Brant's Return

“No. I . . . I can’t. I’m withering away here and I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I’m sorry, I love you”—she took a deep breath, pressing her lips together momentarily as if the words had escaped and she wished they hadn’t—“but I can’t stay here.”

She picked up her suitcase and made to move past me but I grabbed her arm. “Please,” I rasped.

She tilted her head and I could see tears in her beautiful eyes. “It’s my fault, Brant. I . . . I took a chance. I hoped for love. You didn’t break any promises to me.” She smiled, but it was so damn sad it wrenched my heart. “I broke them to myself.”

She stepped around me and my hand dropped from her arm, sadness and desperation coursing through my blood and making me feel out of control, crazy. I breathed, trying mightily to rein in my swirling emotions, my mind searching frantically for something that would convince her to stay. But the only word that slipped free of my lips was, “No.” The word was broken, but far too quiet for anyone but me to hear. I raced out the front door, into the empty vestibule. The elevator had already come and gone and I jabbed at the button, a string of swearwords breaking free. When the elevator finally arrived a few minutes later, I rode downstairs, my heart beating a mile a minute in my chest. You’re losing her. You’re losing her. This is it.

Bursting out of the elevator, I ran toward the front door, almost colliding with Jacob. “Sorry, Jacob, Isabelle—”

“She just left, Mr. Talbot. A taxi to the airport . . . Mr. Talbot, are you okay?”

I lifted my arm to acknowledge his question, stepping back on the elevator. The door closed, and I leaned my forehead against the cold metal of the door. She was gone.

**********

The morning sun streamed into the room. I’d forgotten to lower the blinds the night before after drinking several shots of bourbon and falling into bed. An empty bed that still smelled like Belle. The scent was delicate, just barely lingering. Like our relationship, I guessed. At the thought, pain radiated through me that had nothing to do with the mild hangover I was also suffering. Rolling over in bed, I stared at the ceiling, unable to stop seeing Isabelle’s anguished face as she’d told me she was leaving the night before.

And yet her expression had been the polar opposite as we’d traveled to my opening—full of nervous hopefulness. She’d looked stunning, such a classic beauty in her gown, her hair swept up, the sight of the purple orchid pin I’d given her making my heart roll over in my chest. She’d worn it for me, I knew. I knew.

I winced. God, she’d had an awful experience at my opening, how could she not? Between the idiot fashion reporter making fun of her outfit, being left alone while I was called off to fix problems, and then walking in on Sondra and me—her night had been nothing but miserable. Embarrassing. Humiliating.

Goddamned Sondra. I’d just fixed several issues when she’d appeared in my office, making snide remarks about Isabelle and then taking me completely by surprise by grabbing the lapels of my jacket and kissing me. It’d taken me all of half a second to unlatch her death grip on my clothing and push her away, but long enough for Isabelle to see. Even though I was pretty sure she believed the kiss had been all Sondra’s doing, it was still a vision that would probably remain in her head. Christ. What a clusterfuck.

It wasn’t only that, though. It was being here in general. Here in New York, I was able to retain that stiff control, that focus I’d perfected since I’d left Kentucky and began a new life. So yes, maybe I seemed more rigid, more . . . straight-laced. But that was because here, I had to be. Here, where I ran million-dollar establishments, it was expected of me.

Buttoned-up blowhard.

Despite myself, I breathed out a small laugh that turned into a groan. Because I knew the truth. That version of myself was capable of keeping her at arm’s-length. It was part of what made me feel safe, in control. It was the part of me that had run her off.

I’d not only run her off, I’d made her cry when I’d vowed to care for her, to protect her. But vowing to protect her didn’t mean vowing to love her and that . . . Fuck, that I couldn’t do.

I love you. Her words echoed in my brain, tormenting me, making me hate myself, and yet sending a wave of euphoria through me too, just as they had when she first uttered them. God, I’d wanted to say the words back. They’d risen from my chest and lodged in my throat. Trapped. I’d wanted to say it, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. Was it as she said? Was it because I was so afraid of loss that I’d rather hold myself away from her—from everyone—rather than risk feeling too much? Maybe. But that was wise. Wasn’t that wise? How could Belle—who’d lost far more than I had—risk loving again when I could not?

And what the fuck was I going to do about this situation? I missed her. She hadn’t even been gone twenty-four hours and her absence pressed on me like a ten-ton weight. I was suffocating inside my own skin.

I sat on the edge of the bed, hanging my head as I massaged the back of my neck. And yet, I didn’t have anything more to offer her than this. This . . . I sat up, leaning back as I surveyed the room. Riches, luxury, excess even. I moved forward and knocked on the shiny bedside table. What was this made from anyway? Whatever it was, she didn’t want it. She didn’t want any of it.

Of all the women I could have chosen, I’d chosen the one who preferred a pair of dusty jeans and a frayed ribbon in her hair to an evening gown and a string of jewels.

Speaking of fancy clothes, I should get dressed. I had a meeting scheduled at nine. Despite that personally, my night had gone to shit, business wise, the club opening had been a great success. People had crunched numbers for me, gathered online reactions to the new venue, and a hundred other things. I needed to be there, at the very least to thank everyone and apologize for skipping out early.

I reached for my cell phone and dialed.

“Graystone Hill. This is May.”

“Hi, May.”

“Brant. How are you?” I heard some scuffling, as if she’d taken the phone to another location, her voice lowering as she continued. “Is everything all right between you and Isabelle? This morning when I saw her, she said she was back because you were immersed in work, but she seemed off . . . sad.”

I sighed. “No, things aren’t great, May. Listen, I can’t get into it, but can you put Isabelle on the phone?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, she’s out riding. Left bright and early. Said her soul was yearning for it.”

Guilt crept over my skin. She’d told me that too, and I’d dismissed her, told her she should go shopping instead. Fuck.

I released a frustrated breath. Her cell phone was still sitting on the bureau. Even if she’d taken it with her to Kentucky, she probably wouldn’t have answered it while she was out riding. Or when she saw it was me.

We’re broken, Brant.