Page 32 of Bend Toward the Sun
Then this place also revealed itself in all its lush, wild glory, and she was ensnared. But his impatience made her dig in her heels. A man like Harrison Brady could never comprehend the decision paralysis that plagued her at a crossroads like this, because his map had always included a safe path back to a family who loved him.
If she chose poorly, it would plague her. She’d replay the mistake in her head for years.
“I don’t expect you to understand. But I’m not playing a game.” She ran her fingertip through a layer of sand and soil on the table. “What if I turned out to be a terrible fit?”
Harrison’s voice was low. “I seriously doubt that.”
“I’m not sure whether this persistence is creepy or charming.”
His answering laugh seemed genuine, but it quickly distorted into a sound of frustration directed at the glass ceiling. For a moment, he paced in the narrow space between the potting benches. When he stopped, he shrugged and let his arms fall heavily against his sides.
“Fine. You want the truth?” he said. “You want to know why I’m trying so hard to make this happen?”
Rowan blinked.
“They don’t need me here.” The heat evaporated from his voice, and his posture went loose.
She held her breath, waiting for him to continue.
“I’ve been in a really bad place the last few months. The night we met, what you said about the baggage? You were right,” he said. “My family wants me here so they can keep an eye on me, Rowan. Not because they need me for anything. I’m entirely unnecessary. I’m not handy like Duncan, and I don’t know anything about business, like Nate. I’m so out of shape right now, I can’t even climb the stairs in the house without losing my breath.”
Rowan softened, but she didn’t trust the feeling. It was difficult for her to interpret any overt display of vulnerability from a man as anything but performative. With Noah, it had been his way of keeping her unbalanced. Emotional theater. Nothing more than a tool in his power game.
Harrison continued, “But then, I realized—if I could get you on board—” He stalled out and turned away, scrubbing a hand across his jaw. “If I could get you to help set this whole thing on the right course, I’d have made a valuable contribution.”
The words settled around her like volcanic ash, leaving her cold and hollow. At least he was honest.
“Oh. I’m a resource, then.”
What more did you want, Rowan?
He forced a breath through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck. “No. Damn it. That’s not what I mean, but I can see how it sounds that way.” He stretched a hand toward her, fingers splayed. “Come to dinner tonight. We start early—five o’clock. Talk to my family about it. I’m really just the messenger here, and I fucked it up.”
Rowan looked at him sideways. Her heart wanted to leap, but her mind pulled back hard on the reins. “I’ll come to dinner tonight. But no promises.”
He nodded once. “I’ll, ah, leave you to explore, then.”
As she watched him go, Rowan knew her apprehension had nothing to do with the self-imposed clock ticking on her postdoc plans. It had everything to do with the feelings she had brewing for Harrison Brady and his somber, storm cloud eyes.
CHAPTER NINE
Rowan
Maren Madigan Brady was Temperance’s older sister—taller and curvier than T.J., but with the same frosty blond hair and Tiffany-blue eyes. Even though Rowan had only met her a few times over the years, she was relieved to encounter a face she recognized when the door to the Brady house opened. Maren gave her a quick hug.
Inside, it smelled like Murphy Oil Soap and new paint. The foyer flowed into a central hall with doorless cased openings on either side, all leading to rooms with unlit interiors. To the left, a grand staircase twisted upward to an open railed mezzanine. Down the hall, Rowan could see all the way to the back of the house—windows and a two-story fireplace took up much of the wall of a sunken den.
Laughter and conversation came from her right, where an orange curve of light spilled out from the archway. Several people sat at a long dining table with half a dozen open wine bottles marching down the center. Above the table hung a light fixture that looked like the bare branches of a tree, spreading in every direction. Homey sounds of clanking dishware came through another brightly lit open doorway at the opposite end of the room, presumably leading to the kitchen. There were no drapes on thebig picture window, and lavender evening light spilled through condensation-clouded glass.
Harrison was at the table, his forehead cradled in one hand as he flipped through a book with the other. Duncan leaned over the back of another guy with similar swarthy good looks—clean-shaven and older, with a slimmer frame like Harrison’s. Rowan was fairly sure he was Nathan, Maren’s husband. She’d met him once, at Temperance’s graduation from medical school.
Abruptly, Duncan and Nathan laughed—big, obnoxious guffaws echoing between the bare walls and floors. Harrison grumbled, “You two are absolute children,” without looking up from his book.
“All right, Doctor Doom. Maybe if you watched more baby goat videos on the Internet, you’d be happier,” Duncan said.
“Doctor Doom was a supergenius,” Harrison said. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Hesitant to follow Maren into the room, Rowan shifted her weight, and a floorboard creaked beneath her feet. It was a protracted, tortured-goose sound, andloud. Conversation fizzled like a spent Fourth of July sparkler, and everyone turned attention to her. She raised a hand in a single, awkward wave.