The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

She shook her head, trying to be strong. “I said I would.”

I went to her car and pulled open the backseat door for her, the closest equivalent to a doorstep kiss. The tremble in her grew until it was pronounced. She was terrified at the thought of my kiss.

Sophia’s voice echoed in my head. How will you do it?

I stood on the sidewalk and had one hand on the top of the open car door and carefully set my other on Evangeline’s waist, if only to keep the woman from vibrating apart. “It’s all right.”

Her eyes were wild and unfocused. “I haven’t kissed anyone since John.”

“I understand.”

And I did. Perhaps this felt like cheating, and she couldn’t bear to betray him. Or maybe since he was the love of her life, she didn’t want to feel anyone else’s lips against hers ever again. What right did I have to take that from her? I’d kissed a woman in love with another man before, and it wasn’t a mistake I wanted to repeat.

I leaned forward, hearing her sharp intake of breath, and brushed my lips on her cheek, just outside the corner of her mouth. When I drew back, she was a statue of disbelief.

“Goodnight, Evangeline,” I said, releasing her and stepping back.

Unable to speak, she simply nodded and faded into the back seat of her car. As it pulled away, I removed my phone from my pocket and angrily punched the screen with my finger.

I didn’t give Sophia a greeting when she answered. All I did was bark out my order in an arctic tone before hanging up. “You will be waiting for me in the foyer when I arrive home.”

EIGHT

SOPHIA

AT THE RATE I WAS GOING, my phone battery wasn’t going to survive the night. I slid off the stool pulled up to the breakfast bar in the kitchen, snatched up the spare power cord my mom usually used to charge her phone, and plugged in.

I’d been texting Penelope all night for updates and used the time in between her messages to watch social media. As far as I could tell, no one had posted anything yet about Macalister’s ‘date.’ He was still inside Marquee with Evangeline, so presumably it was going well.

My mother appeared in the doorway and trekked across our huge kitchen to the fridge. She had on a pair of black Nike leggings and matching hoodie, and she looked every bit the role of wealthy soccer mom.

Except I’d never played soccer.

Even if I’d wanted to, there wasn’t time. During the height of my Olympic run, I’d trained five times a week, sometimes going through a thousand rounds per day, and the shooting range was a twenty-minute drive from Cape Hill. There’s been competitions on the weekends and the travel that went along with them.

And there’d also been my mother’s fight with breast cancer.

She was tougher than a lot of people gave her credit for. She’d survived a double mastectomy, kicked cancer’s ass, and had come out the other side stronger. Her reconstructed and upgraded breasts helped complete a body few fifty-year-old women could have.

She looked fan-fucking-tastic.

But as strong as she was, Colette Alby still had her weak moments too, and I wasn’t sure if I could ever get past them. Maybe I just needed a few more years.

My father would disagree. She could do nothing wrong in his eyes, and he always took her side. He’d say I needed to move out of the house and try living on my own. He’d use every opportunity to get rid of me.

It wasn’t like I was attached to my parents or the house I’d grown up in; it was more that moving out didn’t make sense. Why should I leave the nest where it was warm and comfortable and rent free? I lived in the far end of the house, the in-law suite, and rarely saw my parents unless we crossed paths in the kitchen or the Wi-Fi went down.

It was just us three here in this big ol’ mansion.

Colette and Stephen Alby only had one child, and my father was heartbroken that I’d been a girl. The Alby family line that had come to America on the Mayflower would officially die when I married. Even if I kept my maiden name—which I wouldn’t—I’d never pass the Alby surname on to my children.

Cape Hill was steeped in tradition. Sometimes I wondered if the biggest one was every family had some form of dysfunction.

“You’re addicted to that thing,” my mother said, gesturing to the phone in my hand.

I shrugged. “I’m working.”

She brushed her light brown hair back out of her eyes and poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher in the refrigerator that had lemon slices floating on the surface. As she set the pitcher down, her gaze zeroed in on me. “I don’t think Macalister Hale is paying you to play on Instagram.”