The Interview

Whit pulls out a chair for me and I slide a decorous hand under my butt to pull down his shirt, not wanting to repeat the stool situation. If he notices, he politely doesn’t say so.

“Champagne?” I add suddenly produces a bottle of the fancy French looking stuff.

“Let’s call it brunch rather than breakfast. No one ever complains about alcohol at brunch.” He splashes a some into a couple of tulip flutes.

“Just call me a heathen,” I say, topping mine up with orange juice. Old habits die hard. Plus, I’m not really a fan of champagne. But a mimosa… “This really is a lot of food for two people,” I murmur, shaking out my napkin with unsteady fingers.

Whit slides into his seat at the head of the table, the morning sunlight cresting his head, turning the tiny strands of gray at his temples silver. “You haven’t seen my appetite yet.”

“Haven’t I?” Reaching out, I pluck the clear top from a tub of berries, popping a raspberry between my lips.

“Tip of the iceberg,” he replies with slight narrowing of his gaze. Something tells me we’re not talking about breakfast preferences. “And stop staring at my graying hair.”

I burst out laughing. “I wasn’t!” His lips twist in some show of distrust. But that’s all it is, a show. “I think it makes you look very distinguished,” I say, trying for sincerity.

“Yes, just what every thirty-six-year-old man wants to hear.” He slides me an unimpressed look.

“You should because I dig it.”

“Oh good. I’ll take the Grecian 2000 out of my virtual shopping cart,” he deadpans as he lifts his coffee to his lips.

“Yes, do.” I catch myself the moment before I add, Daddy.

“You know, since you arrived,” he adds over the rim, “I’m sure I find another dozen every morning.”

“You don’t even have a dozen now,” I scoff. “It’s not even gray. It’s just a little salt in with the pepper.”

“Eat your breakfast,” comes his mock-stern reply.

“You must have a very sweet tooth,” I say, reaching for a miniature croissant and tearing off a chunk. “Oh, chocolate.” What’s better than a croissant? One with a chocolatey surprise.

“I might’ve gone a bit overboard,” he admits.

“Maybe you were hungry when you ordered and got a little carried away?” He watches as I pop the flaky pastry into my mouth, his eyes darkening as I cast my eyes heavenward. “Oh, my gosh, these are good.” I press my knuckle to my lips as I speak. “Sorry.” My shoulders move with a sneeze-like laugh.

“What for?”

“Speaking with my mouth full. It can’t be a good look.”

“That all depends on what you have in your mouth.”

“You’re so bad!” I point the remains of my croissant at him when he leans over the table and snatches it with his teeth. Those tiger eyes levelled on me, his jaw working as he chews. I find myself swallowing along with the powerful movements in his throat while imagining myself pressing my mouth there to feel the movement.

Picking up my fork, I spear a piece of mango from a bowl of fruit salad.

“And you have such an appetite. A lust for life.”

I feel suddenly exposed, more so that for just sitting at the dining table in nothing but his shirt.

“If I go for groceries when I’m hungry,” I begin to babble, conscious of the sudden silence, “I seem to buy all kinds of cake.”

His expression remains mild as I pop it between my teeth. “That must be what happened to me.”

“You were hungry?”

“Obviously.” But he’s not looking at the feast before him. He’s looking at me.

I purse my lips, mainly to hide my pleasure. “Are you going to tell me why we’re sitting down to a breakfast that would make Marie Antoinette orgasm?”

“Only Marie Antoinette?”

“I bet you’re more the disgusting protein shake kind of breakfast, aren’t you?” I say, changing the subject. He doesn’t need to hear how, if I was here by myself, I’d struggle not to fill my plate with one of everything. My name is Mimi and I’m a sugar fiend.

“You’re wrong.” He presses his forearm to the table, leaning in as though to part with a secret. “This morning, the only thing I was hungry for was you. It was get out of bed or devour you.”

“I wouldn’t have minded,” I answer quietly.

“I kept you awake a long time last night.”

“I think we kept each other awake.” Because every time we’d settle, skin flushed and a little breathless, Whit might throw his arm around me or maybe my leg would be over his thigh. We’d snuggle—yeah, snuggle. There’d be whispers in the dark, then tiny strokes that would ignite. Before long, we’d be back to that rolling, raging inferno of can’t get enough.

“Yes, that’s true enough.”

“So come on. What’s with all the cake?”

“Not just cake,” he protests. “Fruit and fancy yoghurt.” Y-o-gt; I just love the cute way he says that.

“And cake. A lot of cake.” I find my fingers reaching for a tart.

“I might’ve heard someone say she liked cake.”

My hand stills, midair. “When?”

“And she’d better like cake,” he says, watching me like I’m the cake and he’s the binge eater.

Oh, Lord, he can binge on me any day of the week.

“She does,” I admit shyly, not quite able to look at him as I pick up the tiny piece of lemon deliciousness. He ordered this feast for me and that kind of robs me of breath. I mean, what am I supposed to say? Thank you? Also, do I get to take home what I don’t finish? “What are these?” I find myself asking instead as I point at three bronzed cakes that look like they were made in Jell-O molds. They’re kind of the ugly ducklings of this culinary feast.

“The things that look like inverted nipples?” At Whit’s unimpressed description, I snort and clap a hand to my mouth. “And Heather thinks that’s normal,” he says with a disparaging shake of his head.

“Normal is overrated. I happen to think Heather is a very good judge of character.”

“You might be onto something there. She thinks El is a tosser,” he adds conversationally.

“I’m guess that’s something not very complimentary.” I fold forward a little as my shoulder sag. “Please don’t make this a thing.” I don’t want to come between him and his brother. “Don’t be angry with him. He was just trying to be friendly.”

“Friendly.” He quirks a brow as he reaches for his champagne.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“I think not so. You need to make it very clear to him that you’re not interested. I suggest you use plain words with short syllables.”

“He’s not stupid, Whit.”

“I mean it, Amelia. Make it crystal clear.”

“I’m not interested in your brother. I made it clear enough to him last night—and he didn’t seem to take the news badly. Remember the server?” More than ever it’s apparent that this thing between us needs to be secret. El isn’t hung up on me but Whit seems keen to labor over the point. I refuse to come between them, though it seems only one of them has a problem.

He points at the cakes. “Those ugly little tits are what El plans to feed you tomorrow when he takes you for coffee.”

“You got me canelés?”

“Not very impressive, are they? For all his waxing lyrical. Though they were a pain in the arse to track down.”

“Why did you?”

“The café El was talking about is closed on Sunday. I thought I would have to get them flown in from Bordeaux.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Why would you go to the effort?”

“Because I can. Because I wanted to. Because you have a sweet tooth and because you sounded so interested when he was banging on about them.”

“I was just being polite,” I say with a laugh. “He brought me coffee!”

“Yeah, well so did I, so you’d better drink it,” he grumbles.

“It’s not a competition.” I reach for my mimosa. “And even if it was,” I say, putting it back down. “You’ve already won.”

“Yeah?”

“You won before he’d even set eyes on me. You won again when you ordered me lunch that day, and when you made sure I got home when my skirt split. I’m not interested in your brother, Whit. There is no competition.”

“It doesn’t hurt to hear it.”

“I’m glad you’re listening. Don’t make this a thing. You’re a good man, and you love your brother. Not to mention, you’re one hell of a screw.”

“Amelia!” He says my name with the cadence of a Southern aunt spotting someone wearing white after Labor Day.

“Those years of practice obviously paid off.” I allow my gaze to slide over him as though he were a sweet treat. He’s certainly delectable.

“All those years and I didn’t realize you were a little voyeur.”

I’m saved from answering as his phone buzzes in the kitchen.

“I should’ve turned it off,” he mutters, pushing back his chair. He pauses as he passes, curling his hands around my shoulders and tracing his lips around my ear. “Eat some sugar. Hydrate.”

“Why?” I call after he pulls away.

“You’ll need the energy.”

I try to contain my smile by nibbling at the tart. I don’t need to try for long because the citrusy flavors meld so well with that of the butter case, I take a proper bite. I really ought to try the canelés, given the trouble he went to get them, right?

“Dan, how are you, mate?”

That must be his brother, Dan, judging by the effusive happiness that seeps into his greeting. I take a mouthful of my cooling coffee, then pour a little more vivid orange pulp-rich juice into my champagne. It’s tart and sweet in an odd contrast to the dry champagne, plus the sugary cakes I need to stop gorging on.

“No, no worries at all,” Whit says into his phone. I can almost feel his eyes burning into the back of my head as I look out over the park. It looks like a nice day for a walk. The sky is so blue and the sun vivid, its warmth seeping through the glass.

It feels like a layer of sheer bliss.

“Yeah, of course I have time.” Whit falls quiet, presumably as Dan fills him in on his news. I guess Dan must be the adventurous type, given he’s trekking around Thailand. I’m not cut out for living out of a backpack, not that I could put my parents through it, either, I guess. Coming to London is one thing. Jungles and questionable medical facilities would push them right over the edge.

“Well, that’s great, Dan, but I don’t know what to tell you except go with your gut.”

My gut says stop feeding me cake, so I finish my coffee while trying not to listen to Whit’s conversation while he doles out cautious advice that sounds like it might be about his brother’s love life.

“Sorry about that.” He touches my shoulder as he passes.

“No problem. Everything okay?”

“Dan has met a girl.” His smile leaks through his explanation. “He wanted some advice, though why from me is anyone’s guess. He should’ve rung Heather. She’s the only one of us who has a successful relationship.”

“Are you looking for a relationship?” I ask, half hopeful, half horrified.

“Fuck, no.” He laughs unhappily. “I don’t have time. Besides, who’d want to take me on? I’d barely be around.”

“I’m sure lots of women would take that chance.”

“And then regret it,” he replies seriously. “VirTu takes up so much of my life and my headspace, I just don’t have it within me to commit to a relationship.”

“But you have sex.”

He doesn’t reply but for a secretive kind of smile.

“Is it more the case that you don’t want to take on anything else?” As the words leave my mouth, a sudden sense of foreboding washes over me.

“Yeah, I suppose. I have work and I have my family. Sex is more like working out, taking care of myself. It’s not an emotional drain.”

“Drain?”

“Commitment,” he amends. “A relationship is a commitment.”

“So who do you normally have sex with? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“Did I say I didn’t mind?”

“No, but you know you’re going to tell me anyway.” I cheekily slide a piece of pineapple into my mouth as a way to keep myself from talking. I want to crawl into this man’s brain and poke around. Learn all his deliciously dirty secrets and feast on them for a little while.

“You’re talking about that night, aren’t you?”

“And the girl who looked like me. Do you have a type?”

“Yes. Girls who do as they’re told.”

“You lie,” I say with a chuckle, actually feeling a blush move across my skin. My gaze falls to the table again. If we’re just having sex, what’s with the banquet? I paint on a bright smile again, unable to ignore the thoughts beginning to swim through my head. This is what Whit does. He takes care of those he cares for. No matter what he says, this isn’t going to be just sex. He’s going to see me as one of those he needs to take care of.

I won’t let that happen—I refuse to become one of his responsibilities.

“You’ve gone quiet.” My head jerks up at his words. “And not the good kind of quiet. You’re not worried, are you?”

Yes. Very worried. Thanks, fluttering heart, for pointing out what a bad bet I am. He can’t be responsible for me. I won’t let him. “What would I be worried about?”

“We had sex without protection, and now you’re thinking of the women I’ve slept with.”

I shake my head. “I know you wouldn’t put me at risk.” That realization should’ve been my first warning sign. “Do all of your siblings come to you for advice?” I rush on, desperate to change the subject.

“Mainly the younger ones.” His fingers twitch on the napkin. “When Dad died, that side of things just sort of fell to me.”

Along with a million others, I’d guess. “Death leaves such a hole.”

We both fall quiet to our respective thoughts, our own missing loved ones before he seems to shrug off the memories. “I’m nearly through it now. Lavender is out of her teens as of this month, so maybe she’ll grow up a bit. Or pigs might fly. Anyway, she’ll be finished with university soon and out in the big, wide world. In theory,” he adds under his breath. “Which just leaves the baby of the family, Primrose. And then I’m all done.”

He sounds more like a dad and less like a daddy.

“Do you want some water?” Heat spreads across my cheeks as I reach for the fancy ice cap filtered water, which is sitting in a pool of its own condensation. But it’s not my table, so I shouldn’t complain. I guess someone doesn’t like their water room temperature, judging by the ice dancing in my water glass as I fill it up.

“Juice, please.” I pass over the OJ as he murmurs his thanks, taking the fancy glass carafe from my hands. I think for a moment he doesn’t want me to pour when he leans back, setting the bottle to the credenza. I watch as he tops up his champagne and places that out of reach, too.

Okay, a little weird.

“Is Dan the baby?”

“No. He’s next to Heather. Older than Lavender and Primrose. He’s had a bit of a rough time.”

“Don’t they ever go to your mom when they need advice?”

“When it suits them,” he says a little darkly.

“Death really does change the family dynamic. It must be hard on you.” The weight of the family balanced on your shoulders, siblings squawking like baby birds.

“I think the harder thing has been the change in our lifestyles.”

“How do you mean?”

“VirTu,” he answers simply. He runs his finger down his glass, pressing a line through the condensation. “Money changes everything, attitudes first and foremost.”

“But it’s your money.”

“And I’ve spoiled them with it,” he adds with an unhappy laugh. “Brin, El, and Heather are okay. They’d already made their own way in the world before I… well, before I had all this.” He makes a gesture with his hand to indicate the space, a testament to his success. His money, yeah, but by the sound of things, he thinks the way his younger siblings behave is down to him. His responsibility.

“You worry about them.”

“It’s hard not to,” he admits softly, “especially when you know Dan is off trying to find himself after a stint in rehab.”

“Oh, Whit. I’m sorry.” I don’t say anymore as his body language refutes my sympathy.

“The girls.” He sighs. “What happened the other night with Lavender is the least of it. Primrose is all right so far, just a bit overindulged.”

“But they’re not kids.” Reaching out, I press my hand over his. “They’re old enough to make their own decisions.”

“It would be easier if they didn’t.” Though he smiles, I know he means it. I guess I can see why control is his thing.

“I don’t want to overstep, but your mom is so lovely. Can’t she step in?”

“That’s probably my fault, too.” As he leans back in his chair, his hand slides out from under mine. “She was a mess when Dad died. You know what it’s like,” he says as his gaze slides to mine.

“Yeah, I do.”

“There’s just this void where that person used to be. But when Dad went, the void was two people wide because Polly just… disappeared. She retreated into herself. She couldn’t cope. That’s such a stupid phrase,” he mutters. “To cope is to survive and we’re all here. We got through it.”

“But nothing is the same.”

“Yeah.” He rakes both hands through his hair leaving furrows where his fingers were. “I mean, Polly is better now. More present. But, let’s face it, when you get picked up drunk in the street and the police shove you in a cell to sober you up, are you going to ring your hardheaded brother to come and pick you up, knowing the only price you’ll pay is listening to him rant and rave as he drives you home? Or will you call your tenderhearted mother, the woman you don’t want to hurt but that you know will weep and see your failings as her own. The woman who might, if you’re unlucky enough, book you both a place at a weekend retreat where there is nothing to do but talk about your feelings. That’s not a rhetorical question, by the way. If you want to know the answer, ask Daniel.”

“He went to Thailand to get over the bonding session?”

“So he says.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why does Daniel… why does he…”

“Have a normal name?” The corner of Whit’s mouth quirks with amusement. “He chooses to go by his middle name. His actual name is Orion.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“What for? You didn’t give us ridiculous names.”

“Leif isn’t ridiculous,” I demur.

“No, not if you’re a tree.”

I giggle softly. I love that he can laugh at himself. “A tree or maybe someone Scandinavian.” Or maybe just a wonderfully gorgeous man.

“Which clearly I’m not,” he says, holding out his hands. Look at me in all my glory. I stifle a sigh because oh, I do. “Anyway, we all became very good with our fists thanks to our ridiculous names.”

“That I know to be true.”

Come here.”

“What?” His sultry purr catches me off guard.

“Come here,” he repeats as he pushes back his chair and pats his knee.

This man. He has a heart as big as a house.

Oh my God. I’m a monster. How could I do this to him?

The thoughts come from nowhere, they just sort of drop into my head, the implications of my actions suddenly crystalline. I feel weighted to the spot where before, I’d felt nothing but free. Fearless and reckless, drunk on the power I seemed to wield.

But now, now I feel ill.

I shouldn’t be here—I should’ve left last night. Left after sex. This feels like we might’ve set a precedent. Hell, we shouldn’t even have had sex! Just look at all this food! I mean, what’s it all for? What is this about? Because I like cake? Because Whit likes me?

He is worth so much more than this, worth more than being used by me. Though I guess if I asked him, he’d argue strongly for the opposite. He’d probably insist he’s quite happy to be used. As hard and as often as I like. But that would only be because he doesn’t know the whole of it. And more than that, I now see that he won’t be able to resist adding me to the list of his responsibilities. This is why he was so dead against us. This is what he was trying to do for my brother—to do what he does for his own family. He guides them. Looks after them. And now he’s going to want to do that for me.

Maybe even after I go home.

He deserves better than that, better than me.

Even if he’s not the one living on borrowed time?

Especially so.

The guilt weighs like a stone on my chest, but I push it all away at the same time as I push back my chair. He wants to hold me and despite what I now know, I want to be held. Because I’m selfish and shallow and because the truth is painful.

I could lose my heart to him but what good would come of it? That piddling thing would be no good for him.

Another step closer, the shame and remorse swimming through my head.

What if he fell for me? What a catastrophe that would be.

Do my eyes leak regret as I stand by the side of his chair?

Whatever happens between us, he won’t let me walk out of his life. The realization makes my stomach hurt; the truth feels sickening. I think too much of him to make myself another weight on his chain.