Trillion - Winter Renshaw Page 0,46
a moment to relax. But only a moment—I don’t have all day, and my next meeting starts in fifteen minutes.
Broderick was right.
Things always work out for me.
At this point, I don’t think anything could go wrong.
Thirty-One
Sophie
Present
Seattle is pretty from way up here. I slide the door to the hotel balcony and inhale the earthy petrichor that saturates the air. Rain clouds roll in and below a blue-gray fog settles over the city. We landed in Trey’s jet over an hour ago at some small airport east of the city. He arranged for a driver to bring me here while he hightailed it to a meeting.
Ever since my time with Nolan, I’ve hated hotels because they only remind me of him.
They all smell the same—bleached linens and shampooed carpet, icy air conditioning and a cocktail of random people with a mélange of intermixing colognes and fragrances. The furniture is always arranged the same way. The towels are always white.
It doesn’t matter which hotel I’m in or the city, the ghost of Nolan is always here, haunting me.
That said, our suite is gorgeous with its extra-wide balcony and sweeping views of the city. The concierge left a bottle of wine, a box of Belgian chocolates, and an assortment of artisanal soaps on the coffee table along with a handwritten note from the hotel manager.
I slide the door closed behind me and perch against the limestone balcony railing. A dozen stories down cars honk, buses hum, and people hustle and hurry like ants on a farm.
I spend the better part of the hour taking it all in, and when I’m done, I grab the book I threw in my bag at the last minute, read a few chapters, and catch a quick nap on the king-sized bed in the next room.
It’s impossible to remember the last time I had a lazy afternoon where I hadn’t a single thing to do or care in the world. Even on my laziest of days at home, there’s always a nagging to-do list haunting my thoughts.
When I wake, it’s almost six.
Trey mentioned dinner was at seven-thirty and that there was a dress code. I unpack my suitcase, hang my clothes in the closet, and select a classic black number before heading to the bathroom to get ready.
I’m securing my earrings ten minutes later when the gentle open and close of the hotel door tells me he’s back. A moment later, he appears in the open bathroom doorway.
“How’d it go?” I ask.
“Just as I expected.” He leans against the jamb, casual, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder. His expression is unreadable as his stare weighs on me.
Nolan used to look at me that way, utterly transfixed.
Or maybe I’m projecting.
“So … you got it?” I select a rose-pink lip stain and dab it onto my lips.
He nods. “Of course.”
“Congrats.” I can’t help wonder if anyone ever tells him that. Or if it even matters. Grabbing up businesses is just another Friday in his world. “I’m happy for you.”
“Think we’ll order champagne tonight,” he says when he snaps out of it. I exhale. All that heaviness from his gaze left me holding my breath, woefully aware of every angle my body held as he studied me. “We should celebrate.”
Champagne always brings me back to my first date with Nolan at that party, the way it flowed like a river and left delicious bubbles on my tongue that tasted like sugared lemons and gave me a sample of true freedom for the first time in my life.
“Sounds great.” I meet his gaze in the mirror, forcing a smile. And I make a silent promise to myself not to let Nolan spoil this weekend for me.
I can’t. I won’t.
He’s already ruined enough.
Thirty-Two
Trey
Present
It’s not quite eleven when we return from dinner. The hotel room is soundless and pitch black, save for the bathroom light pouring from the open doorway, illuminating a path to the bedroom like an implied invitation.
If she were any other woman, we’d have torn our clothes off by now and I’d have her pinned against the wall, hands over her head as I did what I pleased.
But Sophie’s not any other woman.
She’s the kind you savor, not the kind you devour.
She kicks off her heels, hips swaying as she makes her way to the foot of the bed. She’s somewhere between buzzed and drunk and she hasn’t stopped smiling—or chatting—all night, even taking the time to make small talk with our server. While we were leaving the restaurant, a