Chapter 80

Cecilia

The kiss started soft. It was supposed to be sweet and brief and full of tender promise.

It did not stay brief.

Arthur's hand slid into my hair, his fingers curling at the nape of my neck, and I made a small sound against his mouth that I immediately regretted because it clearly told him everything he needed to know about the effect he had on me.

His lips curved into a smile I could feel, and then he kissed me deeper, slower, with the particular unhurried thoroughness of a man who had nowhere else to be and knew exactly what he was doing.

My good hand found the front of his shirt. I was already forgetting about the cast on my wrist, about the bandage on my leg, about the fact that I was technically still a patient in a medical facility in the middle of the Mojave Desert.

Arthur pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and his breathing noticeably uneven.

"You," he said, his voice dropping to that low register that did absolutely unreasonable things to my nervous system, "are a menace."

"I'm injured," I pointed out. "I'm completely innocent."

"You're the least innocent person I've ever met." His thumb traced my lower lip, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and genuine hunger. "Little troublemaker."

I felt warmth rush to my face. "That's rich, coming from the person who just proposed to me in a hospital bed."

"I proposed to you in a hospital bed because you told me to get down on one knee." He pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth, then my jaw, then just below my ear, and I had to consciously stop myself from tilting my head back and inviting more. "Don't rewrite history."

"Arthur." My voice came out embarrassingly breathless.

"Mm?" His mouth was still at my neck, lazy and deliberate.

"We can't. I'm—" I gestured vaguely at my cast, my bandaged leg. "I'm literally wrapped in medical supplies."

He pulled back, and the look on his face was so exaggeratedly pained that I almost laughed.

"I know," he said. "I'm very aware." His gaze dropped, very briefly, and then returned to my face with an expression that was equal parts rueful and promising. "When you're healed. Fully healed. I'm going to make you thoroughly regret every day of this recovery period."

My face was definitely on fire now. I looked pointedly at where his suit pants were doing him absolutely no favors. "You're one to talk."

He glanced down. Looked back up at me. "You're not helping."

"I could—" I held up my good hand, the one without the cast. "I mean, I've still got one working—"

"Cecilia." His voice had gone strained.

"I'm just saying, it seems like a practical—"

He leaned forward and kissed my forehead, then my cheek, then the tip of my nose, clearly attempting to redirect both of us toward something safer.

I was just starting to think he'd succeeded when someone knocked on the door.

We both froze.

Arthur's expression went flat in the way that meant he was deciding whether or not to commit a crime.

"If that's who I think it is," he said, very quietly, "he is going to need an excellent reason for being here."

"Come in," I called, because one of us had to be reasonable, and I was currently the one with the broken wrist.

The door opened. Carter Ashford stood in the frame, wearing a carefully neutral expression that was doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he had clearly heard at least part of the previous conversation. He looked at the ceiling. Then at the wall. Then, with visible effort, at both of us.

"I," he said, "have impeccable timing."

"You have terrible timing," Arthur said.

"I knocked."

"You knocked after you were already listening."

"I knocked as a courtesy." Carter stepped inside, his neutral expression cracking into something more genuine—a trace of amusement, a trace of relief, the particular look of a person who was glad to find his friends alive and not entirely miserable.

His eyes dropped briefly to my left hand, and something warm moved across his face before he looked away. "Nice ring."

"Thank you," I said.

"Congratulations." He said it simply, without ceremony, and somehow that made it more meaningful than any elaborate toast could have. He glanced at Arthur. "You didn't tell me."

"I was going to," Arthur said, and the defensive edge in his voice was softened by something that sounded almost sheepish. "I've been a little preoccupied."

Carter pulled up the chair and dropped into it.

"Sophia texted me," he said.

The three words landed quietly, but I felt the shift in the room immediately. Arthur went still beside me.

"When?" Arthur asked.

"About an hour ago." Carter pulled out his phone, turned it over in his hands without looking at the screen. "First contact since the villa. I almost didn't check it."

I sat up a little straighter, ignoring the protest from my leg. "What did she say?"

Carter finally looked at the phone. He read it once, then again, as if confirming the words were still there. "She said—" He stopped. "She said your mother is back."

I blinked. "My mother?"

My mother? Evelyn Locke? Perhaps she doesn’t go by that name anymore. The one who left me with Arthur after Father died and remarried a European nobleman.

"That's what she wrote." He looked up at me, and his expression was careful in a way that meant he was trying to figure out how much I already knew before he said the next part. "She said your mother is back in the country. At the house."

I must have looked confused, because Arthur said quietly, "Which house?"

"The one where the three of you used to live," Carter said. "You, your father, and she. The old place."

The old place.

"I hasn't been in that house in years," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt.

Arthur's hand found mine on the blanket. He didn't say anything. He just held on, and I let him.

"Why would Sophia tell you—" Wait, I suddenly realized my phone had been ruined by the water, so Sophia couldn't get in touch with me.

I asked Carter tentatively. "You two haven't spoken since—"

"I don't know," Carter said honestly. "Maybe she felt like she owed you something. Maybe she thought it was the right thing to do." He shrugged, but the gesture was less casual than he intended. "Maybe she's still trying to figure out who she wants to be."

"That's generous," Arthur said.

"Maybe." Carter stood up, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "I just thought you should know. Both of you." He looked at me, and the warmth in his expression was quiet but genuine. "We're heading out tomorrow morning, yeah?"

"Yeah," I said. "Tomorrow."

He nodded, and moved toward the door. But at the threshold, Carter paused. He turned back.

"For what it's worth," he said, "I'm glad you both found your way back to each other." His eyes moved between us, and I could see him choosing his words. "Some people never do."

He left before either of us could respond. The door closed quietly behind him.