Second Chance With Her Billionaire. Therese BeharrieЧитать онлайн книгу.
why Summer had taken on a relaxed stance when he knew she felt anything but relaxed. He followed her lead, not wanting to give anyone something to talk about. Though he knew that their presence there together would already be cause for discussion.
Summer had stopped attending Bishop events after their divorce. It had been gossiped about endlessly for months after. There was a period when Wyatt couldn’t join a group of people without them falling silent; the universal sign that he’d been the topic of conversation.
It had bothered him. He knew she struggled with maintaining her Summer Bishop persona. Cool, infallible heiress. It had been the first thing that had bonded them. He’d found her crying on the steps of her parents’ Christmas party; when she’d joined the party though, there’d been no sign of it.
He knew what it was like to have to pretend everything was fine when it wasn’t. His mother had made sure of it when she’d told him to keep her alcoholism a secret.
If Summer wasn’t attending Bishop events, it must have meant that she could no longer continue with the façade. He wouldn’t have been concerned about it had he not known she’d created the façade for the sake of her family, too. To support the idea of the Bishop unit, which was part of what made them so powerful.
He hated to think he’d somehow damaged that. Her ability to pretend or her relationship with her family. When he’d summoned the courage to ask Trevor about it, Trevor had gone quiet. Then he’d said it wasn’t Wyatt’s fault.
Wyatt didn’t quite believe that. But if it was his fault, maybe he could do something about it now…
‘You know,’ he started easily. He didn’t want to scare her off or alert her to how much what he was about to say smarted. ‘Part of the reason I’m surprised you’re here is because you haven’t attended a single event since the divorce.’
Her eyes flickered up to his. There was something there before her expression became unreadable. She calmly opened the basket and pulled out the bottle of champagne that had been carefully laid over clear boxes of cheeses, breads, and fresh fruits.
She popped it open, seemingly forgetting that she’d told him she would be ordering another lemonade. She poured herself a generous glass. Then she leaned back, lifting the liquid to her lips as if his question hadn’t affected her in the least.
Well. He supposed he hadn’t damaged the mask then.
‘I didn’t realise you’d noticed.’
‘It wasn’t subtle.’
Cool it, he warned himself when his voice took on a hard edge.
‘I was tired of being subtle.’
‘The mystery still doesn’t suit you.’
‘Luckily what suits me is none of your business.’
Their gazes locked. All the muscles in his body tightened.
The anger was there now. He didn’t have to long for it, or wonder where it had gone to. But it didn’t cool down the attraction that had flared the moment they looked at each other.
Oh, who was he kidding? The attraction was always there. Through dating and through marriage and even through divorce. And now. Now when she made him think and feel when he would rather not.
His eyes slipped from hers almost of their own accord, lifting to the severity of the hairstyle that had once been a wild, lazy afro halo around her face when they’d been together. Being tied so tightly at the nape of her neck accentuated her already prominent cheekbones. It gave her a more drastic beauty rather than the easy beauty of her other hairstyle.
His gaze lowered to her dress. It was lace, with sleeves that went just past her elbows and a skirt that ended just past her knees. Perfectly appropriate for the occasion, which he knew would be why she chose it.
It wasn’t for the reason that occurred to him now: so he could enjoy the way its material skimmed the curve of her breasts, the slope of her waist, the rounding of her hips.
He could still feel the softness of her body under his fingers; could still see her brown skin stretched over it. He remembered how he would run his fingers over the arches of her body. Remembered how he would trace the stretch marks, the indents at her hips, her stomach, her butt. How he’d follow his fingers’ path with his lips, how they’d—
He took a deep breath, rearranging his body so that he sat up straight, as if somehow the stern position would help him regain control of his mind. His body. His emotions. And then his eyes met hers, and he saw an answering heat there.
‘Sure, Bishop,’ he murmured softly. ‘Let’s keep telling ourselves we’re none of the other’s business, shall we?’
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