The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,357

as much in the dark. I guess it makes sense though—diamonds need light in order to shine.

“It’s a beautiful ring,” I say.

“Yes, but do you love it?”

“Does it matter?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he checks his watch. “I’m going to head into the office. My driver will drop you off at Henri Bendel’s where you’re meeting with my stylist, Elle. She’ll be choosing some pieces for you—for the summer in Montauk. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been?”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“She’s been instructed to outfit you with a few staples in addition to your Hamptons wardrobe.”

“What’s wrong with my current wardrobe?” I tilt my chin down, squinting. “You never had a problem with it at the office.”

“I don’t want you dressing like an assistant anymore.”

“I thought you wanted me to be myself?” I glance down at my gray slacks and white blouse.

“I do want you to be yourself.” He reaches across the empty middle seat and places his hand over mine. “But I’d love for you to dress the part.”

“That’s right. I forgot you have an eye for design.” I roll my eyes when he’s not looking.

“Design is everything. Aesthetics are everything.” He glances out the window to his right, his hand remaining on mine. I recognize the street ahead. We’re getting closer to the office. This time last week, I was scrambling around ordering lunch for some English architects he decided to host at his office at the last minute. When it was over, he told me I should have chosen a better restaurant, one for more sophisticated palates.

“Beauty is only skin deep.”

The car comes to a slow stop outside Rutherford Architectural’s building.

“I give zero fucks about beauty.” He turns to me. “Design? That’s what matters. When you look at a building or a piece of art and it makes you feel something? That’s design. Someone intentionally created their piece with the sole purpose of making you feel something when you look at it. Beauty is secondary. Beauty is the stone or the marble or the fabric. The interpretation of the design.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with the way I dress.”

“You’re a beautiful woman, Mari,” he says. “And if you’re going to be mine, I won’t have you hiding beneath cheap design. I’m upgrading your wardrobe effective immediately.”

I laugh. “Why? So you can feel something when you look at me?”

The driver opens Hudson’s door, but Hudson stays, letting his gaze linger on mine as we bask in temporary silence. He doesn’t answer me. He simply steps out a second later.

Straightening his suit jacket, he runs a hand down his thin black tie before leaning down to meet my gaze one last time.

“Elle will take good care of you today.” His lips press together and he exhales through his nose. “I’ll pick you up around one for lunch.”

“Oh? I had no idea. I’m supposed to meet one of my friends then. You have to tell me these things in advance.”

“You’ll need to reschedule.”

“I said I’d help you out, Hudson. I didn’t say you could commandeer my entire life.”

“I’m not commandeering anything. We need to have a date. We need to get to know each other. Soon you’ll be accompanying me to Montauk for the month of June, which means we need to be spending every spare moment together until then.”

I exhale, my fingers spinning the ridiculous ring on my finger.

“See you at one,” he says before turning to leave.

The driver closes the door and returns to the front, and I grab my phone, texting my best friend, Isabelle, to ask for a rain check and promising to explain everything as soon as I can.

Settling back against the smooth leather seat, I stare at Manhattan through a tinted window, placing my hand on my lower belly.

“I’m doing this for you, baby,” I whisper.

Four

Hudson

* * *

Mari climbs into the backseat as my driver loads her bags into the trunk.

“Hi.” She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind one ear, brushing her hands along the back of her skirt-covered thighs.

That’s new.

I scan her from head to toe.

Her hair is lighter than before, parted deep on one side and slightly curled, and her lips are slicked in deep cherry red. A willowy blouse cut low in the front clings to her shoulders.

She looks … chic. Effortlessly classy. And I can’t take my fucking eyes off her.

“You look nice,” I say, my mouth forming a crooked smirk as I allow my gaze to linger a bit longer than usual.

She smooths her