Chapter 7 - Whispers in the Dark
By midnight, the reception had transformed into a roaring, high-end celebration. Champagne bottles popped with rhythmic frequency, the bass from the band echoed across the ocean cliffs, and the Newport socialites had finally loosened their expensive ties and designer gowns.
Mara slipped away from the noise, seeking refuge in the quiet, cool air of the east terrace.
Her legs ached from sixteen hours on her feet, and her mind was spinning at a dangerous, uncontrollable velocity. She leaned against the stone balustrade, closing her eyes and letting the salt breeze cool her flushed skin.
She had spent her entire adult life building *Blooms & Co.* from a dingy, one-room flower shop in Boston into the premier floral design firm in New England. She was fiercely independent. She didn't need a man—least of all a billionaire maritime tycoon with enough emotional baggage to sink a fleet.
So why couldn't she stop replaying the feeling of his hands on her waist?
"You're hiding."
Mara didn't even open her eyes. A small, involuntary smile touched her lips. "I'm not hiding. I'm taking inventory of my stress levels."
Footsteps echoed softly on the stone. Grant stepped up beside her, leaning his forearms against the balustrade, looking out at the black, churning Atlantic. He had finally discarded his tie, and the top two buttons of his white dress shirt were open, revealing the strong column of his throat.
"And what do the stress levels indicate?" he asked quietly.
"That I need at least three shots of tequila and a ten-day vacation in a cabin with no cell service."
Grant chuckled—a low, rich sound that vibrated in the night air. "I can arrange the cabin. As for the tequila, I think we can find some in my private study."
Mara turned her head, looking at him sideways. "You have a private stash of tequila?"
"I'm a Holloway. We own half the shipping ports in the Atlantic; we import our own contraband." He turned his head, his dark eyes meeting hers in the moonlight. The playful banter faded, replaced by that heavy, magnetic gravity. "Come with me."
"Grant, if your aunt sees us sneaking off to your study, she’s going to hire a private investigator."
"Let her." Grant straightened up, extending his hand toward her, palm open, strong and steady. "Come with me, Mara."
She looked at his hand. It was the same hand that had caught the crystal vase on Thursday morning, the hand that had held a melting cake together on the bridge, the hand that had pulled her close on the dance floor.
Slowly, deliberately, Mara slid her fingers into his.
Grant’s hand closed around hers, his grip warm and unyielding. He led her away from the glowing lights of the tent, down the stone pathway, and through a side entrance into the private wing of Holloway Point.
***
Grant’s private study was a sanctuary of dark mahogany wood, leather-bound books, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. A low fire crackled in the stone fireplace, casting a warm, flickering amber glow across the room.
It felt less like a billionaire's office and more like a fortress of solitude.
Grant closed the heavy oak door behind them, locking it with a sharp click.
Mara stood near the center of the room, her heart hammering against her ribs as Grant walked over to a crystal decanter on a mahogany sideboard. He poured two fingers of amber liquid into heavy crystal glasses, turning back to face her.
He walked over, holding one glass out to her. Their fingers brushed as she took it.
"To surviving the wedding of the century," Grant said softly, raising his glass.
"To surviving your sister," Mara corrected, clinking her glass against his with a clear, sharp ring.
She took a sip. The tequila burned hot and clean down her throat, settling the jittery, nervous energy in her chest.
Grant set his glass down on the edge of the desk without breaking eye contact. He stepped closer, closing the distance between them until Mara could feel the heat radiating off his broad frame.
"We need to talk about what happens tomorrow," Grant said, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register.
Mara’s jaw tightened slightly. She stepped back, putting a fraction of distance between them. "There is no 'tomorrow', Grant. The wedding is over. I pack up my floral arrangements at dawn, load my vans, and drive back to Boston. You stay here in your oceanfront empire."
Grant didn't blink. He closed the distance again in a single, fluid stride, cornering her gently against the edge of the mahogany desk.
"You think it's that simple?" he asked, his voice dangerously low. "You think you can walk into my life, disrupt every rule I've lived by for twenty years, and then just drive back to Boston like nothing happened?"
"I built my business from the ground up, Grant," Mara snapped, a flash of defensive fire sparking in her dark eyes. "I am not some socialite you can add to your portfolio. I don't do casual, I don't do secret mistress, and I certainly don't fit into the Holloway family blueprint!"
Grant stared down at her, his expression darkening. Instead of backing away, he reached out, his strong hands gripping her hips, lifting her effortlessly onto the edge of the mahogany desk.
Mara gasped, her hands instinctively grabbing his shoulders to steady herself.
"Who said anything about a blueprint?" Grant murmured, his face inches from hers, his dark eyes burning with fierce intensity. "I don't want you to fit into my life, Mara. I want to tear my life down and rebuild it with you."
The words hung in the heavy, fire-lit air between them, absolute and unshakeable.
May you like
Mara’s breath hitched. Before she could process the terrifying, exhilarating weight of what he had just said, Grant leaned in and captured her lips in a kiss that swept away every remaining defense she had.
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