Closing my eyes, I consider for the hundredth time the wisdom of my decision to take this trip with him. Rebel and I are not a match made in heaven. He’s brash and condescending on a good day, and I’m...well, me. I’m a “label.” To be with him, it’s clear that I’m going to be giving up a lot of myself. Example number one: this trip.

I don’t know the first thing about Maine. I don’t know anything about where we’re going or where we’ll be staying. Rebel seems to enjoy keeping me in the dark, his need for control extending to all parts of his life. All I know is Rebel wanted me with him, and here I am. I’ve boarded a plane for this man. If I wasn’t certain before, I am now. I’m all in.

But the question still remains, is he?

NINETEEN

“I’m not dressed for this.”

A stretch limo picked us up at the airport and brought us here, to this lavish country estate. It’s disgustingly perfect from the outside. The lawn is such a bright green I suspect it’s been dyed. A rainbow of flowers lines the walkway and frame the u-shaped drive, standing out against the two story monstrosity that I’m fairly certain is a Martha’s Vineyard design. It’s classic, white, and reminds me of something I’d find overlooking a sandy beach.

“You’re dressed fine.” Rebel pushes me toward the house because my feet just won’t go on their own.

“You should have let me change into something nicer,” I say, worriedly tugging at my clearance rack blouse from K-Mart.

“Your clothes are fine,” Rebel insists as we climb the stone-faced steps. “Just smile and remember to be your charming self. I’m sure Jack has been fantasizing about you since the conference so I hardly think he’ll care about what you’re wearing.” He leans closer, his mouth hovering above mine. “He’ll be too preoccupied wondering what you look like under all that clothing.”

Smacking a kiss on my lips, he grabs the oiled-brass knocker and raps it against the paneled door.

“That didn’t make me feel any better,” I grumble. “Now I’m going to spend the whole day covering my ass.”

“You should be more worried about those tits. They’re practically asking for a tongue lashing.”

My mouth gapes open and while I hurriedly pull my blouse together to cover up the inch and a half of cleavage, he laughs.

The door opens to a man in a suit with slicked back hair and sharp features. His nose is stuck in the upright position and in a bored tone, he asks us to come inside and then guides us to wait in the receiving room.

Rebel takes a seat in one of the two club chairs while I inspect the pictures arranged on the mantel. There is a nice one of Mr. and Mrs. Donnelly dressed in matching polos and visors out on a putting green, their clubs slung over their shoulders. They look so happy, even I’m smiling.

“Do you want to get married?” I ask Rebel, turning my attention to an oriental blue and white floral patterned vase.

“Are you proposing?”

Casting a look over my shoulder, I cock a brow. “What do you think? No. I meant one day, do you think you’ll get married.”

He considers this. “I’ve always pictured living out my golden years with a harem of women.”

“You’re such a pig,” I comment, shaking my head. He would say that. The sad thing is I can totally see him in that setting. I doubt he’s ever had a shortage of women.

“What about you? Are you the fairytale ending type?”

Spotting a miniature wooden statue of an African lion sitting on what I think is called a sideboard I pick it up, tracing my finger over its soft lines. “I don’t believe in that kind of thing.”

“So you didn’t spend your childhood dressing up like a princess and dreaming of your prince charming?”

Placing the figurine back on the table, I cross the room and claim the stiff, Victorian couch across from him. Rebel’s eyes follow my every move with interest, lingering on my crossed legs. “I did, actually, until I grew up and realized that men like that don’t exist.”

“Are you saying I’m not your prince charming?” Rebel asks his mouth curved up on one side.

“If anything, you’re the antithesis.”

Right away, the firm set of his lips and his darkening eyes let me know that he doesn’t like my answer. For some reason, what I said bothers him, but I don’t get a chance to find out why.

“Mr. Donnelly will see you now.”

The stuffy man in the suit turns on his heel and glides away, the long tails of his jacket breezing out behind him.

“I guess we’re supposed to follow him,” Rebel says as he stands.

I follow, leaning in to whisper, “Does he remind you of Alfred?”

“From Batman?” Rebel asks, his brows kitting together.

“Yeah.”

“I think you’ve got a wild imagination.”

We follow the man I’ve decided to call Alfred down a maze of hallways, each elaborately decorated with expensive paintings and antique furniture, until we reach a door made of twisting gold metal.

It opens like an accordion to reveal a small box and he motions us inside. “Press the star button for the lift to take you to the subfloor. Your destination is the third door on the right.”

I chew the inside of my cheek as he steps out of our way to let us pass. Once the doors have been closed, Rebel punches the appropriate button on the wall and we begin our descent.

I clear my throat.

“Don’t say it,” Rebel warns.

“What? I thought Alfred was really nice. Didn’t you?”

“You’re incorrigible,” he accuses, his voice holding a smile.

The elevator slows to a stop and when Rebel pushes the metal doors back, we step out into a low-lit hallway that feels like a...well, cave. Tilting my head back, I give Rebel a pointed look. “If bats rush me, I’m using you as cover.”

“If bats rush you, I’ll already be back on the elevator before that can happen.”

“Some knight in shining armor you are!”

Throwing his hands up, Rebel walks ahead. “Hey, you’re the one who said prince charming and fairy tales don’t exist.”

My rebuttal will have to wait. The room we enter is larger than I expected for a basement, and it’s certainly not lacking. Decorated with rich mahogany woods and deep burgundy carpeting, it’s a true man cave.

Jack Donnelly is seated behind a sprawling desk that takes up the length of one wall. When he hears us enter, his balding head rises and he graces us with a warm, welcoming smile. “Ah, my two favorite people.”

Hefting himself from the chair, he rounds his desk and shakes hands with Rebel. For me, he opens his fluffy arms wide. “I’m thrilled you came.”

“I couldn’t say no,” I tell him as I accept a brief hug. In fact, it’s so brief, that I decide Rebel is full of shit. Judging from his embrace and the photos I saw upstairs, he’s just a very nice man. Friendly. The only woman he has his sights set on is his wife.

My suspicions are confirmed when Holly Donnelly breezes into the room moments later carrying a tray of glasses surrounding a pitcher of what looks to be...yep, iced tea.

“I hope you two are thirsty,” she trills as she sets it down on a table in the small seating area along the opposite wall. “I made sweet tea.”

“Please, have a glass. She’s famous for it around these parts,” Jack says proudly.

Holly, bent over the table, begins putting a glass together. Looking up from her task, she sets a loving smile on her husband. “Two sugars and a wedge of lemon?”

“That’s right, darlin’.”

She does it up the way he wants it and carries it over. “Thirty-seven years of marriage and he still takes his tea the same way.”

“And she still asks the same question every time,” Jack says as he accepts his glass. Taking a sip from it, his eyes light up and he hums. “Perfect every time, just like you.”

Holly brushes her hand over his barreled chest in a playful smack. “Oh, you sweet talker.”