The Rejected Wife: Chapter 3

‘And you’re one of the Davenport brothers.” I place my hands in my lap.

‘You’ve heard of us, I take it?’ His tone is wary.

I scoff, ‘You mean, have I heard of the one-time feud between our two families which has lasted for over fifty years?’

“The relationship has improved since Toren helped my brother Nathan stave off a takeover of the Davenport Group,” he points out.

When I heard about that, I was taken aback. Then my brother explained how it helped him negotiate a deal with the Davenports which, in turn, grew the Whittingtons’ market share. Still, it sends a thrill through me that I’m sitting here speaking to someone who, at one point, my family considered a rival.

“Our families are still not the best of friends,” I point out.

“They are no longer at each other’s throats.” He tilts his head. “And even if that weren’t the case, it has nothing to do with you and me.’

‘There is no you and me⁠—’

‘Not yet,’ he agrees smoothly.

The sheer confidence in his voice should piss me off, but it also turns me on. I shake my head. ‘You have a big ego.’

‘It’s warranted.’ He smirks.

I can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up. ‘Oh, my God, that should sound cringe, but⁠—’

‘But?’

‘It’s kinda hot that you’re so self-assured,’ I say honestly.

The skin around his eyes creases. Something in his expression softens further. “The relationship between our families has no bearing on my wanting to get to know you better. That is, if you agree?”

The honesty in his eyes is disarming. The sincerity in his voice is unmistakable. I feel myself fall a little further under his spell.

Damn. It feels like I’ve entered an alternate reality where the man of my dreams has suddenly appeared and wants to spend time with me. I’m so attracted to him. His perfect blend of charm, laced with a healthy dose of delicious sexuality, has my insides twisted with anticipation, and every cell in my body tight with expectation.

The chemistry between us deepens. The very air between us thrums. Little frissons of delight spiral up my spine. It almost feels too much.

So, I reach for the cup of coffee and take a sip. When I place it down, he reaches over and touches the back of my hand, just a whisper of his fingers grazing over my knuckles. It’s enough to deepen the connection between us, but it’s also reassuring.

‘It’s okay. We have time,’ he croons.

I clear my throat. ‘We do?’

‘I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,’ he says in a husky voice.

I refuse to look at him, sure he’ll see through the contradictory emotions gripping me. ‘That’s not the word I’d use. It’s more a sense of expectation,’ I admit.

There’s silence. When he doesn’t speak for a few seconds, I raise my gaze to his. I find him looking at me with a knowing gaze.

‘What?’ I scowl.

He walks around to stand next to my chair. He holds out his hand, and I slip mine into his without hesitation. I should be alarmed at how much I already trust this guy, despite him being a stranger, but my instincts tell me it’s okay. That he’s okay. And I choose to trust them.

He tugs, and I straighten. As if it’s a sign, I hear ‘Come Away With Me’ by Norah Jones come on over the speakers.

He leads me to the front of the shop, and I realize, the servers who brought us coffee are nowhere to be seen. I glance around the now empty place. The other guests, too, seem to have left. It’s just us in this gorgeous space.

“Where did everyone go?” I ask, surprised.

“I happen to know the owner of the place. I messaged her on the way over from the train station and asked her to clear the space for us.”

I whip my head in his direction. “You did?”

“I wanted you all to myself.”

Something shifts inside me—sharp and electric. Like the air before a storm. My breath snags, not in fear, but anticipation. His words settle low, somewhere behind my navel, heat coiling where there should be caution.

It’s an early spring afternoon, and the sun’s rays slant in through the windows, lighting his face with a golden glow.

‘Will you dance with me?’ he murmurs.

It feels momentous, like my entire life is about to change. How can I deny him? I’m halfway to falling headlong in love with a man I only just met, while my soul insists I know him in a way I can’t rationally explain. Unable to speak, I nod. He takes my hand and places it on his shoulder, then flattens his big palm on the curve of my hip. Heat from his fingers sears through the material of my skirt and into my skin. He begins to move, and I follow.

I meet his gaze and feel drawn into those stunning, contrasting eyes of his. My feet don’t seem to touch the floor. I’m flying. This must be the most romantic gesture anyone has ever done for me. My heart melts even more. And when he steers me close enough that my thighs graze his powerful ones, my insides quiver. My core melts. My toes curl in my ballet flats. I can’t stop the shudder that runs through my body.

He senses my reaction, and his hold on me firms. ‘Are you cold?’

I shake my head.

‘Do you want to keep dancing?’

I shake my head again.

His steps slow until we come to a halt. Norah Jones’ soulful voice sinks into my bones, twines through my blood, and shifts something deep inside of me. As if he senses it, he places my hand on his other shoulder and slides both of his big palms to the small of my back. He spans my waist, and I feel tiny and delicate in comparison to his much bigger frame. I feel protected, and oh, so turned on.

Our difference in height and weight marks him out as the alpha. The male. That primitive part of me recognizes his mastery over me. That animal part of my brain identifies him as the one who has control over my body. It’s so wrong that I feel this way. That in one stroke, he’s pushed aside the feminist part of me. The one which pushed me to be independent from my family. To refuse their help and try to create my own life, away from their influence.

Yet, here I am, standing inside the embrace of a man who comes from the same kind of background I swore to leave behind. Is that why a part of me recognized him right away? Because, while we’re different in so many ways, he’s also similar to me in some?

‘What are you thinking?’ he asks in a low, dark voice that has my insides fluttering with need.

‘I’m not sure I’m capable of thinking much,’ I confess.

He lowers his face until his lips are a hairsbreadth from mine. ‘Good,’ he breathes. His mouth is so very close, and if I go up on my tiptoes, I’ll be connected to him. But his hold on my waist is firm. Without saying a word, he commands me to stay in place. And my body obeys. I can’t stop myself from tipping up my chin, though. His gaze lowers to my mouth. His nostrils flare. His chest rises and falls, and it’s my turn to feel a tremor grip him. He dips his chin, bridging that gap between us and, finally, brushes his mouth over mine.