His Final Betrayal Was My First Move Chapter 15

His Final Betrayal Was My First Move Chapter 15

She sat quietly on a bench by the beach as the last sliver of sunset sank into the Atlantic, dyeing the sky a deep violet. The rhythm of the waves slowed, as if drawing a peaceful conclusion to the day.

Griffin. Daphne.

Their names flashed through her mind like faded photographs, but they stirred no ripples. She realized she hadn’t thought of them in quite some time. That was a good sign.

Night fell, and the sea wind brought a chill. She walked back into town and was drawn to a bar glowing with warm light. Inside, a fire crackled in a stone fireplace. She found a corner seat and ordered mulled wine. The scents of cinnamon and cloves wrapped around her, the alcohol slowly warming her limbs. A joy she hadn’t felt in years rose from deep within.

At some point, rain began to patter against the window.

Amelia paid her bill and pushed the door open. A little tipsy, she didn’t bother with an umbrella, letting the cold rain fall on her face, soothing the heat from the alcohol. The small town streets were clean and slick in the rainy night, the vintage gas lamps casting wavering halos on the wet stone.

She wandered aimlessly until she was drawn to a lit building. It was a bookstore. The wooden sign read *Sea Wind Books*. Through the glass window, she could see shelves reaching to the ceiling. As if possessed, she pushed open the heavy wooden door. A brass bell above it gave a clear, bright ring.

The bookstore was filled with the mixed scents of old paper, leather, and a faint hint of woodsmoke. She was leaning against the doorframe, trying to shake the rain from her hair, when a low, gentle male voice sounded from deep among the shelves, startling her.

“Amelia?”

The voice called her name with a trace of uncertain inquiry.

She lifted her head sharply and looked toward the sound. A man walked out from behind the tall bookshelves, holding a clean white handkerchief and offering it to her.

It was a beautiful hand, with long fingers and clearly defined knuckles.

“Do you need this? To wipe off the rain.”

Amelia’s gaze moved from his hand to his face. He wore a soft Brunello Cucinelli cashmere sweater and had a gentle bearing, but his face was pale, as if he’d been kept away from the sun for a long time. He held an asthma inhaler in his other hand, as if he had just used it.

“You…” Her mind was slow from the alcohol and the suddenness of it all. “Do we know each other?”

The man seemed flustered by her direct question. A faint blush rose on his pale cheeks, reaching his ears. He looked embarrassed as he explained, “No. Not really. We met at the Harvard freshman dance. You were wearing a light blue dress, standing quietly by the window.”

He paused, as if organizing his words. “I just… I remember you.”

That old-fashioned, slightly clumsy sincerity made her feel as if he had stepped out of a Henry James novel: a sensitive, restrained gentleman with a rich inner life. She couldn’t help but be drawn to him, her heart skipping a beat.

She looked into his clear eyes and was silent for a few seconds. Then she reached out and took the warm, dry handkerchief from his beautiful fingers.