Page 122 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
She places her small cold hands on my bare chest. “I want you to touch me so it was like Digby was never there because I never wanted him to be there in the first place.”
I just about manage a small nod before she drags up her silk blue nightdress and throws it to the floor, by the pile of my own clothes.
When she leans down to kiss me, all I’m thinking about is the old times. How it was before. It’s kind of like nostalgia—a whole bunch of ‘what if’s?’ That I know will never get answered. I wish it was as simple as Phoebe just binning off Digby but it isn’t because I haven't made it easy for her. I’ve made her believe that I’m just going to up-and-leave whenever the going gets tough.
And if there’s one thing you should know about Phoebe, it’s that nothing on this fucking earth scares her more than being alone.
I turn my head to the side as her hair frames the both of us, her lips pressing feather-in-the-wind light kisses against the side of my neck. Her kisses are the best. Like a whisper in a dark room, brushing fingertips in the middle of a crowd, a knowing look across the room, a secret language with your eyes and mouth.
You don’t need the fast, overly passionate, rushed shit if you both know.
But that’s when I see it, the proof.
Her blue Tiffany diamond ring rolls out of the pocket of my slacks—because I haven’t gotten rid of it. I’ve been carrying it around for 1.095 days—glistening in the moonlight peering through the window as the waves below us rock the boat gently. Every now and then, this beam of light catches me right in the eye. Feels like a tiny acknowledging nod from my dad, as if to encourage me further to slip it back onto her finger, boyfriend or not.
Quickly cutting through this white beaming light is a great, big, flashing red beacon of warning. Spins around in my head like a siren. The truth. Tell her.
I need to tell her the truth.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lady Phoebe
“We need to debrief,” I tell Arthur, hoisting myself up onto the counter.
“They made smoothies,” he says, throwing a thumb behind him.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t care about smoothies, we need to chat.”
“About what?”
He reaches behind me, one hand going to my waist so I don’t fall off, grabs the salt and cracks it onto his full English.
“Connie and Spencer?” I hiss, hitting his arm.
Thankfully, everyone else is sitting outside eating their breakfast. I only just woke up, maybe hoping to still have Arthur laying beside me but he wasn’t.
He was out here, shirtless, wearing trunks and a pair of sandals I brought him years ago.
“What about them?” He asks, tucking into his food.
I lean my head back against the cupboard. “Are you being serious right now?”
He shrugs.
“Last night!” I remind him.
“Oh,” he nods, swallows. “I haven’t spoken to him. I think he’s still in bed.”
“Yeah, so is Spencer. Not very like her, is it? I don’t think she’s slept in past five a.m. since she was a baby—and even then I bet she was up at one minute past, playing the violin or something.”
He laughs, smiles in this fresh way that makes my heart thump. He looks fantastic this morning. Messy hair, red cheeks, sunburnt nose, boxer band peeking through the top of his trunks.
Jesus.
“The Sun is going to lose their shit when you go out.”
“Why?”
