Keep Me (Sinful Manor #1)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Dear Sylvie,

Today marks two months since you left. And I’ve been seein’ this therapist now for over a month. She suggested I write a letter to everyone who I need to express something to. And although she said I don’t need to really send them, I decided that I wanted to send yours.

There are some things I need to say to you.

When you showed up at my house, I was stuck. I spent nearly two decades of my life lost and grieving, but then you came along. You were stubborn and rude, but you weren’t afraid to tell me what I needed to hear. Out of everyone, you were the only person who could pull me out.

I’m sorry that you had to spend a year with me when I was at my worst, but I think we were both a mess. And I want you to know that I’m not angry about the lies you told in that arrangement. I think part of me knew the entire time that the real plan was to take my house from me.

Maybe deep down that’s what I wanted.

But then I fell in love with you and everything I wanted changed. I wanted you to stay. I wanted to be happy for you. I wanted a normal life.

But we were never a normal couple. Or a real couple.

The love was real though, wasn’t it?

I’m sorry this letter is such a bloody mess. Clearly, you’re the writer.

What I really want to say is that I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to be real. But that day you left, I knew you were different than the woman who showed up in my house the year before. You changed, Sylvie. I think somewhere in our marriage, you forgave yourself for not being perfect and loved yourself anyway.

Maybe you just needed to watch someone fall in love with you to see it.

I’m glad it was me.

Thank you for the best year of my life. I hope when you get married for real, your real husband won’t be afraid to fight with you because you are never more beautiful than when you stick up for yourself. Don’t lose that.

Your brute,

Killian

Killian’s letter is folded up in my purse. I received it a couple of months ago, and since then, I’ve heard nothing. I’ve gotten comfortable with the silence, like learning to live with a nagging pain that won’t go away.

He told me not to wait, and I’m not. I even downloaded a dating app recently, although I didn’t swipe right on anyone, or even upload my photo. But I figure it’s a baby step.

I’m doing exactly what he asked of me. And yet, I still miss him so much it hurts.

I’m not holding on to hope that Killian and I will ever get back together. I’m not.

But I’m also not ready to walk away from that year of my life like it didn’t mean anything. Enid says I’m just dating myself now, and I think she’s right. I am my own rebound.

So when my phone rings in the coffee shop as I’m typing on my laptop, and I see his name on the screen, I freeze.

It’s been so long since I heard his voice. At the prospect of hearing it again, I nearly fumble my cell phone out of my grip as I struggle to hit the Answer button.

“Hello?” I stammer.

“Sylvie,” he responds. There’s a hint of panic in his tone. I jump from my seat and rush out the front door so I don’t have to carry out this conversation in a quiet room with strangers.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as fear courses its way down my spine.

“I just need you to talk to me,” he says through the phone line.

“I’m here,” I answer without hesitation. “Where are you? What’s going on?”

“I’m going for a drive.”

To anyone else, those words would be simple enough, but for Killian, they have me pausing in my tracks. “Where are you driving?”

“Just into town. Not far. My therapist suggested I do this.”

“And you’re alone?” I ask.

“Aye.”

It dawns on me in this moment that he’s doing something difficult, and he needs me. He’s asking me for help, and the feeling sends a bolt of excitement through my body.

I know he needs me to stay calm, so I let out a relaxed sigh. “What would you like to talk about?” I ask casually.

“I don’t know. Anything. I just need your voice.”

He lets out a deep breath through the phone as I pause on the sidewalk, listening for the sound of his car starting.

“I’m here,” I say. “It’s just a small drive, right? You’ve got this.”

“I’m fine,” he tells himself.

“Exactly,” I reassure him. “You’re perfectly safe.”

“I know I’m safe,” he argues. “I’m sitting on the bloody drive in front of the house. Are you safe?”

A chuckle bubbles out of my chest. “I’m standing in front of a coffee shop in broad daylight. I’m fine.”

“Keep telling me that,” he grumbles, and I bite my lip with a smile. “It helps me for some reason.”

“I’m freezing my ass off, but I’m still fine,” I say through the phone line.

I hear the crunch of tires on gravel. “Do you need a better coat?” he asks, his voice tense.

“No,” I reply. “It’s January in New York. It’s fucking cold.”

“It’s cold here too,” he replies.

“How far are you going?” I ask.

“To town and back.”

“You can do that,” I said. “You did it before, remember? That night you picked me up in the city.”

He chuckles. “I was so bloody mad at you.”

I laugh in return. “I know you were.”

He’s quiet for a moment before he responds. “I wish you were in the car with me now.”

I let out a sigh. “Me too.”

Don’t start hoping, Sylvie. Don’t get your heart broken again.

I mean, who am I kidding? If he asked me to be there, I’d be on that plane in a heartbeat. But that’s not what he needs right now. He needs to do this part on his own. He needs to hear my voice and know that I’m here, but also know that he can do it without me.

“Talk to me,” he says in a grumbling tone.

God, I’ve missed that.

“Um…I’m publishing my book,” I say.

“Good,” he replies immediately.

“Well, not publishing it, exactly. More like…just printing it. For myself.”

“Can I have one too?” he asks, and I bite my bottom lip as a smile stretches across my face.

“Of course.”

“Do you have a new boyfriend?” The question catches me off guard. I freeze in my spot as my mouth falls open. Is this really what he wants to talk about while he’s trying to calm down?

“God, no,” I spit back.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because the only man who’s spoken to me since I got home was a guy at the coffee shop who tried to hit on me by offering me advice on writing my novel.”

“You told him to fuck off, I hope.”

“I told him I wasn’t interested,” I reply with a smile.

“I miss the days when you threw your coffees at men like him,” he replies.

Still chewing my lip, I pace around the space in front of the coffee shop. The wind is starting to pick up, and my nose is like an icicle, but I’m not going inside. It’s easier to focus on him out here. As if being outside brings me closer to him.

“How’s the drive going?” I ask.

“Good. Your voice helps. Keep talking.”

I let out a sigh. “Why don’t you try it without my voice for a while? Just keep me on the line. You know what to do if your attacks come back.”

My eyes sting as I wait for him to respond.

Finally, he mumbles, “Just because I can do it without you doesn’t mean I want to.”

A tight smile stretches across my face as my eyes fill with moisture. “It only matters to me that you’re doing it.”

“I’m doing it.”

For the rest of the drive, he goes in silence. I go back into the coffee shop, and I stare out the window as I listen to his breathing on the other end of the line.

With every drive and every trip and every day that passes, I know he’s finding peace inside that he hasn’t had in far too long. Even if I never make it back to Scotland or to Barclay Manor or to him, at least I can rest knowing he’s found that.

***

On a warm day in late March, I’m walking back to my apartment when I spot a package on the front steps, and I nearly sprint down the street when I see it lying there. Just a simple brown cardboard package that doesn’t look very exciting, but I know exactly what is inside.

Squealing as I pick it up, I do a little hopping dance outside the front door before I unlock the door and run inside with excitement. I quickly pull out my phone, dialing Killian’s number, and putting it on speakerphone before setting it on the table.

He picks up immediately.

“Hello?”

“It came!” I shriek, making him laugh.

“For fuck’s sake, woman. My eardrums are bleeding. What came?”

“My book! I had it printed and it just showed up.”

“Oh, Sylvie,” he responds softly. “That’s incredible. I’m so bloody proud of you.”

Killian and I have hardly spoken since he called me two months ago, asking for me to talk to him while he drove. Since then, I’ve tried my hardest to not pick up the phone or reach out. But these brief conversations feel like getting to know him for the first time.

Ironically, I think I’m even more in love with him now, and I can’t even say it.

“I’m opening it.” Grabbing the box cutter off the counter, I quickly slice open the package.

“Careful not to cut too deep. You’ll slice the pages.”

“I’m careful,” I argue.

As the box slides open, I freeze. Ever so slowly, I pull out the paperback book from within. As I lay it in my hands, feeling the weight of all the words inside, tears begin to spring to my eyes.

“It’s perfect,” I whisper.

“Describe it for me.”

“The cover is simple and beautiful. It’s green, and the title is in gold. Simple cursive letters.”

“And your name is on it?”

With a smile, I trace my name across the bottom: Sylvie Devereaux.

“Yes.”

“That’s your book, mo ghràidh. You wrote that.”

A tear slips over my cheek as I flip through the pages, remembering the exact place in the library where I was sitting when I wrote it. It feels as if I’m being transported back in time to my favorite place in the entire world.

Technically, this copy I’m holding is the only one in existence. And, other than the one I promised Killian, it will remain the only one. He begged me to publish it, but I had to make him understand that I never intended to do that. Writing was my passion, but it was never the thing I wanted to squeeze dry. I didn’t want to treat my passion the same way my parents treated me. I would just love it and cherish it and celebrate it for exactly what it is.

Holding it to my chest, I do exactly that.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he mumbles into the phone.

“So good.”

“I’m really fucking proud of you, Sylvie.”

My eyes squeeze shut as I breathe in those words, letting them fill all the tiny crevices inside me where I need them.

When I hear someone shouting in the background, followed by the honk of a horn in the distance, my eyes open.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“London,” he groans.

My blood runs cold. I’ve missed so much. Why is he in London? Who is he with? But I don’t pry. It’s not my business. He told me not to wait, so I’m not.

After a few minutes, he fills the silence anyway.

“Anna and I are just here on a short weekend holiday. It was her idea. After our last talk, I’ve been doing more drives. More outings. And now, this is my first trip away from home.”

Pride swells inside me.

“That’s amazing, Killian. I’m proud of you,” I reply.

“I was grumpy, but your call made me feel better. Thinking about you holding that book makes me feel better. Sign my copy before you send it.”

“I’m not signing anything,” I reply haughtily.

“Yes, you are, you stubborn brat. You wrote that book in my home. I want a copy, and I want you to sign it. Then I’m going to put it in my library, and someday, a hundred years from now, a stubborn American girl will break in just to see the great masterpiece of Sylvie Devereaux.”

“And get conned into marrying a giant Scottish grump,” I add, making him laugh.

“Yeah, that’s how the story goes.”

I drop into a kitchen chair, fixating on the book on the table. Deep down, I fight the urge to admit to Killian that missing him and being so far from him is harder than I think I can handle. I want to tell him that I still love him, and no matter how many times he tells me not to wait, I will. I can’t help it. I’ll love him until the day I die.

“Sylvie…” he whispers.

“Yes?” I feel as if he’s about to say something big. Tugging my bottom lip between my teeth, I wait, praying it’s going to be something I want to hear.

“You’re still waiting for me, aren’t you?”

I swallow, frozen as I stare straight ahead. I could lie. I could tell him that I’ve moved on and maybe that would be better for him in the end, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

“I will always wait for you.”

“I—”

I wince at the sound of Anna’s voice in the background, interrupting him. The miles between us feel so vast at moments like these.

“I have to go,” he replies. “And Sylvie?”

“Yeah?” I reply softly.

“I’m really proud of you for writing that book.”

“Thank you,” I mumble just as the phone line goes dead.