My gaze snapped toward him. His side profile was sharp, his dark eyes staring directly ahead. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
This was what seeing his father did to him. Or maybe it was my faux pas with the rooms. I couldn’t bring myself to care too much about messing up there—while I wanted to get this right, I wasn’t going to walk on eggshells around any man.
“What’s your problem?” I asked.
“No problem,” he replied. “I want this weekend to go smoothly, and it won’t if you piss off my father.”
“I think you’re doing an admirable job without my help. You want me to be your fiancée? Then you’ll get me as your fiancée and no one else.”
“I don’t want anyone else.”
My insides flipped. “Then why ask me not to upset your dad?”
He ground his teeth.
“Damien?”
“Forget I said anything.” The tension released a little, and he finally looked over at me. “Be yourself. I like your sassy side. I usually like pissing off my father.”
“He really gets under your skin, doesn’t he?”
The elevator doors opened, and Damien strode out ahead of me without answering. This time, he didn’t wait for me to catch up. Whatever had happened between him and Mortimer had changed him. One glimpse of his dad, and he was different. Angrier, hollow, struggling against something unsaid.
Good god. What had I gotten myself into?
17
Damien
I’d let him get to me again.
Fuck it. At least I hadn’t thrown something at the wall this time, though I’d been tempted to fling the computer monitor on the reception desk at him. I had to keep my shit cool. I wasn’t the type of guy who got lost in emotional torment or let my temper get the better of me, but around Mortimer…
All those negative memories streamed back.
Christ, I’d even snapped at Hazel. That had made for an awkward half hour spent unpacking our bags. She’d avoided me by heading into the bathroom to freshen up, and emerged dressed for lunch, wearing one of the outfits I’d had bought for her. Pencil skirt, silk blouse, Louboutin heels.
“Ready to go?” I asked, straightening the sleeves of my suit jacket.
“Yeah, I have to be, don’t I?” Hazel countered, spritzing on some perfume, her long caramel-gold hair falling past her shoulders in waves.
“Hazel.” I choked on an apology.
“Yeah?”
“Just be yourself.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, dude.” She gave me a mocking double thumbs-up. “Just what I needed from you of all people.”
I wanted to know what that meant, but giving a fuck was low on my list of priorities. It would only bring us closer and neither of us needed that.
“Let’s go, gorgeous,” I said.
She rolled her eyes at me but took my proffered hand. Her skin, so damn soft and warm, brought on the wild thoughts, but I resisted them.
We took the elevator down to the first floor, and I brought her through the polished wood and paneled lobby to the resort’s Michelin-star restaurant. My father had insisted on only the best of the best chefs working at his establishment, and while I hated the motherfucker, I couldn’t help but agree.
Food was supposed to be an experience.
The restaurant bubbled with chatter. Men and women who could afford to pay thousands of dollars for rooms per night sat at intimate circular tables or in booths along the walls that afforded more privacy.
Mortimer’s table was on the private terrace, separating him from the “peasants,” as he called them when people were out of earshot.
I walked Hazel through the restaurant and heads turned, women pursing their lips at the sight of the beautiful woman on my arm.
“Everyone’s staring,” Hazel whispered.
“That’s because you’re beautiful.” Shit, I probably shouldn’t have said that. “And you’re with the most eligible bachelor in New York and Chicago,” I replied. “Of course, they’re staring. Most of them want to take your place.”
“They can have it.”
“No, they can’t,” I said.
A waiter in a tux stepped forward, half-bowing, and opened the door to the private terrace for me. “Good evening, Mr. Woods.”
I nodded to him and stepped through. Hazel was tense, and I didn’t blame her. Having lunch with my father was like descending into the seventh circle of hell.
My father’s table overlooked the aquamarine infinity pool, rolling green hills, and a lake in the distance completing the idyllic view. The table was decked out in crystal glasses, an understated floral centerpiece, and candles that had never been lit.
Mortimer sat at the head, scrolling idly on his phone.
Seth, my pilot brother and the latest victim of my father’s evil ministrations, rose the minute we appeared. “There he is,” he said and reached out for me.
I tugged him into a bear hug and clapped him on the back. We’d lived different lives, but god damn, my brothers were the only sanity left in my family, and it was always good to see either of them. “You good?”
“As ever,” Seth replied, sporting a boyish grin. He ruffled the blond hair that was from my mother’s side and turned toward Hazel. “And you must be Damien’s fiancée.”
“Hazel,” she said, her voice like silk and honey. “I remember you, though you might not remember me. You were a few years below me in White-Tail High.”
“Oh shit, yeah, of course. Hazel McCutcheon. It’s great to see you again.” Instead of shaking her hand, he brought her into a hug. One that lasted a little too long for my liking. “You’re looking great.”
“Thank you. So are you.” Hazel was pink in the cheeks when they parted.
I cleared my throat. “Here, gorgeous.” I pulled a chair back for her, ensuring it was the furthest from my brother.
Shit, that was childish as all hell, but I knew Seth. He was a playboy if ever there was one—better at getting women in and out of his bed than I’d been in my early twenties—he just hid it better than I had. And there was still a hint of sibling rivalry between us.
Hazel sat down,
