Trillion - Winter Renshaw Page 0,69

her mouth on the back of her hand, she nods. “I’m sorry … it just hit me back there … maybe it’s altitude sickness from the plane?”

That happens, especially in smaller jets and especially when someone is only accustomed to flying commercial. The G-force hits differently.

“Don’t apologize.” I rub small circles against the spot between her shoulders. “If anything, I’m sorry. I’d reschedule this trip, but I’ve already cleared my schedule and Ames is expecting us. Plus, the sooner we get this over with, the closer I’ll be to closing the deal—then I’ll never have to deal with this difficult bastard again.

Sophie is silent, and out of nowhere our driver produces a bottle of water and sanitizing hand wipes. She cleans up and takes a few small sips before steadying herself against the side of the car.

“I can find a doctor. I’m sure I can find someone who makes house calls,” I say. “Maybe we can arrange for an IV? Get you some hydration? Since we’ll be in the guest house, you’ll have privacy as you recover. I’m sure they’ll understand about the altitude sickness …”

“No, no. I’m sure I’ll feel better after I finish this.” She takes another drink. “Let’s go.”

The three of us climb back into the car, and for the next forty miles, she rides in silence.

Forty-Five

Sophie

Present

“Welcome, welcome! I’m Anabelle.” A tall woman with glossy dark hair down to her elbows answers the door of a sprawling blue shingle house with white trim and a private drive. The landscaping is filled with nothing but green and white hydrangeas, trailing a sweet scent into the air along with the salty ocean breeze. “You must be Sophie?”

She leans in, air kissing each of my cheeks and depositing a faint perfume against my skin that smells like a million bucks and warm chocolate chip cookies at the same time.

Our driver wheels our luggage up the paved walkway. Anabelle waves him closer, telling him to place everything inside the front door. He leaves our bags in the foyer before vanishing into the Town Car and departing down the circle drive.

Children’s laughter fills the background. Somewhere in this home, my daughter plays, oblivious to my presence. My throat constricts, but I force a smile.

“And of course, you’re Trey,” she says, air kissing his cheeks as well. “I know all about you … but it’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“The feeling is mutual,” he says.

“Nolan’s out back on the patio by the pool,” she says before rolling her eyes. “Just took a work call. That man wouldn’t know the meaning of vacation if it smacked him alongside the head.”

My stomach twists and hot bile rises up my throat, but I force it away with sheer will. I won’t let him see me quake. I won’t let him get a reaction out of me.

Trey slides his hand around mine and we follow Anabelle through the soaring two-story entry to a sliding door off her impressive white-and-marble kitchen.

He’s lounging in a chair that faces a sparkling cerulean blue pool, legs crossed at the ankles as he peruses something on his phone. From this angle, I can tell his broad shoulders have rounded and his hair has thinned since nearly a decade ago. And when we get closer, I spy a stomach that protrudes enough to strain the buttons on his chambray shirt.

Time has not been kind to him.

A petty burst of satisfaction washes through me.

“Nolan,” Anabelle says, voice sing-song-y. “Our guests have arrived.”

He darkens his phone screen, places it on a table that matches his lounge chair, and turns to face us, pushing himself up to a standing with a subtle groan. His gaze lands on Trey first and he extends his right hand.

“Pleasure to finally meet you in person,” he says. But when his attention shifts to me, a restrained paleness colors his tanned face. “And you are?”

Of course he’s going to pretend he doesn’t know me.

“Sophie Bristol,” I give him my full name. A reminder of a name he’s likely spent the last eight years trying to forget.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, extending his hand. All eyes are on us, so I can’t show a hint of reluctance.

“Likewise,” I say, our eyes holding for one knowing second. The inner teenage me wants to glare at him, but I won’t. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction.

Anabelle checks her watch. When we disembarked the jet earlier, it was nearly four o’clock. “Should we start with some drinks? I make a mean margarita