Some Kind of Wonderful (Puffin Island 2)

He gave her his most winning smile but she felt nothing but frustration.

He hadn’t listened to her.

Apparently he’d never listened to her. He’d steamrollered over her in pursuit of his own goals.

He had a five-year plan and apparently she was part of it.

‘I don’t remember a question. You said, “I want you to marry me.” Much the same way a child might say, I want that candy.’ Too stressed to stand still, she paced the length of the room. ‘In the last year, how much time do you think we’ve spent together?’

‘It’s been a crazy year—I’m not denying that. Of course we would have spent more time if you hadn’t insisted on spending so much time in your studio and on that island. But all that’s going to change when we’re married.’

‘I thought I’d made it clear that marriage isn’t on my wish list. Didn’t you hear me?’

‘I heard you, but we both know you didn’t mean it. Why wouldn’t you want to get married?’ There was a hint of impatience in his voice. ‘Your parents have been married for thirty-five years and never a cross word.’

And never a loving one, either.

Never—not once—had she seen her parents show affection.

They didn’t hold hands.

They didn’t kiss.

There were no lingering glances, no suggestion of a bond of togetherness.

She wanted so much more.

‘What are you doing here? I mean, what are you really doing here?’

His smile lost some of its warmth. ‘I came to support you—although given the mood you’re in I’m starting to wonder why I bothered. I’m still finding my way around Capitol Hill. Being here was the last thing I needed right now.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I didn’t mean—’ He dragged his hand over the back of his neck. ‘You’re determined to misunderstand everything I say.’

‘Maybe that’s because I don’t understand. You told me you weren’t coming tonight, so what changed?’

When he didn’t answer, she answered for him.

‘You saw the guest list and thought there might be people here who could be useful to you. Be honest. Tonight was never about me.’

But she’d wanted it to be. And her creative brain had spun the facts into a scenario that she could live with.

Her mother was right.

She was a stupid dreamer.

Richard met her gaze head-on. ‘I’m not ashamed to admit the value of networking. You want honest? I’ll give you honest. This hobby of yours is fine, but you are wasting your life. You paint pictures and make jewellery—and that wouldn’t matter except that you’re smart, and there are so many other more useful things you could be doing. Things that would make me proud.’

She felt dizzy. ‘You’re not proud of me?’

‘You’re not exactly saving the planet, Sky. Even you can’t pretend that what you do is important.’

With a few words he dismissed what she did, tossing her dreams into the trash as her father had done with her first painting all those years before.

She felt as if she were emerging from a deep sleep.

‘The last necklace I made was taken from a brooch left to my client by her grandmother. It had been sitting in a drawer for a decade and she wanted it made into something contemporary that she could wear. Something relevant to her life that would remind her of someone she’d loved very much. It was important to her. Emotions are important.’