Thoroughly Whipped

The setting sun reflected off the lake, and the flower-dense fairy-tale bridge lay over it. It looked like a watercolor painting. To the right were what I suspected Harry had called the guest houses. They were mansions themselves. Nothing compared to the main house, but they were impressive nevertheless.

There was so much to take in, my head throbbed at the vastness. The live string orchestra playing in the corner only added to the dreamlike quality of the mansion and grounds, and that fact that I, Faith Parisi, was really here. Then my skin bumped realizing they were playing the beautiful sound of Andrea Bocelli. The same music that used to play in Maître’s chambre.

A server dressed in a black-and-white suit with a matching bow tie pulled me from my reverie. “Miss, champagne?”

“Thank you,” I said, taking a glass. A waving hand pulled my attention to the back of the terrace. Sarah. I walked down the steps to the main floor of the terrace and joined my colleagues.

“Can you believe this place?” Sarah said, looking beautiful in purple. “Why is Harry in New York? If I owned this place, I’d never leave.” My stomach dropped a little at that. But she was right. It was as close to heaven as you could get on Earth. Why would he ever leave here?

“Has anyone even seen him?” Michael asked. “I heard King left the hospital a few days after surgery and is already almost back to normal. It’s amazing how quickly you can recover from a heart attack these days.”

“That’s good,” I said and took a sip of my champagne. King was out of the hospital and feeling better. The relief that brought almost made me emotional. Damn jet lag.

“Look out, here’s the man himself.” Michael nudged his chin in the direction of the glass doors. “Harry.”

I froze. No matter how much I had tried to prepare myself for this moment, I wasn’t. My heart was beating so fast that I thought it might make me pass out. I closed my eyes and counted back from four to try to calm down. When I was hitting the negative numbers, I realized it wasn’t working for shit. Then I heard his laugh, and a strange sense of calm filled my lungs, making it so I could breathe. And this was his true laugh, not the one he used when he was trapped behind the prison of his title. He sounded happy. Harry…he sounded perfect.

Making myself turn around, I found him on the other side of the terrace greeting the guests. My heart fluttered. His smile was wide and genuine, and the crinkles around his eyes were out in full force.

The past week without him and the residual pain from our argument seemed to fade like the champagne bubbles I held in my hand. He was here. Before me again, looking the happiest I had ever seen him. I was rooted to the ground, as if my feet had been buried by the groundsman like the potted flowers around us.

“You’re drooling.” Sally stood beside me. I rolled my eyes at my boss, decked out in an all-black suit. “Don’t worry, if I liked men I’d be drooling too.”

“Sally, do you realize it’s summer?” I said, tipping my head at her suit and boots.

“This is from my summer collection, Faith. Do get caught up on fashion.” Sally moved to a neighboring table, and I waited for Harry to come over. He was wearing a lightweight white linen shirt with, of course, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He wore khakis, and his wavy hair moved in a slight breeze. It would have been so much easier to hate him if he didn’t look so beautiful.

As if sensing I was waiting, he lifted his head and his blue gaze quickly sought out mine. Immediately locked in a stare, Harry’s expression softened and the smile he gave me left me breathless. He tapped the man he was speaking to on the arm and walked our way.

“Hello, welcome to the Sinclair Estate,” he said, his accent instantly washing over me. He tore his eyes off mine momentarily while he shook hands with Sarah and Michael. I didn’t catch any of their small talk, too busy reacquainting myself with the view of Harry’s muscled forearms, his olive skin, courtesy of his mom, and his clean-shaven square jaw.

Then he was looking back at me, holding out his hand. “Miss Parisi,” he said, his touch sending electricity through my body. Harry’s fingers squeezed mine.

“Harry.” My voice shook slightly. Sarah and Michael moved to speak to someone they knew at the next table.

Harry saw them go and stepped closer to me. I saw the wariness in his guarded expression, the uncertainty as to where we now stood with one another. “How are you?”