Page 47 of Resist

I slow blink at him, casting my eyes to his lips as they fill with unshed tears. Everyone calls me Cora. My father, my friends—unless they’re trying to drive home a specific point or be stern with me—but Mom called me Corabelle all the time.

Hearing Sterling not only call me my real name—rather than Cecelia—but call me mywholename sends a shot of emotion through my body.

I don’t like this either.

I don’t do emotions.

“Did I upset you?” He studies my face with such focus and awareness my breath stutters.

“No. I’m just not used to people using my full name.”

His brows twitch. “It’s such a beautiful name. I’m sorry. I should have asked what your preference is.”

My preference is generally Cora. It’s stupid, but I like holding that one piece of Mom’s memory. I don't mind when my inner circle uses my full name either. But strangers and new people I tend to go by Cora.

Except the way my name falls from his lips makes me want to have him say it again, and again.

“Do you know what it means?” He tilts his head.

“What... What means?”

“Corabelle.”

A shiver slithers up my spine, if he notices he doesn’t outwardly react. “You looked up my name?”

He nods like it’s no big deal but his cheeks fill with color. “It’s an English name. Fits with the history of Blackwell Publishing.”

I sip my drink then nod. “Dad’s family originated in Derbyshire. It’s a super old name there. Corabelle was my great grandmother’s name.”

“Cora actually has multiple origins.” He takes a drink. “It is a common variation of the nickname of the Greek goddess Persephone.”

I nod again. “Yup, it means ‘honest,’ ‘virtuous,’ and ‘good.’ Not really a great first impression when I straight up lie to you, right?”

He grins, and I swear the temperature of the room picks up a few degrees. “I did see the irony there. But I get it.” He leans back in his seat, cradling his mug to his face before taking a long drink. “You wanted a night of not being Blackwell Publishing’s heiress, of no one knowing who you were, of privacy. That’s more than understandable, all things considered. We are all entitled to a little discretion every now and then.”

He picks up his shoulder and drops it in a casual shrug. “You don’t owe anyone anything. I got butt hurt because I felt a connection, and I thought I was getting to know you. Once I thought about it for a hot minute I realized you never owed me a damn thing, not even your real name.”

His words make sense, but there’s still a faint tingle of guilt inside me. “I was going to tell you. I swear. I just needed... I don’t know. I liked that you didn’t know this part of my life. It’s not the easiest to navigate at the moment.”

His face turns serious, and before he opens his mouth, I know he knows. “Yeah, I heard some scuttlebutt in the bathroom.”

My stomach sinks, so does my head into my hands. Of course he did.

“Which is why I asked you to come here.”

My head jolts back at his admission. “What?”

“Is it true? You need to marry someone in the next few months or they’ll give Blackwell Publishing to someone else?”

That shitty burning in my eyes and at the back of my throat comes back, and no amount of biting down on my lower lip can stave off the wave of grief entangled with guilt that crashes into me. “Yes,” I whisper. “We figure Dad probably thought it would give me the playful nudge I needed to say yes to one of Paul’s proposals. That’s my ex.”

A heavy weight shifts in my stomach. “But he’s not for me. And even if I thought he could be.” I swallow down the lump of rejection jammed right in the middle of my throat. “He’s moved on. And I don’t steal other women’s men, even if I’m under pressure and on a clock.”

He stares at me for a long time through a charged silence, his eyes boring into me like he’s trying to reach into my goddamn soul. He stays quiet as we finish our drinks, and my fingers itch to pick up my phone and ask my friends how to navigate this moment.

I’m not used to having someone who will sit with me in the quiet, who isn’t driven to fill every second of silence between us with conversation and addle noise. But it’s starting to creep me the fuck out.

After what feels like an hour, he heaves out an epic sigh, leans forward, and takes both my hands into his.

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