Knox remained unperturbed. "How's neonatology lately? You still get hand tremors?"
I stared down at my hands, my heart falling. I wasn't sure what this had to do with Arabella, but he wasn't wrong about my job affecting my happiness, lately. Ever since we'd lost a twenty-four-week fetus during surgery together, I'd found myself with heart palpitations and hand tremors when I worked with the smallest babies. And it was myjobto work with the smallest babies in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. "Abrupt subject change, even for you," I ground out.
Knox shrugged. "Last time we talked—"
"Before you unfriended me for life," I interjected blithely.
"—you wanted to start a post-care unit for preemies. You still want to do that?"
I squinted. "I do. Why?" Preemies often had different needs than born-at-term babies, and their care required specialized knowledge even through their pre-teen years. There weren't many specialist pediatricians with practices who offered that, and I felt that those children deserved that kind of care. Plus, maybe my hands wouldn't randomly start to shake when I was delicately shunting a two-pound preemie.
Knox shrugged one careless shoulder. "I could help finance it."
"You'rebribing me?" I asked, aghast. "Knox. Buddy. You're my bro. My main man. You're the gooey cheese sauce to my nachos—"
Knox turned faintly green with nausea. "Stop that."
"—but I'm not going to marry your sister for business start-up capital."
Knox waved that away. "I'm not bribing you. I'm saying you need a new start anyway. You're the best in your field, but that doesn't do any good if it's eating away at you. Help Arabella and start fresh while you're at it. I'll earn back my investment three-fold, knowing you, anyway."
I shook my head. "You're missing the real issue, here. She'll never go for it."
"She will if you are strategic about how you offer," he countered.
I held his eyes, pulling my mouth to the side. "You realize what you're asking of me, here, don't you?"
"I'm asking you to save my sister," Knox replied evenly.
Those tendrils around my heart tightened, and I realized I was trapped—not by Knox but by my own traitorous feelings. And he knew it, damn him. Maybe I hadn't been very good at hiding my feelings all these years, after all. With a sigh, I looked over my shoulder where Arabella had disappeared. "Strategic, huh?"
"Stealthy, even, if you can manage it," Knox replied derisively.
Smiling to myself, I turned back around and stared at my coat, hanging where she'd been sitting moments before. I'd wrapped her up in it and towed her along, trapping her in my concern for her well-being. I did that all the time, come to think of it. I knew exactly how to untangle her from her engagement to thisHarryperson. My gaze flitted to Knox's intense one. "I can manage it, but it will be my way."
Knox always looked serious, but just then, he took on a more somber quality than I'd ever seen from him. "Don't abandon her. Do what you have to, and do it in whatever way will free her, but don't leave her. She has been alone too long, Spence. She needs to see that someone cares. I'll help you however I can."
I looked down at my drink, fizzing and popping over slick ice cubes. When I got right down to it, that was the problem. Arabella had ice chips around her stony heart, and she would never allow herself to be vulnerable. But despite that, I saw what Knox did. I had glimpsed the depths of her tortured being, and I'd gotten a taste of her personal torment.
The problem wasn't that I would desert her. The problem was that I wanted her.
Chapter four
Arabella
My hand slipped off the steering wheel, slick with sweat. I blew out a calming breath and wiped the palm on my jeans as I turned into the gated driveway of my parents' massive colonial mansion. "Be cool, Ara," I said to myself. "This is nothing. It's a business transaction. It's a non-profit joint venture with two stakeholders… in a… life-long merger…" I paused. "That's some dumbass bullshit, Arabella Rook."
As usual, no one responded. Thankfully. I wasn't sure when I had started talking out loud to myself, but sometimes, when I was out shoeing horses or—yes, Spencer—calving, I had a tendency to talk to the animals. I'd carried it over to talking to myself even when there weren't animals around. I just had to be careful not to do it around my mother or she would have me committed. Maybe. Then, again, she wouldn't be able to treat me like a marionette doll if she did that.
I pulled up the driveway, coming to a stop in front of the garage, and I glanced over at the well-lit, brick-faced entrance. As real estate moguls, my parents had had their pick of desirableproperties in Eugene, and this one really did take the cake. It sat on a hill overlooking much of the city proper below, and the iron gates fully enclosed the Colonial-style, sprawling estate. I turned off my rental car and sat there for a moment, staring at the unfamiliar house. It wasn't the place where my brother and I had grown up. All it held was impending misery for me.
Harry. That was the man I would marry, presumably. The idea felt so foreign, it was like trying to convince myself ghosts were real. It had no attachment to my reality. It held no more substance than a mist of breath on a cold day. I could see it momentarily; I understood that it was there, but then it dissipated before I could ever grasp it. I pushed out another bracing breath and shoved the car door open. "Stop whining," I told myself. "Let's do this."
As I approached the front door, Sylvia opened it, beaming. She had on a large, swathy, black sweater that looked like it was made of cashmere, and she wore tight, white slacks. She held a glass of champagne in her left hand and beckoned me into the expertly decorated foyer. "Arabella, come in. We were just sitting down for pie and coffee."
And booze, clearly. My feet faltered, like my body resolutely refused to go through with this, but I forced myself through the doorway and into the bright foyer. Marble and cherrywood accents gleamed, well-polished and perfectly indicative of the wealth Sylvia had amassed over her lifetime. She didn't even try to hug me—we didn't do that in our family. She just gestured with her champagne for me to come in as she shut the door. "Harry is in the parlor. His favorite pie is the same as yours—pecan."
"I'm allergic to tree nuts," I deadpanned.
