Trillion - Winter Renshaw Page 0,30

arrangement of tufted floor pillows so we can lie on our backs and take in the spectacular show in the night sky.

“Make yourself comfortable,” I point to the cushions. “I’m going to check on that nightcap.”

I move to the corner of the room, lifting the phone from the receiver and calling down to the kitchen where I’m told our drinks are en route.

We shared a bottle of wine over dinner in the Field Room, a smaller, more intimate setting overlooking the magnolia gardens. For two hours, we discussed neutral topics: favorite vacation spots, film, and literature. Topics like politics and religion were avoided, as in good taste. Given her knowledge of a proper place setting, I got the sense she would flourish in some of the formal settings she’d be required to attend by my side. So far she’s checking all of my boxes and then some.

Our drinks arrive—bourbon for me and vodka soda with a wedge of lime for her.

“Tell me about your family, Sophie.” I hand her the tumbler and take the spot next to her. “What are they like?”

The faint glow of the stars above provides enough light for me to make out her delicate features and catch the glimmer of light in her eyes when she looks at me. All evening, she’s kept her distance—physically—but she’s opening up like a flower, even if she doesn’t realize it. One petal at a time.

If we aren’t friends yet, we will be by the end of tonight.

And if she doesn’t trust me yet, she will by the end of the week.

She takes a slow drink. “I was raised by a single mother. Her name is Sybil. And I have a sister. Three years younger. She has muscular dystrophy, so she lives at home. We’re a pretty tight-knit little group.”

Her full lips arch for a moment.

“Do you define yourself by those things?” I ask. “The circumstances of which you had no control?”

“No.” Her smile fades and her brows narrow. “Why?”

“When someone asks me about my family, I don’t start out by saying my parents died in a fiery plane crash when I was fifteen. It’s interesting to me that you included the fact that you were raised by a single mother and that your sister is disabled.”

“I thought we were getting to know each other?”

“We are.” I sip my bourbon, unable to take my eyes off her. I’ve rattled her. But it’s an experiment of sorts. I want her to push back, to challenge me. To speak up. This is never going to work if she can’t. “It’s interesting, is all I’m saying.”

She draws in a long breath, as if she’s carefully choosing her response.

“I’m not going to discount the things that made me who I am.” Sophie lifts a shoulder and lets it fall. “I was raised by a single mother. My sister is disabled. I’m choosing to share those things with you not because I’m defined by them, but because I thought we were getting to know each other …”

I smile in the dark.

Unapologetic, this one.

I like it.

“Fair enough.” I take another drink.

With my attention above, I still feel her watching me. I get the impression she isn’t sure what to make of me—yet. And that’s fine. Intrigue and curiosity is going to light the path, it’s going to get us exactly where we need to be.

“What about your father?” I ask since she mentioned her single mom. “How does he fit into the picture?”

“He doesn’t.” She takes a sip, unflinching.

“He passed?”

“No,” she says. “But he’s dead to me.”

The weight of silence that settles between us tells me to lay off the topic, so I do. For now. I’ve dated women in the past with “daddy issues,” and most of them want to talk about their father to an almost obsessive degree.

But not Sophie.

“Brutal.” I glance up at the sky to catch vivid streaks darting through the blackened sky. “Meteor shower is beginning.”

Sophie sits her drink aside and lies back on the cushions, tucking her hands behind her neck as she takes in the earthly show, but while the veins of light reflect in her deep blue eyes and she rests mere inches from me, her quietude tells me a part of her is worlds away.

“Tell me more about you, Sophie,” I say.

She blinks back into the present moment and turns to her side, facing me. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“I doubt I’m as interesting as you think I am …”

I relax on the cushions, turning on