Page 72 of Shattered Crown
He looked different in the candlelight. The sharp edges of his face softened by the flickering glow. His gray eyes were warmer than I'd ever seen them. He was wearing a white linen shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and pants the color of milky coffee. His dark hair was still damp from his shower and slightly disheveled from the wind.
He looked like something out of a romance novel. The kind my mother used to hide in her nightstand, the kind I'd sneak into my room as a teenager and devour in secret.
He was looking at me like I was his destiny.
We ordered. Ate. Talked about nothing important—the food, the weather, a funny story Leilani had told him about a guest who'd gotten lost in the gardens. Easy conversation. Comfortable in a way that still surprised me.
The wine was good. I was on my second glass when I set down my fork and looked at him.
"Tell me something I don't know about you."
He raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"
"Anything. Something real." I leaned forward, resting my chin on my hand. "Something you don't tell people."
He was quiet for a moment, turning his wine glass by the stem. The candles flickered between us, casting dancing shadows across the white tablecloth.
"I wanted to be a pianist."
I nearly choked on my wine. "What?"
"Don't look so surprised, Kealoha." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "I enjoy music. I'm quite good, actually. Or I was."
"I'm sorry, I'm still—" I shook my head. "I can't imagine you as anything other than a businessman."
"I know." The smile faded. "But I was, once. I used to play for hours. Drove the household staff crazy. My mother encouraged it. She thought I had talent." He shrugged. "My father made it clear that wasn't an option. Dubois men run businesses. They don't play piano."
I watched his face as he said it. The careful blankness that settled over his features whenever he mentioned his father.
"Do you still play?"
"Sometimes. Late at night, when no one's around." He looked at me. "Your turn. Tell me something."
I hesitated.
There were things I'd never told anyone. Things I'd buried so deep I'd almost forgotten they existed. Could I trust him with them? Or would he file them away, use them against me someday when we were back in New York and this dream had ended?
I looked at his face. At the openness there, the vulnerability he'd just shown me.
I decided to take the leap.
"I almost got married once."
Sebastian's eyebrows rose.
"I was twenty-four. His name was Jonathan." I traced the rim of my wine glass, not quite meeting Sebastian's eyes. "He was exactly the kind of man my parents wanted for me. The right family, the right background, the right everything. We'd been together for two years. The wedding was planned. Three hundred guests. Cathedral ceremony. Reception at the Plaza."
"What happened?"
"I called it off. Three weeks before."
Silence. The waves rolled in, rolled out.
"I realized I didn't love him," I said. "I didn't even really like him. I'd just convinced myself I should, because he fit the picture of what my life was supposed to look like. The perfect husband for the perfect heiress. Everyone was so pleased." I finally looked up. "Except me. I was suffocating."
Sebastian was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "And now?"
I shrugged. "Now I don't know what I want. I spent so long trying to fit into what everyone expected that I lost track of what actually mattered to me."
