The Rejected Wife: Chapter 2

‘Thanks for joining me.’ I send a second message on my phone, then lean back in my seat.

We’re in the coffee shop I brought her to, which is a short walk from the tube station where we disembarked.

She smiles wryly. ‘Not like I could refuse, after how you saved me.’

‘It’s five p.m. It’s almost the end of the workday.” I drum my fingers on the table. “If you had somewhere to be, you would’ve told me.”

I wait, hoping she’ll elaborate. Every little piece of information she shares with me about herself feels like I’m unwrapping something precious.

“I—” She looks away, then back at me. “I didn’t.”

‘I’m a nanny. I have a degree in early childhood education. I currently work at a daycare center. So, you assumed right. I don’t have any other plans today.’ Her gaze narrows, her expression turns considering. ‘Would it have stopped you from trying to persuade me if I had?’

“Honestly? No.”

She looks taken aback, then bursts out laughing. “At least you’re upfront.” She runs her eyes down my jacket, which I’ve worn over a button-down shirt. ‘You’re dressed like a business executive, so I assume you were on your way from a meeting? Though, you’re not the kind of person I’d expect to see on the tube.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I quirk an eyebrow.

‘I get the feeling you don’t often take public transport.’

‘Oh?’

She nods. ‘That’s a tailored suit you’re wearing. Between that and your handmade Italian loafers…’ She looks me up and down. ‘You can afford to be ferried around by a driver.’

‘I prefer to drive myself.’ I raise a shoulder. ‘But my car is being repaired. And there was no alternate chauffeur or car available from any of the services my office uses. And no cars on the various ride-hailing apps.” I raise my shoulders. “I was enroute to meeting someone. And running late.”

Her gaze widens. “Was it a date?”

There’s a strange note in her voice. Jealousy, perhaps? I can only hope. I lower my chin. “I cancelled it.”

“For me?” Her forehead furrows.

“This was more important.” I hold her gaze. “I had a sense that if I let you walk away without getting to know you better, I was going to regret it.’

‘Oh.’ A pleased light comes into her eyes before she banks it. ‘You are awfully forthright. And very confident of yourself.”

I wink. ‘I’m also not sorry for using my good deed to my advantage.’ I should feel terrible for playing on her guilt and insisting she have a coffee with me. I should… But I don’t.

When I saw her struggling with her handbag, my protective instincts surged. And when I looked into those warm brown eyes, saw the worry etched into her face and those soft, rosebud lips, something inside me melted. My heart seemed to stop. I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. But that must, surely, be my imagination?

She seems taken aback by my comment, then pops a shoulder. ‘Is it your military training which makes you this…forward?”

‘I was in the Royal Marines,’ I clarify. ‘Is it the military-style cut that gave me away?’ I run my palm over the very short hair on my head.

‘That and—’ She nods toward my chest. I look down at where my dog tags peek out from between the lapels of my shirt. ‘Anyway, when you invited me out to coffee, I didn’t realize you’d bring me to the most exclusive coffee shop in London.’ She waves at our surroundings.

I take in the dark oak flooring, the statement counter, which is the focal point of the space, the mirrored brass countertops, the vibrant barstools, and the elegant, yet comfortable surroundings that provide a home-away-from-home ambiance, then turn to her, not seeing anything wrong with it. But what do I know?

‘Do you not like the place?” I begin to push away from the table. “Should we go elsewhere?’

‘On the contrary.’ She reaches over to touch the hand I’ve flattened on the table. Instantly, a zip of awareness shoots up my arm. She pulls her hand back, but not before I hear her draw in a sharp breath.

A flush smears her cheeks. Her pupils dilate. She, too, feels this…awareness between us. A thrill of anticipation squeezes my chest.

‘The place is perfect.” She takes a sip from her cup. ‘As is the coffee.”

‘As is the company,’ I respond.

She blushes, then laughs. ‘Have we now moved onto the flattery portion of the date?’

‘No, not yet,’ I tease. ‘I’m still compiling my list.’

One of my companies is the supplier of the coffee served here. And I ordered a gourmet blend made from one of the most expensive beans in the world. It’s why I had to bring her here. I stiffen. Why do I feel like a schoolboy? Why is it so important that I impress her?

Unaware of my thoughts, she looks away, then laughs nervously. ‘I feel like I’m doing this all wrong.’ She pushes the hair back from her face. ‘It’s not that I’m not appreciative of your having rescued my handbag, but⁠—’

‘But?’

She swallows. ‘But being in your presence makes me unravel.’

Some of the weight on my chest dissolves. She’s as nervous as I am. It must not have been easy for her to admit that. Indeed, in my experience, women seldom speak their minds. They prefer to play games and make me guess what they’re trying to imply. But the clearness in her eyes tells me, she’s not one of them. So, I content myself with asking in a mild voice, ‘It is?’

She laughs again.

The sound, like a babbling stream of water, shoots bubbles through my veins. Jesus, am I rhapsodizing about her laughter? Really? I frown, and when I look into her bright eyes and see her curved lips, I feel my heart give another lurch. Jesus, what’s happening here?

‘Are you okay?’ she asks softly.

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

She shakes her head. ‘You seemed disoriented for a few seconds there.’

I’d have gone with discombobulated; it feels like the rug has been pulled out from under me. I feel like I’ve lost my moorings, desperately trying to get my bearings and failing. Damn. I run my fingers through my hair. ‘The truth is, I’m not completely okay,’ I murmur.

‘Oh?’ She looks at me with curiosity.

‘I haven’t been myself since I saw you struggling to free your bag from those doors to the subway train.’ I reach over, take a sip of my coffee, then place the cup back on the table.

I search for words to express what I’m feeling without coming across as creepy, or even more forward, or indeed, without making her uncomfortable, but also sticking as close as possible to the truth. I raise my gaze to hers again. ‘I feel like I should get to know you better. It’s why I asked you to have coffee with me.’ I raise both of my hands again, hoping my sincerity communicates itself to her. ‘Is that all right?’

She bites down on her lower lip, and goddamn, I feel that tug in my chest. And lower down. The blood throbs at my temples. My pulse rate grows insistent. She seems to consider my words, and when she finally nods, some of the tension bleeds from my shoulders. I didn’t realize how much I was worried she might want to leave after that confession.

I hold out my hand. ‘I’m Tyler Davenport.’

Something flickers in her eyes. Her gaze grows troubled, but she places her much smaller palm in mine. ‘Priscilla Whittington.’

‘Whittington?’ I release her hand. ‘You’re Toren Whittington’s sister?’