TWENTY-SEVEN ARABELLA

TWENTY-SEVEN

Arabella

IT’S the day before Thanksgiving and I am in absolute heaven. The last four days have been unreal. Magical. Like I’m living in a fairy tale with Rowan Reginald Lancaster as my Prince Charming.

He went to the doctor Monday morning and came home boot-free and wearing the biggest smile I think I’ve ever seen. I’d like to think I’m partially responsible for that smile, though I understand ridding himself of the boot was a total relief for him. But still …

I can’t forget the way he pulled me into a hall closet and kissed the crap out of me when no one was looking. Or how his brother caught us slipping out of the closet, a knowing smirk on Beau’s face.

“Just friends,” he said, smug with knowledge. “Uh huh.”

Rowan didn’t even care. There was no scowling or growling or the normal Rowan reactions. He just grabbed my hand and told everyone we were going for a walk. We’ve done that a lot over the last few days. Going on walks. But we never get far.

Instead, we find some secret alcove in the yard where we kiss and kiss until we’re breathless and aching for each other. Our clothes disheveled and our hair messy and our mouths rubbed raw.

It’s the nights that are my favorite. After the house has gone quiet and everyone’s tucked away in their beds, Rowan sneaks into my room. Into my bed. His assured hands race all over me, stripping me bare, leaving me naked and wet and eager for more. Always wanting more. I thought I was a greedy whore before? I am greedier, ruthless and unapologetic with my wanting him. And he seems to love it. He doesn’t judge me for running my mouth and saying silly things. Doesn’t mind when I practically scream my head off when he makes me come. I’ve learned to cover my mouth, press a pillow to my face, whatever I need to do to keep my reactions quiet.

Ugh, I’m probably in love. I know that’s what it is. He smiles at me and I feel like I’m going to burst into flames. He touches me and I want to throw myself at him. And while we haven’t actually done it yet, we’ve done plenty of other things, and I’m still in shock that we’ve gotten this close. Me and Rowan. Row and Bells.

I like the way that sounds. I think he might too.

It’s Wednesday afternoon and I’m in the kitchen with his mother and their cook, Marilee. We’re working on the Thanksgiving menu and I’m currently peeling potatoes and it feels like such a traditional, pre-Thanksgiving dinner prep moment. I’ve never peeled potatoes in my life but Marilee kindly teaches me how to do it, and while I’m making a mess and peels are all over the sink, I’m having fun.

I am. Really.

“Arabella, I have a question for you,” Wren declares at one point, and I nearly wound myself with the vegetable peeler when my hand slips on the potato. I let both drop into the sink and turn to find she’s already watching me, her pretty green eyes full of caution mixed with hope.

Swallowing hard, I steel myself for what she might ask. Whenever a parent says this to me, it never ends well. And speaking of parents, I’ve been avoiding my mother, who’s been calling daily. So completely unlike her but I know she wants a firm answer about the apprenticeship with the jeweler, and I’m not ready to give her one yet.

“What is it?” I ask, putting on my brightest smile. Like I’m a confident open book and not trembling with nerves.

“Your birthday is Friday and I know Rowan said you didn’t want a party but … that was a few days ago and I wanted to check in with you and see if you’re open to the possibility?” She pauses a beat before rushing onward. “It wouldn’t be anything big. We could invite some of the family over. They always love an excuse for us to gather and celebrate. And while some of them are coming over tomorrow for the holiday, I’m sure they’ll want to come over Friday too.”

“They don’t even know me,” I whisper, shocked all over again that she would offer to do this for me.

“They’ll get to know you and they’ll love you like we do.” She shifts away from the island where she was rolling out homemade pie crust—homemade by the very woman of the house, and I can’t even imagine my mother doing something like this—her hands covered with flour.

The way Wren is looking at me, I think she might want to hug me, and I want her to hug me too, but we’re a mess. I’m covered in potato juice, which I didn’t even know was a thing, and she pauses right in front of me, her head tilted to the side. “But I understand if you don’t want a party. Rowan has mentioned before that you’re a private person—”

“I’m not,” I interrupt. “I’m a blabbermouth who wants attention because quite honestly, my parents don’t give it to me because they’ve never seemed to care. So yes, I’d love a party. A big, sparkly party with balloons and flowers and a massive cake that has sparklers instead of candles, though that might cause a house fire, I’m not sure. And we can play games and maybe eat pizza? I love pizza.”

Wren Lancaster is beaming as she clutches her hands in front of her, her eyes sparkling like I imagine my cake might look Friday night—bright and fiery. “Oh, Arabella, you’ve made my day! Whatever you want for your party, we can put together. It’ll be beautiful.” She turns to look at Marilee, who’s currently placing the crust Wren was just rolling out into a glass pie dish. “Marilee, I’m going to have to go make a few calls. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I’ve got this, Mrs. Lancaster. You should go with her, Arabella,” Marilee tells me with a gentle smile. If I had a sweet and soft grandmother, this is who I’d want her to be like. Marilee is the best. No wonder the entire family loves her. “You need to go plan your party.”

My potato duties forgotten, I hurriedly wash my hands, careful not to get any soap on the peeled potatoes in the strainer, before I leave the kitchen with Wren, excitement bubbling inside me as she leads me to her office. It’s a gorgeous room with rose gold fixtures and a round marble table in the dead center of the room, a vase full of vibrant autumn-hued flowers the only burst of color in the otherwise muted room. There are art pieces hanging on the walls, massive pieces that are subtle in color and seem important. Like someone famous painted them all, though I have no idea who since I don’t know much about art.

“Have a seat,” Wren instructs, and I do as I’m told, settling into the cream-colored plush chair, watching as she sits across from me and cracks open the sleek Apple laptop, tapping away at the keys before she turns it to face me.

“What do you think of these flowers?” she asks as I gape at the photos on the screen.

“They’re gorgeous,” I say without hesitation.

“We’ll order some balloons too. Fill them with helium and they can have ribbons hanging from them so they fill the ceiling in the family room. I think that will look beautiful.” She turns the laptop back toward her and starts tapping again. “I used to hate my birthday.”

My jaw drops. “Why?” I can’t imagine this beautiful, happy woman hating anything, especially her birthday. It’s a reason to celebrate and she seems to love any chance to have a party.

“My birthday just so happens to land on Christmas, and growing up, I hated that. I never felt like my day was special. It was a day for everyone to celebrate.” Wren presses her lips together, silencing herself for a moment. “I sound selfish, but maybe I was. I am an only child, after all.”

“I am too,” I breathe, feeling like I have something in common with her. And while my birthday isn’t on Christmas, I definitely know what it feels like to never feel seen on what’s supposed to be a special day.

“Rowan mentioned that,” his mother tells me, her voice soft. “We have some similarities.”

We do, but I could never be half as beautiful or as elegant as the woman sitting in front of me. And she’s so giving and thoughtful. Look at her wanting to throw me a party and she doesn’t even know me. When I’m the hussy who’s rolling around naked with her son in secret every night, right under her own roof.

My entire body goes hot at the realization. I am a bad person. I wonder if she can tell.

“He also mentioned that you don’t spend much time with your parents,” she adds, her voice gentle, like she’s afraid I’m going to break if she speaks too harshly. Perhaps I will. I’m hanging on by a thread right now as it is, fighting the shame that wants to wash over me. “They travel a lot for work?”

I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “My father works in finance. He’s president of a bank in Hong Kong.”

“Impressive,” Wren murmurs, though I can tell she’s not impressed at all. There’s a gleam in her eyes that reminds me of Row when he’s upset about something. “I don’t want to speak out of turn but …”

“Please. Please speak out of turn,” I urge, wanting to hear what she has to say.

“Well.” She sits up straighter, brushing an imaginary hair away from her face. Trust me when I say her hair is perfection. “It sounds to me like your parents might—neglect you at times. Like now, for instance.”

I don’t even bother defending them. What’s the point? “They’re too busy to worry about me and my feelings.”

Her expression shifts, full of sympathy but not—thank God—pity. “I know what it feels like, to have parents who were too wrapped up in their own lives to worry about their child. While I have a solid relationship with my mother now, when I was your age, my parents were … not the best.”

I don’t speak, only send her a sympathetic look in return.

“I’m glad you agreed to come here for the week. It seems you’re having a good time?”

The best time ever, is what I want to tell her. And not just because of Row either. I love the house and his parents and his brother and the housekeeper and their driver. I love their dog Oliver, a giant black lab who tries to knock me over with his sturdy body every time he sees me. I love my guest room and the giant bathtub and the sprawling backyard. Everything about this house has warm and cozy vibes despite its size and I never want to leave.

“I’m having a wonderful time. Thank you again for hosting me. I know it was last minute—”

“I always love having my children’s friends come to stay with us,” she says, interrupting me. “It’s never an issue. We have more than enough room in this house. How are you and Row doing?”

I frown, not sure where she’s going with this question.

“You two have seemed to grow closer.” Her smile is small. She appears pleased with this turn of events and oh, how I can relate.

“We have.” I sit up as straight as I can, squaring my shoulders and readjusting my glasses, which have clear frames. They are the ones I wear the most because they go with everything. “I think he might like me after all.”

Wren laughs, and I can’t help but laugh along with her. “Like you after all? I believe he’s always liked you.”

“No way. Not at all. I annoyed him. I might still, I’m not sure. I can be—a lot sometimes,” I admit.

Her laughter dies and she gets a fierce look on her face, again reminding me of her oldest son. I kind of love it when he gets that look because it means he’s fired up about something, and I do enjoy an impassioned Rowan. “You are not ‘a lot,’ as you say. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that. You are just enough for many someones out there, including your friends and whoever you end up settling down with someday. If that’s your choice. Maybe you never settle down. Maybe you want to wander around the world and live without restraints. Whatever you want, whatever you do, don’t you ever feel like you’re too much or a lot. I hate when people say that.”

I blink back the tears that have sprung to my eyes, shocked by her outburst. How easily she defends me when my own mother used to chastise me for being over the top. All over the place. Unable to focus or sit still or calm down. I heard all of those phrases and more growing up, until I became a shell of myself whenever I was around them. Only when I’m at school do I act like my real self. Well, and here. I’m accepted by this family.

By Row.

The tears leak out of the corner of my eyes anyway, and I give in to my urges, leaping from my chair and going to Wren, who stands at the last second and envelops me in a big hug. I cling to her, pressing my face against her soft cashmere sweater, praying I don’t get snot on it as I cry. She just holds me, running her hand over my hair and murmuring soothing words I can’t really understand. I don’t need to know what she’s saying. Her comforting hug is more than enough.

I eventually pull away from her, a little embarrassed as I wipe the tears away from my face with shaky fingers. She hands me a tissue from the box that sits on the table and I take it, dabbing at my face and blowing my nose. I’m a mess but she’s watching me. Quiet. Patient. Like a mother should be.

“I wish you were my mom,” I admit, immediately wanting to take it back because then that means Rowan would be my brother and ew.

God, my thoughts are ridiculous sometimes.

“Oh, sweetheart.” She pulls me back in for another hug, murmuring into my hair, “Maybe someday I will be.”