Page 64 of Cross My Heart
Tessa
After I finish up my work at the Foundation, Saint sends a car to meet me and deliver me to a gorgeous, romantic restaurant in Notting Hill.
“I’m underdressed,” I tell him, glancing around at the other stylish dinners, having intimate conversations in the dim, candlelit corners. It’s clearly some kind of hotspot, with a mismatched, Parisian feel: crystal chandeliers twinkling overhead, and lots of white linen and fresh flowers. “I didn’t plan for a date.”
“You look beautiful,” he corrects me, getting up to greet me with a kiss. His lips graze mine softly, and I shiver, remembering the last time they were on my body…
“So, you justhappenedto be in London?” I blurt, taking a seat. He’s looking casually devastating as usual, all in black, with his hair tousled over his eyes.
Saint gives a smirk. “Well, it seems like everyone else was. And if you won’t come to me…”
“I don’t recall that coming was my problem,” I quip flirtatiously.
He laughs, clearly surprised by my boldness. And so am I. But there’s something about the heat that sizzles between us just sitting across the man… It’s tempting, already making me feel freer. More myself.
“So, tell me how it went at the Foundation today,” Saint says, taking my hand across the table.
“Aren’t we going to order first?”
He gives a dismissive gesture. “The chef knows me. He’ll send something wonderful. I’m more interested in your new job.”
“It’s not a job!” I insist.
“But it could be,” Saint points out, as a sommelier delivers a bottle of wine to the table. “Didn’t you enjoy it?”
I sigh, reluctant. “I did.”
“So why do you look like you just spent the afternoon reading Horsely?” he references one of the driest, most dull writers on the reading list, and I give a smile.
“No, it was great,” I admit. “They have great resources, and the projects they’re working to fund could really resonate with a younger audience…” I start telling Saint about my ideas for social media outreach, getting carried away explaining the plans. “… I’ve already drawn up a list of a dozen influencers who would be the perfect partners on this. And the great thing is, they would all love to be associated with charity work, and giving back, so they’ll probably do it for free. We get their audience exposed to the Foundation, a new fundraising drive, and they get to look like thoughtful citizens. Everybody wins!”
I finally stop to draw breath—and to sample some of the amazing appetizers that have been delivered to the table: tangy, fresh crudo, little cheese puffs, and some delicious, marinated vegetables. When I glance up from the food, I find Saint looking at me with a puzzled expression.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing, really. I just… It’s obvious that this kind of work is your passion. What are you even doing at Oxford, studying literature, if this is what you really love?”
I pause.Shit. I can’t tell him the real reason for coming to Ashford. Stalling, I take a sip of my wine.
“Why does anyone stay in academia?” I asked, my voice bright. Maybe too bright. “To delay the real world, of course.”
He gives a wry chuckle. “That’s what people think about me. That I’m up in Oxford to avoid reality, and my responsibilities.”
“Are you?” I ask, glad to deflect his questions back to him.
Now he’s the one taking a slow sip of wine. “Yes,” he replies simply. “The life my parents planned for me, the one I’m supposed to lead as son and heir… I don’t want any part of it.”
I pause, suddenly realizing something for the first time. “Your brother was older than you, wasn’t he? He was supposed to inherit the title and be the next Duke of Ashford.”
Saint nods, giving a rueful sigh. “Edward was made for it. Solid, dependable, a born leader. He actually liked all the family responsibility; he couldn’t wait to take his position at the company with my father. Carry on the good St. Clair name. Nobody expected anything of me—and I liked it that way. I could do whatever I wanted—and I did,” he gives me a familiar smirk. “But all that changed when he died.”
“What happened?” I ask softly. “If you don’t mind telling me.”
He shakes his head. “It’s alright. It was ten years ago. Edward went to volunteer with Doctors Without Borders, in Afghanistan. It was his day off, he was at a café with friends… There was an explosion. Suicide bomb.
“Oh my god,” I breathe, stunned.
“I guess they were targeting foreigners.” Saint gives a shrug. “Even though my brother never hurt anyone in his life. We were told it was quick.” He looks away. “That he didn’t feel anything.”