“No, I bet she’s afraid of being hurt. Look what she went through. This isn’t about her not wanting you, it’s about her not wanting to let anyone in.”
Dexter had a point. I could definitely see that Stella would be reticent about getting involved with someone again after Matt, but I wasn’t proposing or suggesting we move in together. “I just suggested a drink. If she’s not interested, then—”
“Mate, she’s interested. I saw it when she was in the pub with us that night.”
“In the pub? We hardly knew each other then.”
“Trust me. I know what a woman looks like when she’s into a guy. And you were taken with her as well. There was something about the two of you. You just fit together.”
Dexter described exactly how I felt—it was like we were two sides of the same coin. But the feeling clearly wasn’t mutual. I shrugged. “You know what I’m like. I’m not a good boyfriend anyway.”
“You know what I’m going to say to that,” he warned. “You’re not a good boyfriend because you don’t care about the women you spend time with.”
“So, if your theories are correct, if Stella had been the right woman, I’d have chased after her.”
“No, you’d be sitting in the pub, nursing a pint of water, brooding because you got knocked back and it’s the first time it’s ever happened.”
I picked up my pint, hoping he’d continue but not wanting to ask him to explain further.
“I’ve never seen you in a bad mood because a woman turned down an invitation to dinner or drinks or whatever.”
I couldn’t remember it ever happening.
“It’s bound to have happened before, but I bet you don’t remember because you never gave a shit before. But with Stella, it’s different. I can tell.”
I didn’t want to say he was right, but Dexter was right—she was different. Stella seemed to get me. Know me. Not just because she knew my mother’s occupation and how I liked my steak—she knew my soul. “I can’t make her date me, Dexter. She said no.”
“She doesn’t trust herself. Doesn’t trust you. You need to woo her. Keep showing her what a good man you are, and she’ll come around.”
“I shouldn’t have to convince someone to date me.” I’d seen how Stella could go along with things to make other people happy. I wanted her to really want me. To actively choose to be with me. I didn’t want to have to persuade her.
“This isn’t about how she feels about you. It’s all about how she feels about the world. Be the guy who makes the world safe for her. If Stella’s the woman for you, then it’s your job to give her what she needs. And she needs to know she’s safe with you. She needs to understand you’re not going to fuck her over. And take it from me, every woman needs to know that she’s worth fighting for.”
She definitely deserved all of those things.
“If she’s as important to you as I think she is,” Dexter continued. “Don’t let anything stand in your way. The man who sired you turned his back on you, but that’s not what Stella is doing. She’s not rejecting you—she’s protecting herself.”
I let Dexter’s words settle. When something was important to me, I worked to get what I wanted, to prove that I was worthy. I tapped the edge of my pint glass. But I hadn’t fought for Stella. Hadn’t even stated my case. Dexter was right—it was because I didn’t want to risk being rejected. Again.
I knew I didn’t want to lose someone as important as Stella was, just because I was scared. I wasn’t going to let my past dictate my future. Henry selling me the Dawnay building was the end of that chapter in my life.
And Stella London was in my future. Of that I was certain.
Thirty-Three
Stella
I was going to show Beck Wilde. The interiors of the Mayfair project were going to be the talk of London. They would win awards and have people whispering at parties about how fabulous they were. I just needed to be inspired, find suppliers, and hunt down things that had never been seen in London before.
“That’s the third time you’ve yawned in the last seven minutes,” Florence said, tipping her head to the side and staring at the underside of a table. The cute interiors shop just off Marylebone High Street was one of my favorites. It had a mixture of antiques and new pieces—furniture, art, vases, pots, rugs. It was like visiting an overstuffed London mansion owned by someone who had great taste but not enough space. “Why are you so tired? Has Beck been keeping you up?”
“I think I’m going to have to make a few trips abroad,” I said, swerving around her questions. I’d taken the week off in Scotland so there was no way my dragon of a boss would let me take more holiday. My job was next on my to-do list—after forget about Beck and before sort my life out.
“For what? With Beck?”
“For suppliers.” I wished she’d stop bringing him up. “Unless I go for an entirely British interior. Make it a feature that everything has been crafted by artisans in this country. It could be a selling point.” But would it be luxurious enough? I wanted some kind of theme other than opulence and luxury. I needed to find an edge. I was going to do whatever it took to impress the hell out of Beck. Maybe then he’d realize what he’d let slip through his fingers.
“It feels like you’ve got your mojo back a little,” Florence said. “Do you think you got some closure last week?”