My gaze drops down to the wine. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
I glance up again just in time to watch that knowledge sink in on his face. My finger dances along the mouth of the wine bottle.
“I called him and made it clear that things were over between us.” Somehow, saying it out loud makes me feel worse, even though I know I did the right thing. I’ve acknowledged it. Now it’s real. Guilt tugs at my stomach.
“If it’s over, then why are you out here with stolen wine again?”
His question catches me by surprise.
“What, aren’t I allowed a mourning period for my…” What? Pseudo-relationship with Ian? I take another drink. “Or maybe I just get off on the risk.”
That gets a chuckle. “Good girls often do.”
“How do you know I’m a good girl?” After all, I did throw myself at him before I even knew his name.
“You’re a good girl. Trust me.”
“But how do you know?” There’s more emotion behind the words than I mean there to be. “You hardly know me. I might look like a ‘good girl’, but maybe I’m a terrible person on the inside.”
“For what? Stealing wine? That doesn’t make you a terrible person.”
He wouldn’t be so flippant if he knew who I really was. If he knew I was one of those self-serving “rich fucks.”
I grab the end of my ponytail. “Sometimes people look like they’re good from the outside, but on the inside they’re actually selfish assholes.” Like heiresses who volunteer in the name of “activism” and “generosity” when they’re really more concerned with assuaging a guilty conscience or putting on a good face for the tabloids. Or people who claim to be ashamed of their ridiculously large house, only to have a complete breakdown the minute it’s taken away from them.
Ward gently pulls the wine out of my hand.
“It’s easy to get screwed up after losing a parent,” he says after a moment.
I shake my head. “This isn’t about my father.” No, I was screwed up even before his death. I’ve spent the better part of my life trying to figure out how I felt about my family’s money. Trying to figure out one poor, spoiled rich girl’s place in the larger world.
“Confusion is a normal part of the grieving process,” he says. “Christ knows I’m still figuring shit out.”
“It’s not about my father,” I tell him again, getting annoyed. “I know how I feel about that.”
“Addi—”
“Please. Please, I don’t want to talk about it.”
I must sound pretty pathetic because he drops the subject. I’m not here for a therapy session. I just want some time to think. Some time away from all those stupid press people. I don’t need any life lessons from self-righteous, hypocritical Ward. Honestly, there’s only one thing he can offer me right now that I’d actually want.
I glance over at him. He’s looking at me—into me—and I wonder how much of the truth he sees in there. How much of the real Louisa Cunningham. I can tell he doesn’t know what to say from here, how to comfort me or convince me to open up to him. But that’s okay. I can show him what I need.
I lean forward again and gently brush my lips against the purpled skin beneath his eye. I hear the sharp intake of his breath, but he doesn’t move, even when I move to the other eye. I go to his nose next, kissing the place where it was broken.
When I sit back on my heels again, his eyes have darkened. The intensity of his gaze sends alternating waves of heat and ice down my spine. All the nerves in my body seem to have woken at once. But he doesn’t move toward me.
“What?” I tease. “Not enough wine tonight?”
He just keeps looking at me. “Are you sure about this?”
“Do I seem unsure?” Right now, it doesn’t matter what he thinks my name is. It doesn’t matter whether he understands me or not. It doesn’t matter why I’m upset or why he hates Carolson or any of the rest of it. I’m exhausted and there are strangers all over my house and he’s here, looking perfectly tempting in the moonlight.
He reaches out and touches my cheek. Fire races across my skin.
“You’re too good for this,” he says softly.
This time I can’t refrain from laughing out loud. “We’re not having this argument again. I promise, I’m not half as good as you think I am.”
“And as I’ve told you, stealing the occasional bottle of wine isn’t exactly a ticket straight to Hell.”
“Is that the worst you think I’ve done?” I ask lightly. “What, should I pick a fight with one of the housekeepers in order to prove myself? Sleep with one of their boyfriends and then throw them through a window?”
It’s supposed to be a joke, but I can tell right away that it hits him the wrong way. He pulls back from me and pushes to his feet.
“You should go,” he says.
I scramble up beside him. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”
“It doesn’t change anything.”
I cross my arms. “I don’t get it. Are you mad at me?”
“Of course not. Not at all.” He rubs his face. “Listen. You’re too good for me, okay?”
“So this some sort of self-punishment thing?”
That hits a little closer to home. Something tender flashes in his eyes before it’s replaced by an emotion closer to annoyance.
“Look,” he says. “I’m doing you a favor here.”
“I get it.” I reach down and grab the wine. “You’ve changed your mind about me. That’s fine. But I wish you had the balls to just come out and say it rather than giving me this crap.”
“That’s not…” He makes an exasperated sound. “Is this what you want? An angry asshole who fights and fucks and will take advantage of some chick who’s clearly going through some shit?”
“You’re not taking advantage of me,” I insist.
“That’s not the point. The point is that this is a bad idea. And not just because of…”—He waves his hand—“whatever you’ve got going on. Because of my shit, too. You’re not the only one with problems, you know.”
That stings, but mainly because it’s the truth.
“I tried to talk to you about Carolson,” I say. “But you told me to drop it.”