Shattered Dynasty by Ava Harrison
40
Trent
I may have goneover the top . . .
The roof deck of my building is fully decorated.
It’s straight out of a romantic movie, with whimsical decorations and flowers, but instead of this being in the park, I built all of this on the top of my loft.
I googled how to build a canopy with the materials I had on hand, for fuck’s sake.
This is one hundred percent too much.
It’s also the first time I’ve spent real time up here, so my only memory is this. With her.
Payton is quiet for a beat. The clear city sky reflects in the blues of her eyes. They remind me of a day at sea, clear and wondrous.
I’ve made her speechless, and although this isn’t the first time ever, it might be the first time she’s not simultaneously planning my death.
“This is . . .”
“Over the top,” I finish.
“No. Well, yes. But, wow!” She looks awestruck.
“Wow, good?”
This is more self-conscious than I’ve ever been, and I don’t like it. But the novelty of it grows on me, probably because it’s with Payton.
Who the fuck am I?
What has this woman done with me?
“Wow, amazing! I can’t believe you did this.” Her voice sounds far away. “No one has ever done anything like this for me before.”
I let her take in everything in silence, not bothering her as she oohs and aahs over the details. After a moment, her small hand reaches out toward the picnic basket, and she traces the wicker with her fingertips.
“Why?” she finally asks.
“Why, what?”
“Why did you do this for me?” She meets my eyes. “Guilt?”
“No.” I shake my head, and she cocks her head as she assesses my face.
She’s scrutinizing me, trying to figure me out. I have no doubt she will. Even if I haven’t myself. Payton gets me. At first, I hated it. But now? I don’t know. I just know I don’t want to go back.
“It wasn’t really because of guilt,” I allow.
“Not really?” She lifts a brow. “That’s not a denial.”
Her nose scrunches, and I know she’s thinking about what to say. Whether she should be upset or not.
This isn’t going as planned.
Before she can speak, I move closer.
I’m on eye level with her from where I am perched on the floor.
“This has nothing to do with guilt,” I respond, firmer so she won’t get the wrong idea this time.
“Then why?”
“Because . . .” I run a palm down my face and groan. “Goddammit, Payton. Because I wanted to.”
“Why?” she presses, unrelenting. It’s one of the things I like about her. Just not right now. At my expense.
“Because I want to see you fucking smile,” I blurt out.
“Why?”
Dammit, what’s with this girl?
Then it dawns on me that she’s goading me. Pressing me to answer. To speak my truth.
That she already knows it.
She just wants to hear it.
Payton Hart wants me to cut myself open and bleed my emotions all over the floor.
And fuck it, I will.
“Because I fucking like you,” I say. Simple as that. “That’s why. And I want to make you happy.”
“But why?” she challenges, and I shut her up.
I pull her toward me, wrap my arms around her back, and fuse her lips to mine.
Moving my hand, I cup her face as I kiss her. The kiss starts off soft at first with me testing the waters, seeing how she responds. When she lets out a soft sigh and arches her back, I deepen it.
Pressing my lips more firmly to hers, I kiss her faster.
I slide my tongue in her mouth.
Minutes pass, or maybe just seconds, but I’m lost in this woman.
I want more.
I will always want more where she’s concerned.
Then she’s pulling away and looking at me with confused eyes that are hazy with lust.
“Um . . .” She shakes her head as if to clear it. “What was that?”
“A kiss.”
I’m unapologetic.
This time, I don’t regret even a second of it.
Payton’s cheeks are colored red, but it’s the way she observes me through hooded eyes and thick lashes that makes me wish I had done that sooner. Fuck, she stares at me like I’m everything.
“I should have done it weeks ago,” I admit.
“Oh”—She blinks back at me, stunned—“Okay.”
I pull back and start going through the basket. “Now, let’s eat.”
“I can always eat.”
“Me, too. What do you want first?” I ask her.
“Sandwich?” She scrunches her nose.
“Not cheese?”
She grins, rolling her eyes at me. “If you want to start with cheese, why bother asking me?”
“Not sure.” I tilt my head. “Maybe to fuck with you. Creature of habit. I have a compulsive need to do the opposite of what you say.”
I smile as I reach for a small sandwich and hand it to her. Then I grab one for myself.
She takes a bite and moans. “This is amazing.”
“I made it all by myself.”
“You did?”
“Hell no. I don’t even know where my kitchen is.” I laugh.
“Har, har. You do, too; we had ice cream.”
“Chef made them,” I admit, picking one up and staring at the perfectly cut square. “Scowled the whole way through.”
“I’m not surprised.” She shakes her head, throwing it back in laughter. “This is amazing regardless.”
“Good, enjoy. There are plenty where that came from,” I tell her as I pick up another bite-sized sandwich.
“I’m not used to this,” she says right after she swallows. “I don’t know how to handle this side of you.”
I lift my eyebrow, telling her to continue. My mouth is full, so I can’t speak. Wouldn’t know what to say even if I could.
“You being so nice to me,” she says. “You taking care of me. You kissing me.” She bows her head, and guilt tries to invade the picnic.
I won’t let it.
I know she hates it. She’s said so herself a few times already. And we agreed to put the past behind us and start fresh . . . But damn, if that guilt doesn’t sucker punch me.
“Listen, I was a real asshole.”
“I’m not going to argue with that.”
I set my sandwich down and give her the full force of my attention so she knows I’m serious. “It took me a long time to get my head out of my ass, but this isn’t something that just happened overnight. I knew I was acting poorly. I knew you didn’t deserve my malice for a long time.”
I shake my head, wishing I’d come to the realization sooner, so she wouldn’t be here like this. Injured.
“That’s what I was coming to talk to you about that day,” I add.
“When did you realize?” she asks, her voice dipping lower than normal.
“When you kept showing up.”
She looks confused.
“Every time you showed up at the center,” I explain. “When you spoke with Henry. When you helped my mom in her garden. When you took care of the people who mean so much to me. It was everything.”
I was so stubborn, I didn’t want to admit it.
I couldn’t see past my own pain, my own ego, myself.
I continue, “That’s when it started to happen, but I refused to see past my own anger. There were little things along the way, but then I finally realized I wasn’t angry with you. I was angry with myself.”
Her hand settles on mine, comforting me.
I squeeze and press forward. “I was angry I had put so much hope in the idea that my father would change and do better. I wanted to believe that even after what he did to Ivy. Even after all of that, I still held hope things would change. That he would change.” I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Her hand picks up mine, interlocking our fingers. “Did you think if you hurt me, you’d be hurting him?”
I nod. “But the truth is, you have nothing to do with that. Nothing to do with any of it. My father purposely did this. He purposely left the money to you, knowing I would be in charge because he wanted to torture me. He had no shame.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes—”
She gives a dry, bitter laugh. “It’s funny how he was such a different person for you than he was for me.”
“It’s sick, actually.” I stare at the ground, wondering if there’s an afterlife and if Dad’s there right now. “Sometimes I talk to him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I stare at the ground, and I talk to him. I taunt him. Because I’m alive, and he isn’t. Because he isn’t here to fight back.”
She plays with my fingers, taking her time to explore each one with her fingertips. “Does it help?”
“No.” I close my eyes, enjoying her touch. “It never does.” I repeat my words, knowing it’s better this way, knowing he’s evil and hating that part of me is still that same kid holding on to a piece of his father in hopes he’ll change. “Because I’m alive, and he isn’t. Because he isn’t here to fight back.”
Payton’s hands still, and she moves them to my face, brushing over my eyelids so gently, I barely feel them. “Did you ever read the letter he gave you . . . ?”
“No.”
“I understand.”
And I know she does.
Because Payton Hart sees me.
All of me.