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Water flowed over her fingers from the garden tub faucet until it heated. Placing her glass on the tiled edge, she added a capful of lavender aromatherapy oil to the bath and retrieved her white silk nightshirt from her bed. Taking out her bun, she spritzed some conditioning oil on her ends and wrapped her head in a honey-colored satin scarf. She removed her makeup and washed her face. Once the tub was sufficiently full, she sank into the warm, scented water, the tension in her body easing on a long breath.
A familiar ache took up residence in her heart. How many times had she wondered what her life would be like now if she had made different choices? Would she and Ryder be happily married, maybe with children, while she made her career as an artist, like her mom? Would his family eventually have accepted her into their lives? Would she be leading a life of privilege in the UK?
The one and only time she visited his family estate, Arborleigh, she’d quickly realized the differences between her and Ryder she believed to be minor were instead damn near insurmountable. Meeting a family steeped in money and aristocracy had been a novel experience. She’d been nervous and hadn’t known what to expect. When they arrived and Ryder introduced her to his family, the dismay on their faces confirmed what she’d suspected.
Ryder had neglected to tell them some key details.
Nathalie couldn’t tell what offended them more, that Ryder had brought home a mixed-race girl, or that she was middle-class and American. While his parents and older sister had been polite, their disapproval tainted the air with a chill that kept her frozen all weekend.
Ryder had been too busy sparring with his father over other things to notice. Their father-son tug of war had seemed as deeply rooted as the subtle racism and classism that spewed mud all over her rose-colored glasses.
Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wineglass as she lifted it to her lips before setting it down again on the edge of the tub.
If she had stayed with Ryder, it was more likely that her father’s company—his dream—would have gone bankrupt, and he would have died even earlier from the stress. Their marriage would have slowly withered under the strain of hostile families and her resentment that she could have saved her father, but chose Ryder instead.
Moisture tickled her nose. She raised a finger to wipe away a tear she hadn’t realized she’d shed. Seeing Ryder again and reliving the past shouldn’t hurt this much.
“You should be over him by now.”
And if she stayed in this bathtub much longer, she’d be a wrinkled prune.
Draining the rest of her wine, she dried off and donned her silk nightshirt before sliding between her sheets. The blinds to both her front-facing windows were still open, and the streetlight near the sidewalk cast just enough light into the room to keep her from falling asleep. With an irritated groan, she climbed out of bed to close them.
Her hand froze on the cord.
Was that?
A large black SUV was parked down the street just beyond the outer perimeter of the streetlight.
“Stubborn ass.” She yanked the blinds closed.
If he wanted to sit in an uncomfortable car, in the cold, all night, that was his decision.
She marched back to her bed and tugged the covers to her chin. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed herself to sleep. Instead, images of Ryder sitting outside in the dark bombarded her.
Nope. She wouldn’t feel guilty.
Twenty minutes later, she was still wide awake and even more irritated. Reaching for her phone on the nightstand, she opened the meditation app and tried to keep her focus on her breaths.
After thirty minutes, she was no closer to sleep than she had been before.
“Dammit.”
She climbed out of bed and pulled on a sweatshirt before heading downstairs. Disarming her security, she took the stairs to the garage, hit the opener, and marched outside.
Ryder stepped out of the Suburban and met her at the end of her driveway, still dressed in his suit from earlier, minus the jacket and tie. He’d rolled up his shirt sleeves.
His gaze dropped to her sweatshirt. A brief flash of emotion crossed his face, gone before she could decipher it.
Following his gaze, she glanced down. And froze. She was so used to throwing this old sweatshirt on that she’d forgotten it was from Oxford, borrowed from Ryder and never given back because she had wanted to be swallowed up in something that belonged to him and smelled like him when he wasn’t around.
A warm flush bathed her face. Her only option was to pretend it didn’t matter. “Why are you still here?”
“Someone has taken an unhealthy interest in you, and I know you’re afraid.”
Her determination to keep him at bay melted just a little. He’d seen her fear and stayed to make her feel better.
Because it’s his job, dummy.