Page 29 of His Vow

Her thigh rose against my hip. I caught it. My hand slid beneath the fabric of her dress, fingers on the bare skin of her outer thigh, and she arched into me. My mouth found hers again — deep, her tongue against mine, my hand climbing, her body pressing forward. The map of the house in my head was dissolving. The study, the hallway, the locked cabinet — static beneath the heat of her skin and the sound of my name leaving her mouth.

"Soleil!" Hugh's voice from downstairs. "They're bringing out the cake!"

We froze. Foreheads together. Her breathing came fast against my lips. My hand was still on her thigh. Her fingers were still beneath my shirt, pressed flat against my ribs.

She laughed. Low, breathless. "His timing is terrible."

"Criminal."

She kissed me once more — quick, firm — and ducked under my arm. She smoothed her dress, fixed her hair in the mirror, and pointed at me. "Fix your shirt."

I tucked it in. She disappeared down the hallway. I stood in her bedroom, surrounded by her paintings, her books and the letter to Santa taped to her mirror, waiting for my breathing to return.

Downstairs. The cake was lit. Forty-five people singing. Soleil blew out the candles, and her eyes found mine across the room. Her lips spread into the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen.

She deserves every good thing in this room.

I blinked. I looked at her across the room — laughing, her hand on Rhys's arm. The rosemary charm glinted on her wrist.

What the hell was that?

NINE

SOLEIL

"I'm coming. Do not let my father leave before I get there."

"He's shaking my hand right now." Nolan's voice was flat, unbothered. I could picture him with the phone pressed to his ear, his free hand at his side, his face revealing nothing, while my father squeezed his palm and sized him up.

"Stall him. Talk about wine. He'll talk about wine for forty minutes."

"I'm not talking about wine, Soleil."

"Architecture. Golf. Literally anything." I pressed the phone between my ear and shoulder, wrestling my jacket off the back of my chair. The framing vendor — Louis, a man who spoke exclusively in paragraphs — had held me hostage for twenty-five minutes debating ash versus walnut molding. Margaux appeared in the doorway, took one look at my face, and walked straight to Louis.

"She has to go," Margaux said, gripping his elbow and steering him toward the front door. She looked over her shoulder at me. "Go. Now."

"He's going to cry about the walnut again."

"I'll let him cry. Move."

I grabbed my bag, shoved my feet into my boots, and ran.

The cab crawled through midtown. I fixed my lipstick using my phone's camera, smoothed a curl that had escaped its pin, and pressed my palm against my knee to stop the bouncing. Through the cab window, the restaurant appeared, and there they were.

Daddy stood on the sidewalk with his hand on Nolan's shoulder. The gesture I recognized. The one that said welcome. Nolan stood beside him, hands at his sides. His posture straight, his face arranged in the composed expression I was beginning to suspect he'd been born with.

I paid the driver, pushed through the door, and crossed the sidewalk.

Daddy turned at the sound of my heels. His face opened — the wide smile, the lines deepening around his eyes, the look he saved for me. He kissed my cheek and held my shoulders at arm's length.

"Your young man is impressive, Sol." He squeezed once. "We've been talking about bringing him on in an advisory capacity. Fresh eyes on the portfolio."

I looked at Nolan. He met my gaze, his expression neutral. His hands were in his pockets now, his weight resting on one foot — relaxed, or the appearance of it.

My father had just pulled my boyfriend into Lattimore Holdings. My two worlds were sliding together like puzzle pieces. I should have felt something complicated about that. What I felt was pride, warm and simple, filling my chest.

"That's wonderful, Daddy."