Betrayal (Infidelity Book 1) - Aleatha Romig Page 0,70
a deep breath and wiped my eyes with my napkin. “Recently?”
“Yes, sweetheart, otherwise we’d be here until tomorrow, and I only took one day off.”
I hadn’t even thought of that. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to take a day off for me.”
“I’m not. Look out there. It’s a fantastic summer day in the most beautiful city in the world. Let’s eat and go for a walk. If Central Park doesn’t make you feel better…” He widened his eyes. “…there’s a few little stores down on Fifth Avenue… oh, and some on Madison. I’ve got retail therapy down to a science.”
“I don’t think I’ll be doing much in the way of retail therapy.”
“Mom didn’t know…” His voice trailed away.
I took a bite of my salad. “Transfer from Columbia to Savannah Law or drop out all together.” My voice raised an octave, mimicking my mother’s. “It is truly unnecessary for a Montague woman to work.”
The light brown of Patrick’s eyes clouded.
“Oh, and marry Bryce Spencer and carry on the bloodline. Chop-chop… make some babies.”
“Are they fuck’n nuts?”
I laughed. “Don’t we both know the answer to that question?”
His expression perked up. “But you’re here.” Then he added suspiciously, as if the thought just occurred to him, “You’re not here to complete transfer papers or withdraw, are you?”
My lips pursed tight as my head swayed side to side.
“So you told them to fuck off?”
“I left after they told me my trust fund was being held hostage.”
“Hostage? They can’t do that. Can they?”
“Alton was citing clauses. Something about it covering undergraduate, but not graduate school and expenses. I didn’t look at the paperwork. I couldn’t stay in that place one minute more. All I know is that my trust fund is gone. I can access the account online and it’s been closed.”
He leaned back his chair, pushing off with his arms. The action caused his biceps to budge from the edge of his short-sleeved shirt. “Nothing? They left you with nothing?”
I just nodded as I took another bite. The salad was fantastic.
Patrick stood and paced, his hand going though his thinning hair. “Why would the powerful Fitzgeralds want everyone to know they’d let you go to New York with nothing?”
“I don’t think they expected me to leave. I think this is what my mom meant when she said her father didn’t want her going away. The way they see it, I had my chance—more of a chance than she did. I had four years in California. Now I owe them and the Montague name my life.” I spoke louder. “My body and my soul.”
He sat back down and gestured around the room. “This place… well, it’s Cy’s. His name is Cyrus. You probably figured that out, that I didn’t just win the lottery.”
I grinned. “It’s pretty high rent for an intern.”
“He’ll be home later tonight. I don’t know about a three-year commitment, but I’m sure he won’t mind you staying here for a little while. He knows people. He might be able to help.”
A seed of hope burst in my chest. It was small and in need of tending, but it was there. “Thank you. If he’ll do that for your cousin who you haven’t seen in nearly five years, I’d say you did win the lottery.”
Patrick smiled and it did my heart good. I’d seen that smile before. I’d worn it. Whoever this Cy was, he made Patrick happy.
“I hate that I need help,” I went on. “The thing is that I’m willing to work, but I’m not willing to miss this chance at law school, at Columbia.”
His gaze lightened. “Let me talk to him. In the meantime, let’s go for a walk across the park and find your apartment building. I need to know how long it’ll take me on Saturdays to get over there and wake your ass up. Cy hates to run and I love it. I need a running partner.”
WE WERE BACK at Patrick’s place and I was back on the barstool watching him cook something that smelled like heaven. He’d chopped and measured and never once used a recipe. There were three pans on the stovetop with sauces that made my mouth water. In the oven was a beef something or other. It even had little leaves stuck to it with little pin things. It looked like it belonged in a Martha Stewart cookbook.
“Where did you learn how to cook?” I asked, swirling the wine around my glass.
He scrunched his brow. “Are you saying you don’t think it