Page 9

CAROLINE

Dorian’s presence diminishes the surroundings, blurring the periphery and depleting the oxygen.

At six-one, he shouldn’t have that effect, but with his broad shoulders and dark, wavy hair, he’s quite possibly the most charismatic man that ever lived.

People Magazine named him “Sexiest Man Alive,” and he’s not an actor.

That alone should’ve served as a warning. I had no business being with this man.

Today, he’s paired a crewneck sweater with casual midnight navy trousers and brown Chelsea boots. The tweed sports jacket gives his shoulders substantial breadth.

Years ago, he lived in suits, ties, and buffed dress shoes.

The lines around Dorian’s deep-set eyes remind me that time has passed, as does the sprinkling of gray near his temples.

He’s never been one to take care of his skin, eschewing moisturizer and sunscreen, but the marks of age have served to distinguish him.

If possible, he’s grown more handsome. It’s the hallowed, shadowy complexion beneath his doleful dark eyes that is disconcerting.

He wasted no time escorting me out of the guardhouse. Based on his dismissive treatment of his staff, I imagine he has little interaction with them. His house manager probably handles his staff.

He didn’t lead me to the road and turn me away at the gate. That’s good. But why would he turn me away? We aren’t one of those couples who spent years duking it out over money. No, we’re the rare breed who avoided the fight altogether.

It’s good I’m here. We’re overdue for resolution. And I’ll prove his innocence.

He brushes his hands against each other after depositing my luggage on the back of the golf cart, and for a second, our eyes connect. The familiar deep brown of his eyes draws me in, but something’s off—his pupils? He looks away before I assess.

My heart aches to know what’s bothering him, but I bite back the question. It’s not my business, but the concern still flows.

There’s no point in asking, because he won’t tell. That’s the way he operates, and that’s a reason you left. If he says he needs coffee, just accept the answer.

The sun shines onto the path, casting shadows between the trees.

It’s the end of the season, and many limbs are bare, but some leaves don’t give up easily, reminders of a vibrant season.

And then there are the evergreens. Beautiful in their perpetual might, limbs bowing gracefully as if eagerly awaiting a dusting of snow.

“It’s always been so beautiful here,” I say. “Peaceful. They wouldn’t let me walk around. Insisted I remain inside.” I tilt my head, letting the words land however they may.

“My apologies.”

Always so formal.

“I didn’t want you to leave.”

His statement actually feels honest.

“Did you think I’d drive so far out of my way and then leave once I had confirmation you’d be arriving in thirty minutes?”

A familiar expression forms on his face—narrowed, thoughtful eyes and a frown. There’s a response passing through his head, but he won’t verbalize his thoughts.

I scan the area, searching for cameras. Is his security team listening? He’s always on display. A heavily staffed home equals observant parties at all times.

He rests his hand on the top of the golf cart. There’s no ring. No indentation in the skin of a ring. Same as mine. As expected, he removed his ring. What’s not expected is for me to be drawn to his ring finger, or for residual pain to surface.

“If you’d like, we can walk the trail.” He glances down, probably noting my two-inch pumps. A reasonable selection for a business meeting, but not for traversing a trail covered in slippery pine needles and leaves. “Or we can ride it.”

He taps the top of the golf cart.

“Will it make it?” I ask.

We used to ride ATVs on the trail. The golf carts do better on the paved pathways, but at the top, where it’s steep, the wheels can spin.

“Still doubt me?”

Beneath the frown, there’s a hint of a smile. If I didn’t know him better, I’d miss it, given how quickly it passes.

“I’m the unannounced guest. You pick.”

“Would you care to drive?”

“What a gracious offer,” I say, smiling at the memory of us racing to the front seat.

I loved to drive, and he always said I was the worst driver he’d ever met. He didn’t mean it; it was just how he teased. He let me win most races when we found ourselves in separate carts. It was fun, but I’m not here for fun.

“It’s best an expert sits behind the wheel,” I say, slinging myself into the front passenger seat.

There’s a steel-gray Yeti with condensation beneath the clear lid in the cupholder.

“Looks like you already have coffee,” I say.

“But you don’t,” he says, flicking the key to start.

I inhale, breathing in cedar and balsam. I’ve purchased hundreds of candles seeking this scent, but I’ve yet to find one that matches the splendor of the woods.

“It’s unseasonably warm,” I comment.

Leaves scatter on the ground, and yes, there are bare tree limbs, but there’s still color and life dotting the landscape, and while the air is crisp, I don’t require a coat.

“It is,” he says.

“I imagine the holiday ski crowd’s getting concerned.”

“Holiday skiing is always dicey.”

That’s what he used to say when I’d comment on the lack of snow in the nearby ski resorts this time of year. Our exchange is too familiar.

“A cold front arrives tomorrow,” he says, seemingly oblivious that we just repeated a conversation we had years ago.

“First snow of the season?”

“Third.”

There’s a distinct absence of snow between the trees. If anything, the ground looks dry.

“It all melted,” he explains. “Wasn’t substantial. Maybe next week, as I’m sure you know, given your love for weather forecasts. Unless you’ve changed and there’s a winter coat crammed in your suitcase.”

“I don’t cram items into my suitcase.”

One corner of his lip turns up.

Yes, he’s biting back his response.

“It’s good to see you.”

Now that’s something I didn’t expect him to say. I shift to better see him, but he stares straight ahead.

“How have you been?”

He’s always been cordial. That was one of our problems.

“I'm good,” I say.

The incline increases, and my back flattens against the seat. I press my heels against the front of the cart and hold on to the handrail.

“I moved to Santa Barbara.”

His lips scrunch.

“What?”

I hate when he does that. He’s clearly thinking something but won’t say it.

Seconds pass, and tension wraps around my chest, forcing me to use effort to breathe. It might not be tension. It could be the altitude.

“I’m aware you moved,” he says.

The invisible pulse between us pulls me in his direction, and I cling to the rail on the side of the seat, holding me in place. His focus remains ahead, and I study his profile. He’s fit, but has he lost weight?

He turns slightly, catching me staring.

“Who told you I moved?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t keep up with you?”

How well did he keep up with me? Sophia’s caution comes to mind, but what am I thinking? This is Dorian.

The cart meanders slowly along the weaving path. In the thick of the trees, there’s no sign of civilization. It would be easy to get lost in these woods.

“Banking. Finance. I didn’t see that for you.” He lowers a hand from the wheel, and it falls to his thigh. His pant leg rises, revealing dress socks in a muted pattern above the rim of his low leather boot. “Don’t look so surprised. I only meant to look out for you.”

But how did you keep up with me? Which friend told you?

The cart’s wheels spin for a brief second, and there’s a bump as we hit pavers. Up ahead is a building that appears to be a timbered garage.

“This is new,” I say.

“Lots of things are new,” he says with a sigh.

He parks in front of a closed dark-green garage door. He remains still and silent, prompting me to ask, “How have you been?”

He angles his head, and my breaths slow in anticipation. It’s his turn to study me, and the effect is unnerving.

“Do you have meetings in Denver?”

A question instead of an answer.

I have no meetings, but I repeat the answer Sophia coached me to say. “I have meetings tomorrow.”

“Then you should stay here tonight.”

“Oh, I don’t want to put you out.” My cordial response is the expected one, but staying overnight is an ideal result.

He eyes my suitcase, and my gut churns. Does he think I came here hoping to stay the night?

“Stay. Let’s have dinner. Besides, I suspect you have paperwork for me to sign?”

He’s so casual, so breezy.

“What’s his name?”

“My lawyer?” I allowed Sophia’s lawyer to prepare a divorce agreement, so this time, I’m prepared with something that’s not a printout from the internet. But I still expect that his lawyers will mark it up to the point they should draft whatever it is he wants me to sign.

“I meant, who is the person you’re dating?”

In this lighting, beneath the shadow of the building, his eyes are so dark they’re nearly pools of black.

“I don’t see a ring on your finger, so I assume you’re not engaged.”

“There’s no one.” I take in his ringless finger one more time and look ahead through the windshield. “But it is time. You know that, right?” He’s muted, expression unreadable, lips a flat line. “I expected papers to come. And months turned into years. Why didn’t you file for divorce?”

It’s the question I’ve attempted to bury. Less than five minutes with him, and we’re tackling the elephant.

Or I am. He rests both hands on the steering wheel, his expression is pained, which makes no sense.

“I’ve seen photos of you with other women. It’s not like?—”

“We’re legally separated.”

Defensive .

“I’m aware. I wasn’t accusing you of anything. But that’s why I asked the question. Why didn’t you have your legal dream team draw up papers?”