Seduced by Stratton (The English Brothers Book 4) (20 page)

I’m in love with you, Val
.

If only he’d called her—even once—while she missed him so much these past few weeks. If only he’d given her a clue that while they’d been apart his feelings for her were growing, not fading. And if his feelings were truly that strong? She wished he could have come to that conclusion and shared it with her
before
he’d lost Amy. It would have been easier to believe him.

The cab pulled up in front of her walk-up, and she fished a few dollars out of her purse, putting them in the plexiglass compartment between the seats.

Alone on the sidewalk, she glanced up at the windows of her apartment, relieved to find them dark. She wasn’t in the mood to see Barrett or witness a fully functional, deeply loving relationship between Stratton’s brother and her roommate while her own heart was in the process of breaking.

She unlocked the exterior door and trudged up the stairs, feeling tired, sad, and incredibly defeated, because seeing Stratton again had certainly confirmed one thing for Valeria: despite his total and complete jackassery, and much to her consternation, her feelings for him were as strong as ever. She knew—beyond any shadow of doubt—that for the first time in her life, she was deeply and terribly in love. The jolt of energy she felt when she realized he was standing there for her, the sharp stab of longing she felt when he said that he loved her—it confirmed that the feelings she’d been fighting and ignoring for several weeks weren’t going anywhere. Over the next few months, she was going to need to face them, dismantle them, and dismiss them . . . and just hope that her heart would be free of him someday.

She swiped at fresh tears, willing them away as she turned the key in her door and walked into her apartment. She took off her mittens and scarf, tossing them into a basket by the front door, and wiggled out of her boots.

Hanging her coat on a hook, she took a deep breath, and that’s when she smelled it. Recognizable from the three summers she’d spent working in a florist shop, she wrinkled her nose in confusion and took another deep breath as she stepped toward the living room. There was no mistaking the sweetness of it. Her apartment smelled strongly of fresh flowers.

At the end of the front hallway, she flicked on a light and gasped quietly at what she found all around her. On the kitchen counter, the small dining room table, the mantle over the defunct fireplace, the coffee table, and on both end tables in the living room, there were tall, clear, elegant glass vases, each filled with half a dozen merlot-colored calla lilies.

Black calla lilies. Rare. Exotic. Stunning. And hands down, her all-time favorite flower.

Her breath caught, and her heart pounded as she stepped farther into the apartment, counting ten vases. Flicking her startled eyes to the dining room table, she saw a note card folded over, and stepped toward it, unfolding it and reading:

Val, I tried to call you four or five times, but your phone must be dead.

These arrived this afternoon.

Joe’s really pulling out all the stops, huh?

Enjoy the flowers!

Love you,

Em

She re-read the note again, feeling her eyebrows crease. Joe? Joe sent her five dozen black calla lilies while they were at a hockey game and her family’s weekly dinner? She shook her head. It made no sense. It didn’t feel like Joe at all.

She set the note back down on the table, and for the first time she realized the vase on the table before her held a card. On the envelope it read: Val – 4. Slowly making her way around the apartment she realized every bouquet included a similar card, and she collected them all in one hand while she poured herself a glass of wine with another.

Fanning out the small cards on her coffee table, she stared at them suspiciously for a moment before picking up Val –1 and opening it carefully.

My dear George,

I have something stupid and ridiculous to tell you.

What? George? Who was George? Was this a delivery mistake?

But, no, wait. Her name was on the envelope. She turned it over to look at her name again, just to be sure it was addressed to her, and then she re-read the words on the card.

Feeling confused, she took a sip of her wine and reached for envelope Val – 2.

I am foolishly writing instead of telling you this.

The words were strangely familiar, and her heart started pounding as she ripped open envelope three.

Tonight I shall be annoyed at having done so.

Envelope four. Yes, of course. She realized what she was reading, but reached for the small envelopes faster and faster.

You will laugh in my face . . .

Five . . .

. . . will take me for a phrase-maker

Six . . .

. . . in all of my relations with you hitherto.

Seven . . .

You will show me the
door . .
.

Eight . . .

. . . and you will think I am lying.

Nine . . .

I am in love with you.

—Alfred de Musset, 1833

More tears started falling by envelope three, and now she wiped them away with the cuff of her shirt, placing the first nine cards carefully in order on the coffee table and taking a bracing sip of wine before reaching for the tenth card. The reason she recognized the letter was that it was on the syllabus she taught for Professor Moreland for later in the semester, and she’d read it quickly on Stratton’s couch three weeks ago. It was written by poet and novelist Alfred de Musset, a contemporary of Chopin, and the George with whom Musset was in love wasn’t another man, but George Sand, which was the pseudonym of Aurore Dudin, a prolific authoress of the mid-1800s.

And as certainly as her heart belonged to him, she knew Stratton had sent these flowers before his disastrous, but more direct, bid for her heart tonight at Campanile’s Cucina. Through a window of tears, she shook her head back and forth.

Holding red roses and wearing a suit while he stumbled through a declaration of love had thrown her—it hadn’t felt organic or natural. But black calla lilies and an ancient love letter? She sighed. This she believed. This quiet longing belonged to the Stratton she’d come to know. This clever, unexpected burst of romance was the Stratton she’d grieved. This unique, bizarre, utterly perfect declaration of his love for her was the Stratton she’d missed. This knowledge of the inner workings of her heart and intuitive understanding of the design of her mind made him the Stratton she loved.

Still holding envelope ten, she whipped her phone out of her back pocket, frustrated when she realized that it was dead, and quickly plugged it in to charge. She didn’t know what she’d say to him yet, but her sudden need to connect with him, to reach out to him, to slog through the mess between them until they figured out a way to be together was so raw, her chest felt tight. She covered her heart with her palm and closed her eyes.

The fresh smell of cut flowers was like a balm to her soul, and she managed a deep, cleansing breath before opening her eyes again. Standing up, she walked from vase to vase, leaning down to inhale the light fragrance of the dark blooms, touching the satin thickness of the elegant petals gently, wondering if it could be true, and how it was true, and when it became true. Had he fallen in love with her over Jack Nicholson movies, the foxtrot, a kiss in a park, and a night spent entwined together?
She
had. Wasn’t it possible that, despite Amy, he had too?

Sitting back down on the couch, she considered the tenth card in her left hand as she sipped from the wine glass in her right. What did she want it to say? Was she ready for whatever he had left to tell her?

She slid her nail along the white envelope carefully, taking a deep breath before flipping it over.

Val.

You were my auspicious beginning.

My heart’s made its choice.

Forgive me. Choose me.

This minute my heart aches with love for you.

Stratton

She laugh-sobbed softly, re-reading the card again and again, remembering the instances that inspired his words. Her handy knowledge of
Five Easy Pieces
in the lobby of English & Sons . . . his tortured question in the cab on the way to his apartment about a heart divided . . . and the beautiful words, carefully and cleverly parsed, from the Otway letter.

Suddenly she remembered the panicked devastation in his eyes as he’d insisted earlier,
Val, let me explain. It didn’t come out right. You’ve got it all wrong . . . You’re my first choice, Val. You! I just didn’t know it until—

She’d cut him off with hurt feelings and harsh accusations.

And now, surrounded by her favorite flowers and in possession of the most beautiful ten-part love letter she’d ever received, she had to wonder . . . Was it possible? Was it true? Could he really love her?

Not a moment later, she knew the answer.

Yes
, her heart whispered, as her soul sighed with relief.
It’s possible.

“Stratton,” she murmured, sniffling softly. She added the tenth note card to the other nine, then gathered and held them close to her breast as she finished her wine and waited in overwhelmed silence for her phone to charge.

***

As the elevator door opened, Stratton knew his apartment would be no sure haven, no safe harbor, no soothing oasis tonight.

Recrimination lingered heavy around him, forcing him to relive her shocked gasp, the way the light in her eyes had died, the sharp crack of her palm against his cheek. He had hurt and embarrassed her—again. He rubbed his cheek, knowing he’d deserved that slap.

He hadn’t earned the right to love her. He’d aspired to have her without worthiness. He’d wished for something he wasn’t entitled to. Over and over again he’d pushed her away. Why should she believe his intentions, his feelings now?

Just because he’d finally realized what his heart most wanted—right now, right here in his life—was Valeria, there was no reason for her to feel the same.

He slammed the door of his apartment, threw his overcoat and suit jacket over a bench in the hallway, and slumped down in his chair by the dark fireplace without turning on the lights. He loosened his tie, pulling it from around his neck and throwing it on the floor, and then unbuttoned the first two buttons of his dress shirt. For an hour or so, he planned to sit in the cold dark, remembering her loveliness and energy, her honey voice reading love letters and mouthwatering body dancing, her lips pressed against his, the electric touch of her tongue, the way she smelled and tasted . . .

He planned to sit here and torture himself and hate himself and feel sorry for himself and maybe get a little drunk.

And then, when he woke up lonely and hung-over in the morning, he’d start the long, arduous journey of letting her go.

Except . . .

Except he feared he was more stuck this time than he’d ever been before. He’d said the words this time. He’d told her he was in love with her. And he’d meant it. A million arguments could be made to challenge him:
You barely know each other. You can’t fall in love over the course of a weekend. This is infatuation, not love.
And none of it mattered, because Stratton knew it in his soul.

He loved her.

He’d be the last one able to explain how it had happened, or when, or why. All he knew for sure was that it
had
happened, and whether or not he had a right to love her, he did. Fiercely. Irresponsibly. With the blind, reckless passion that comes from loving something new and startling and impossible to surrender.

His phone buzzed, and he leaned forward to reach for it, his heart sinking when he realized it was Kate.

Kate:
How’d it go?

Stratton:
It was a disaster.

Kate:
Oh, no!

Stratton:
It all came out wrong. I embarrassed her. I hurt her. I’m certain I lost any chance with her.

Kate:
I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry, Stratton.
Stratton:
I’m no good at love, Kate. I’m awkward. I’m ridiculous.

Kate:
Stop. That’s not true.

“It
is
true,” whispered Stratton, flipping over the phone even though it buzzed several more times with more comments from Kate. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it was so big and so full of regret and pain, it made his eyes burn, and he closed them, leaning his head on the back of the chair in misery.

Buzz, buzz.

Buzz.

Kate wasn’t letting up. Probably better just to tell her he wasn’t up for talking tonight. He flipped over his phone, shocked when he saw
two
text sessions now live. One from Kate. One from . . . Val.

His heart lurched into a gallop as he swiped over Val’s name, trying to take a deep breath and failing. Her message came up immediately.

Val:
I didn’t let you finish.

“Finish?” he whispered frantically, his fingers hovering over the tiny keyboard.