Page 36 of Let Me
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I ask, crossing my legs, leaning back on the couch, as if I’m totally relaxed. As if I’m in charge here.
His eyes are a darker blue than his eldest son’s, and there are flecks of brown in them that remind me of Jack. But I don’t let that trip me up. I keep that false confidence.
“It’s me who owes you the pleasure, Riley. I’m so sorry for last night.” He glances at the wall of windows across from us, looking down at the Toronto sign, at the clear blue sky of another beautiful Sunday morning. But then his eyes cut to me, and he runs his hands over his pants. “What did you do last night?”
I frown. “I could ask you the same,” I counter, as if I give a shit what he did last night. Or who.
He looks momentarily uncomfortable, and it at once makes me nervous that he thinks I care, and happy that he seems on edge. “It’s just…Maria…” He shakes his head, fiddles with the gold wedding band on his finger. His fingers are lean, like Caden’s.
But he’s nothing like Caden.
He hooks his arms around the leather chair that he had put in here, and that air of bravado is back.
“So, where were you?” He smiles, dimples flashing, and I have to admit he’s still handsome, even as he’s in his late 50s. Caden would age even better than him, with his mother’s beauty in his veins. But I bite my lip. That shouldn’t concern me. I may never see Caden again, no matter what we did last night in the dark.
Sometimes, those things done after the sun goes down, they seem to be erased by the morning. Like we can hide our secrets in that strange time after dusk. But the thing about secrets is that they always come out.
“I went out.” I shrug, glance out the windows, mirroring his posture with my own arms around the couch. “Not late.”
“Oh, Riley. How many times do I have to tell you I know when you lie to me?”
I snap my head back to him, furrow my brow. “How many times do I have to tell you that you don’t own me?” I snarl.
He smiles, laughs darkly. “Oh, but I do.” He shakes his head, runs a hand through his brown hair. “I’m sorry I made you come to the party, to the house. I’m sorry. I forgot Caden is…temperamental. Too volatile for his own good.” He shakes his head again, and it takes everything in me not to defend his only remaining son. But I don’t. “Not much different than Jack, where you were concerned.” He laughs, as if it’s funny.
He’s a piece of shit.
But no, that’s not it either. It’s not Rolland’s fault I couldn’t be honest with Jack. With Caden. And now it’s too late. Now, I never will be.
“Anyhow.” Rolland clears his throat. “I hope you didn’t see him last night?”
I snort, an undignified sound, and I don’t care. “This city has over four million people in it. What makes you think I’d have seen him?” I don’t take my eyes from his as he surveys me, weighing the truth in my lie.
“You two always did have a way of finding yourselves alone together. Like you were pulled that way.” He shrugs. “Magnets. I mean, you saw him that night, didn’t you?”
We both know what night he’s talking about. We both know I was with Caden.
I would never admit to him what those words do to me. As it is, I sit perfectly still.
He throws up his hands, as if dismissing it all. Dismissing my heart. Dismissing the love I had for his sons in that one, absentminded gesture.
“Oh well, water under the bridge. I suppose Caden will settle down soon enough. He’s been seeing someone; did he tell you at the party?”
I stiffen, and hope to God he doesn’t see.
Caden isn’t a cheater, mainly because he would never keep one girl long enough to cheat on her. And what we did last night, whether he hates himself for it or not…that would be cheating.
I’m the cheater.
Not Caden Virani.
But I say nothing, not willing to give Rolland the satisfaction of asking after what he’s hinting at.
“Yes, a hot little thing he met from work,” Rolland drones on, and the blood in my veins feels like it may start to boil. I feel my jaw tick, and I’ve got to interrupt him because if I don’t, I might kill him.
“What did you come here for?”
He stops talking abruptly, smiling at me. As if his words haven’t just ripped me to shreds. “To make it up to you. About last night.” He shifts over on the sofa, then places his hand beside him, patting it again. He wants me to come to him like I’m a dog. Usually, I do. Usually, I let him wine and dine me, pet me.
