Page 22 of Blind Prophet

“I just need coffee.”

She’s dressed professionally. Here to do what you should’ve done. There’s someone else. That’s what’s forced her to finish this. You always knew this day would come. And here it is.

CHAPTER6

CAROLINE

Dorian’s presence diminishes the surroundings, blurring the periphery and depleting the oxygen.

At six-one, he shouldn’t have that effect, but with his broad shoulders and dark, wavy hair, he’s quite possibly the most charismatic man that ever lived.People Magazinenamed him “Sexiest Man Alive,” and he’s not an actor. That alone should’ve served as a warning. I had no business being with this man.

Today, he’s paired a crewneck sweater with casual midnight navy trousers and brown Chelsea boots. The tweed sports jacket gives his shoulders substantial breadth.

Years ago, he lived in suits, ties, and buffed dress shoes.

The lines around Dorian’s deep-set eyes remind me that time has passed, as does the sprinkling of gray near his temples. He’s never been one to take care of his skin, eschewing moisturizer and sunscreen, but the marks of age have served to distinguish him. If possible, he’s grown more handsome. It’s the hallowed, shadowy complexion beneath his doleful dark eyes that is disconcerting.

He wasted no time escorting me out of the guardhouse. Based on his dismissive treatment of his staff, I imagine he has little interaction with them. His house manager probably handles his staff.

He didn’t lead me to the road and turn me away at the gate. That’s good. But why would he turn me away? We aren’t one of those couples who spent years duking it out over money. No, we’re the rare breed who avoided the fight altogether.

It’s good I’m here. We’re overdue for resolution. And I’ll prove his innocence.

He brushes his hands against each other after depositing my luggage on the back of the golf cart, and for a second, our eyes connect. The familiar deep brown of his eyes draws me in, but something’s off—his pupils? He looks away before I assess.

My heart aches to know what’s bothering him, but I bite back the question. It’s not my business, but the concern still flows.

There’s no point in asking, because he won’t tell. That’s the way he operates, and that’s a reason you left. If he says he needs coffee, just accept the answer.

The sun shines onto the path, casting shadows between the trees. It’s the end of the season, and many limbs are bare, but some leaves don’t give up easily, reminders of a vibrant season. And then there are the evergreens. Beautiful in their perpetual might, limbs bowing gracefully as if eagerly awaiting a dusting of snow.

“It’s always been so beautiful here,” I say. “Peaceful. They wouldn’t let me walk around. Insisted I remain inside.” I tilt my head, letting the words land however they may.

“My apologies.”

Always so formal.

“I didn’t want you to leave.”

His statement actually feels honest.

“Did you think I’d drive so far out of my way and then leave once I had confirmation you’d be arriving in thirty minutes?”

A familiar expression forms on his face—narrowed, thoughtful eyes and a frown. There’s a response passing through his head, but he won’t verbalize his thoughts.

I scan the area, searching for cameras. Is his security team listening? He’s always on display. A heavily staffed home equals observant parties at all times.

He rests his hand on the top of the golf cart. There’s no ring. No indentation in the skin of a ring. Same as mine. As expected, he removed his ring. What’s not expected is for me to be drawn to his ring finger, or for residual pain to surface.

“If you’d like, we can walk the trail.” He glances down, probably noting my two-inch pumps. A reasonable selection for a business meeting, but not for traversing a trail covered in slippery pine needles and leaves. “Or we can ride it.”

He taps the top of the golf cart.

“Will it make it?” I ask.

We used to ride ATVs on the trail. The golf carts do better on the paved pathways, but at the top, where it’s steep, the wheels can spin.

“Still doubt me?”

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