Page 18 of Truth Be Told
“You can go ahead,” he says.
“Okay. Um, where should I–” Before I can finish asking where I’m supposed to park, he’s already left. He didn’t hear a word I said.
I grip the steering wheel and drive through the slowly opening gate. My car works hard to propel itself up the incline, and when I reach the very top of the tall drive, I park wherever seems to make the most sense, which just so happens to be right next to the staircase leading up to the main entryway. I don’t want to be imposing, and who knows who else I might run into in there who might think something of my parking job, but this seems to be the best spot.
I take a deep breath and head toward the stairs. This part of the driveway consists of white gravel, and it crunches beneath each of my steps, causing me to thank myself for not wearing heels.
The blinds are still open on some of the windows, and various lights shine from inside the house. A fireplace glows in the corner of what looks to be a living room, but I can’t see any movement.
I raise my hand to the door, knuckles ready. Just as I’m about to knock, the door opens for me. Cohen swings it on its hinges and then he’s there, standing a few feet in front of me. A splash of warm air hits my face when it wafts out of his home.
“Hey,” I say. He’s even more beautiful than I remember.
“Hey there.” He steps aside, ushering me in. “Come in.” I do, and after he closes the door behind me, he says, “It’s cold out there.”
“It sure is.” I rub my hands together for warmth.
The inside of Cohen Thatcher’s house is exactly as I expected – it’s bright and open, huge, of course, with a large, sparkling chandelier above our heads and a winding central staircase as the focal point. The floor is made of slick black and white patterned granite. He offers to take my purse off my shoulder.
“How many fireplaces do you have?” I ask curiously, because you know in a house like this, there’s most definitely more than one. I let him take my purse, shrugging my shoulders as he also helps with my coat.
“Nine.”
My eyes grow wide. “Nine?”
He smiles in return and sets my things on a round table in the middle of the entryway, next to a huge vase full of red and white flowers. “By last count.”
I get it. A joke, of course. “How do you take care of nine fireplaces?” If there are nine fireplaces, I can only imagine how many rooms this place holds. I bite my tongue. He’s probably thinking,Poor little Stella. Such a simpleton. She doesn’t realize that in a house like this,Idon’t take care of anything.
He shrugs. “It’s not that hard as long as you pay people to keep up with it.”
Well, I was right, but at least he said it nicely.
“I used to have live-in help,” he goes on, “and it was easier then. But now all I do is have someone come once a week. Come on.” He touches the back of my shoulder and guides me to the room to our left, one that’s off of the main foyer, the one with the warm glow of the lit fire.
It’s cozy in here, the theme seeming to be one of rich, dark brown leather. All the walls are detailed with shiny brown wood, matching the color of the thick leather sofas. A row of windows covers one side of the wall, leading out to the expansive covered deck at the front of the house.
I sit on the sofa that’s facing those windows, setting my hands comfortably in front of me.
“I don’t mean to make this seem so formal,” Cohen says as he takes a seat on the sofa across from me. “I’d rather you think of this as a visit between friends than anything close to a professional financial arrangement.”
Between friends.So that’s all he thinks of me? It’s only been a few days, yes, but that right there is confirmation that I better stuff my feelings away. I give a light smile. “It’s fine.”
He leans back, sinking deeply into the leather, and lifts his arm onto the spine of the couch. “I assume you had a chance to think about what I offered?”
I swallow, preparing to speak. This is a pretty serious thing we’re talking about. Giving someone such a large amount of money is no small matter, but Cohen is kind of acting like it is. His words are business-like, but at the same time, I can tell that this isn’t that big of a big deal to him. He’d prefer that I say yes, of course, but it wouldn’t be the end of his world if I turn him down. He’s doing this only for my sake, to be kind. He doesn’t need to. He’s doing it to rescue me yet again – only this time, it’s not quite life or death.
“I did.” I look down at my clasped hands. I don’t know how to say this; plus, it’s easier to speak on tough subjects when I’m not distracted by his good looks. I close my eyes. When I open them again a second later, I say, “I decided not to do it. I mean– not to accept your money, at least.”
He doesn’t react. “What does that mean?”
“Well, I am going to quit dancing. Because you were right, it’s too dangerous, and I think that’s some pretty good advice that I should take. And what happened the other day…” I shake my head, my hair moving around my face. “I can’t keep going after that. I mean, Ican, but I know that I shouldn’t.”
He’s watching me intently.
My words are uncertain now that I’m holding his piercing gaze, but I manage to finish slowly. “So I’m not going to.”
And that’s that. I did it. He knows that I don’t want his money. I clasp my hands together in my lap once more.
