows of colors. They ambled in the shade and stopped for Jess to take out her pencils and sketch a laburnum tree, the yellow chains of flowers reminding Bran of a sunshine-hued wisteria.

They stopped again and sat on a bench near the pond. A middle-aged man fed the ducks on the bank, and Bran was happy to sit and watch as Jess worked away, her pencil strokes brisk and confident. A tiny replica of the Titanic floated on the water, and Bran considered telling Jess the city’s connection to the disaster, only he didn’t want to interrupt her.

She was in another world when she sketched. Her focus was razor sharp, and nothing escaped her notice as her gaze darted between subject and paper.

He was happy to people watch. He leaned back on the bench, crossed an ankle over his knee, and watched the dynamics between parents and children, old and young, couples on dates and those who seemed to have been together for a long time. They were the ones who didn’t have to hold hands to show intimacy; it was in their relaxed body language and the easy way they touched each other in passing, speaking of a comfort and devotion that pricked at Bran’s capricious contentment. Strangers wandered together, name tags stuck to their shirts from some sort of guided tour. They were smiling and polite as they talked to each other, pointing out blossoms and reading the species signs dotted throughout the garden.

A father and son left the pathway nearby, the boy holding his dad’s hand as they picked their way over the grass toward a handful of ducks near the water’s edge. “Dada, ducks!” the boy exclaimed. Bran guessed he was maybe three. He swallowed thickly. Owen would be about the same age now, if he were alive. Would he have liked ducks? Held Bran’s hand, maybe in Central Park on Saturdays?

Watching the two of them play by the water, the way the father patiently kept the boy from the edge, or pointed out all the different colored feathers from each species, warmed his heart. The ache was bittersweet; he was sure he would never quite get over losing his child. But it hurt less today.

Jess looked over at him, put her hand on his knee. “They’re sweet, aren’t they?”

He nodded, unable to tear his eyes away. “He’s a good dad.”

“You can have it again someday, you know,” she offered gently. “When you’re ready.”

Bran tore himself away from the father and son scene and met her gaze. “No,” he said quietly. “I can’t. I can’t go through that again. But I’m getting to a place where I’m okay with it.”

“Then maybe you’ll get to a place where you’ll consider it again, too. You never know.”

But he shook his head. “No,” he repeated. “I know. I had my shot at a family, and I won’t chance going through this hell again.”

The pink in her cheeks deepened. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to press.”

“You didn’t. It’s just...there’s not much I’m sure of. But that’s one thing I am. And I’ve made my peace with it.”

The father and son had moved on, skirting the pond. And Bran got up from the bench, ready to move on, as well.

* * *