Butterfly in Frost

by Sylvia Day

  I think of the painting hanging in his bedroom. That, too, is sensual. Sexy. But it lacks the immediacy of this new piece, as well as its colorfulness.

  Garrett hugs me from behind. “I have no idea how I’m going to add what happened today to this. I may just have to give it a canvas of its own. Grab a paintball gun and just blast away. Boom. Like you did to my mind.”

  Part of me finds him silly and funny, while another part is awakening to the understanding that he’s journaling our relationship through paint. He’s revealing our sexual dynamic, which appears in his art as uniquely powerful, both destructive and renewing.

  When Garrett’s not working, he’s with me. Apparently, when he is working, I’m also still with him, featuring heavily in his thoughts.

  “You’re not selling this.” It’s not a question.

  “No.” He bends and rests his chin on my shoulder. “We’re hanging this one over our bed, in our bedroom, when that time comes.”

  I take a deep breath. Let it out. “What will you do with the other one?”

  14

  “Is it crazy that I’m this excited?” Roxy stage-whispers as we follow the event coordinator down a long hall in the Cross Tower Hotel.

  “Maybe just a little. Eva’s human, you know. Just like you and me. She brushes her teeth, has bad hair days, her skin breaks out.”

  “Girl, you’re tripping,” she scoffs. “Do I look okay?”

  “Beyond okay. That outfit is perfection.”

  She’s wearing a coral jumpsuit and white blazer. As usual, she looks chic and polished. A departure for her is the minimal accessories—diamond stud earrings and her wedding ring set.

  We’re shown into a ballroom with walls of windows on three sides, affording a panoramic view of Elliott Bay. The Seattle Great Wheel is to our left. A passing ferry moves out of view on the right. The room itself is decorated in various hues of gold, taupe, and sand, creating a luxurious space that complements the view rather than competes with it.

  Cream table linens cover a sea of round tables. A crew is setting up lighting and cameras for a photo shoot with the view as a backdrop, along with a second setup in front of a neutral-color backdrop. There’s a rack of clothes in the far corner, along with three director’s chairs by a long table covered in cosmetics and hair-styling tools.

  At another table nearby, a petite blonde in a white sleeveless sheath dress stands in bare feet next to a brunette wearing an elegant navy pantsuit, their heads bent over a pile of blown-up images.

  Roxy grabs my hand and squeezes hard. “Oh my God, there she is. And look at that Chanel dress!”

  Lifting her head, the blonde turns toward us, revealing a classically beautiful face. With her ever-changing hair now the palest shade of blond and styled in a sleek chignon, she reminds me of a glamorous leading lady from the Golden Age of Hollywood—Lana Turner or Tippi Hedren, maybe, with the overt sex appeal of Marilyn Monroe. She has the same curves.

  “Teagan.” Her smile makes her instantly approachable. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  Eva pads toward me, her hands held out to grip mine. Behind her, under the table, I spot a pair of sapphire stilettos. Large sparkling stones that I suspect are pink diamonds dangle from her ears, and another impressive diamond glitters from the ring finger of her left hand. She’s got a Rolex on one wrist and a Chanel cuff on the other.

  “How are you always more beautiful every time I see you?” she asks me, her husky voice filled with warmth. “I want to look that amazing without makeup. And this must be Roxy.”

  Roxy grabs Eva’s hands. “I’m so happy to meet you!”

  “The feeling’s mutual.” Eva’s gray eyes are as soft as a foggy morning yet sharp with intelligence.

  “And I love your new skin care line,” Roxy goes on. “It’s like a miracle. My skin hasn’t been this plump and dewy in years.”

  “I forgot Teagan requested a set for you! I’m thrilled you like it. You’ve been using it for how long now?”

  “A little shy of a month.”

  “If you’re open to it, we could take some photos of you, too. We’d have to remove your gorgeous makeup, though, and I totally understand—”

  “I’d love to!” Roxy gives an excited wiggle.

  Eva laughs, and it’s a rich, throaty sound that turns several heads in the room. “Great. This will be fun. After we’re finished, the glam squad can make you back up again.” Her gaze turns to me. “You look great just the way you are, Teagan, but you’re welcome to use the glam squad, too, if you want. Up to you.”

  “I’ll take all the help I can get.”

  “All right.” She laughs again, then gestures at the photos on the table. “Come check out what we’ve done so far.”

  Roxy and I follow her, with Roxy pantomiming her excitement behind Eva’s back. It’s a struggle not to laugh.

  Eva introduces us to Odeya, the brunette in navy, who turns out to be the advertising and marketing director of ECRA+. Then she waves her hand over the large photos mounted on sturdy foam core boards. We flip through a multitude of shots of women and men of various ages and ethnicities. All are styled with slicked-back hair and bare shoulders against a pale blush background. Some of the models are showcased with side-by-side before and afters.

  Odeya flips to the next board. Roxy and I both hum our appreciation.

  Gazing back at us from the photo is Eva’s husband, Gideon, and her sister-in-law, Ireland. The siblings share the same striking traits: glossy black hair, thickly lashed blue eyes, and a perfection of features often used as wish lists by my former patients. Gideon’s hair is cut to a rakish length that brushes the top of his powerful shoulders; Ireland’s is a long fall of silk. They’re posed with Ireland standing behind her older brother and slightly off to the side so that the full length of her tresses follows the curve of his biceps.

  “Wow,” Roxy says, leaning closer. “Look at the genetics at work there.”

  “I know,” Eva says with a sigh. “And none of the photos has been retouched. No color correcting, no smoothing. That’s just the way those two look all the time, although I like to think the ECRA+ system has added a little something to their natural glow.”

  Roxy glances at her. “Lucky you, girl. Your man is fine.”

  Eva’s lovely mouth curves. “Isn’t he? Seven years together, and I still pinch myself every morning.”

  “Don’t rub it in,” Odeya says, flipping to the next photo.

  I smile when I recognize the very handsome man in the picture. “There’s Cary.”

  Clapping softly, Roxy dips her knees in a little hop. “I love him! His posts on social media are hilarious.”

  “Tell me about it. There is no filter on that man,” Eva says wryly. “He’s the reason we’re launching a men’s care line in tandem with the main line. Cary reminded me that looking good is a universal desire.”

  Eva’s best friend is more famous for being a social media phenomenon than a successful model, which doesn’t mean he isn’t drop-dead gorgeous. Married to a veterinarian and a frequent poster of ridiculously cute animal photos, he’s best known for his insightful social commentary and biting comebacks. His followers, like Eva’s, number in the tens of millions.

  The next photo is also of Cary but includes a spectacular blonde. The two pair well together, his dark hair and green eyes a stunning contrast to her golden beauty. Both have enviable bone structure. They’ve been posed similarly to Gideon and Ireland, only this time, Cary stands behind the model.

  “I know her,” Roxy says, snapping her fingers as she racks her brain. “Tatiana Cherlin.”

  Eva nods. “That’s right.”

  Roxy catches my eye. “She’s the blonde I saw at Garrett’s house just after he moved in. I thought she looked familiar, but I didn’t place her until just now.”

  Startled by that, I look from Roxy’s face back to the photo of Tatiana’s unique, exotically beautiful face.

  I’d totally forgotten Roxy mentioning a woman
with Garrett. I had mentally deleted the information as some of Roxy’s usual gossip, since I hadn’t known it was Garrett who’d moved in next door at the time.

  “They were together once,” Roxy goes on, pointing at the photo. “Cary and Tatiana. They had a baby together, but he didn’t survive. I remember it got a lot of press when it happened. That was a while back, though. Like, years ago.”

  I look at her, amazed at her storage capacity for tidbits from other people’s lives and grateful that my level of notoriety isn’t newsworthy enough to attract tabloid interest.

  “It was shortly after I got married,” Eva fills in quietly. “They’re still struggling with it. Cary looks after her and probably always will. He asked me to consider including her in the campaign, and after trying ECRA+ for herself, she was happy to participate. Plus, she’s always enjoyed working with Cary. Everyone does.”

  Odeya flips to the next image, a photo of Tatiana alone, and stops there for a few seconds. All three women are talking about the outrageous things Cary has posted in the past.

  I have deliberately avoided thinking about what Garrett’s life was like before he appeared next door. I’ve dodged thinking about a lot of things.

  I stand beside Roxy, half listening. My thoughts are with the man presently preparing for an exhibition of his work on the other side of the country.

  Among the crowd of travelers waiting at the curb outside of SeaTac’s baggage claim, Garrett Frost is impossible to miss. He stands casually, one hand resting on the handle of his carry-on, the other holding his phone as he reads the screen. He’s wearing black boots, black jeans, and a charcoal T-shirt, with a pair of black aviators on his handsome face.

  It’s not what he’s wearing or even his unmistakable attractiveness that draws the eye first. It’s his body: how confident his posture is, how easily he carries himself.

  Chewing the inside of my lip, I carefully maneuver the Range Rover between idling vehicles to get as close as I can. His head lifts as I get ready to hop out. I can’t see his eyes through his shades, but the pleasure he feels when he sees me is very clear. His face immediately breaks out into an intimate, sexy smile. I feel a little shiver of delight.

  “Hey, you,” I call out, hitting the button that opens the rear hatch before shutting the driver’s side door. “How’d it go?”

  He prowls toward me with that long-legged, purposeful stride that just does something to me. Instantly, heat flares through my body.

  “As good as it possibly could go without you being there.” Garrett does that fluid, effortless move to pull me into a kiss at the exact moment I realize that’s his intent. His firm lips seal over mine, his tongue dipping in to stroke. A soft rumble of pleasure vibrates from his chest to mine. “I missed you,” he tells me gruffly.

  “I missed you more.”

  He gives me a triumphant smile. “Good. You want to drive?”

  “No. This thing scares me. Why does a big SUV like this drive like a race car?”

  He slides his suitcase into the cargo area and hits the button that automatically closes the hatch. “Five hundred and ten horses, powered by a supercharged V-8.”

  “That’s crazy,” I mutter, following him to the passenger side where he opens my door.

  Garrett gives me a gentle swat on the butt as I climb in. “I’m liking those jeans on you, Doc. I’m liking them a lot.”

  I smile as he rounds the hood, pleased he noticed. I’d signed up for a styling subscription service after we started having sex, and my first box arrived while he was gone. Now I have at least a couple of outfits suitable for going out. It’s progress, and I’m celebrating it.

  He taps one of the memory buttons on the driver’s side door and waits as the seat lowers and moves back from the wheel, making room for him to slide in. He adjusts the rearview mirror and glances at me. “Where to?”

  “You hungry?”

  “Yep.” He rakes me with a glance. “I could eat, too.”

  Shaking my head, I laugh, something that gets easier every day. “That was terrible.”

  “You liked it anyway.” Looking over his shoulder, Garrett pulls out and away from the chaotic scrum of vehicles trying to pick up passengers. We leave the airport behind. “Where to?”

  “How does Mexican sound?”

  “I’m always down for good Mexican food.”

  “There’s a place near here in Tukwila that has great reviews, or there’s the one back in Federal Way, closer to home. I’ve been there; it’s good.”

  “So let’s go to Tukwila and try something new.”

  “Okay. Stay on 518 East.”

  He changes lanes, then reaches over the center console for my hand. “How’d work go?”

  “Good. Roxy had a blast. Eva flew back to New York on a private jet that afternoon. I seriously thought about going with her and surprising you.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because we weren’t going to get in until eleven, and I didn’t know if you’d be at an after-party then or maybe out for a late dinner with friends.” I shrug. “I didn’t want to screw up whatever plans you might have arranged.”

  “I wouldn’t have minded, Teagan. Not at all.”

  A speeding driver passes us, then cuts across recklessly to hop on the 5 South.

  “I saw some of the photos that were posted.” I look down at our joined hands. “I saw Tatiana Cherlin was there.”

  “She was, yes. She’s a friend.”

  “Roxy told me Tatiana was with you when you moved in.”

  There’s a moment of silence, then, “I feel like I’m getting ambushed here.” He takes a deep breath. “She’s a friend, that’s it. She’s never been more than that, and she’s never going to be more than that for the very obvious reason that I’m in love with you and that’s not going to change in this lifetime.”

  “Garrett . . .” Words are lost to me at that moment. I am a quivering mass of surprise, delight, and fear. My grip on his hand tightens.

  “I met her at a support group for bereaved parents,” he explains. “I was still in the weeds, and she’d already been wading through it for years. Talking to her made me realize it would get easier with time, that eventually I would learn to live with that level of agony.”

  “I’m glad she was there for you.” I mean that sincerely. I think he can tell, because I see the tension in his body ease. “I wish I could have been.”

  He lifts my hand to his lips. “We’re here for each other now. That’s what counts.”

  “Does it bother you that you haven’t been able to talk about David with me?”

  Garrett waits a beat, then, “Let me turn that question around before I answer. Does it bother you when I talk about David?”

  “No. It’s just . . . I’m not a talker. I’m a good listener, but I feel like it would be a problem if you were sharing personal things and I wasn’t. I’m worried it’s a wedge,” I confess. “A need you have that I’m not filling.”

  His thumb glides back and forth over my skin. “I dropped in for therapy while I was in the city. A lot has happened over the past few months: moving, getting back to making art, starting over with you. I felt like I should touch base.”

  I gesture toward our exit, and he changes lanes.

  “There are things about my old life I miss, beyond just David,” he says quietly. “But there are things happening now, between us, that make me happier than I’ve ever been. I feel guilty about that sometimes.”

  The maroon minivan in front of us has a BABY ON BOARD plaque in the rear window. It sways from side to side as it dangles from a suction cup.

  “Dr. Petersen suggested we try journaling the things we can’t—or don’t want to—say,” Garrett goes on, “and that we leave the journals open to be read. Takes talking out of the equation but still keeps the lines of communication open.”

  He glances at me when we stop at a light. “I picked up a couple of journals at the airport on the way back.”

  My eyes burn
a little as I nod again. “Okay. Let’s try.”

  “I know you don’t like talking things out, but Dr. Petersen does video chats, too, if you decide differently.”

  I imagine talking about how I feel, and my stomach knots. Still, I nod. “I have a doctor, but I’ll keep that recommendation in mind.”

  We turn toward the mall. The parking lot is crammed with vehicles. People and families hustle in and out of the myriad restaurants and stores. I used to feel so alone at times like these, confronted with how life marches on while I feel frozen in place.

  I look at the man sitting beside me, holding my hand, working so hard to make us work out, and I appreciate how I don’t feel the slightest bit lonely anymore. The ever-present sadness that isolated me from the world is a connecting tie with Garrett.

  I place my other hand atop our handclasp. “By the way . . . I’m in love with you, too.”

  15

  “I haven’t been here in ages,” Roxy says as we walk into Chihuly Garden and Glass.

  “I don’t think it changes,” Mike says, glancing at the gift shop adjacent to the entrance. “I think the displays are permanent.”

  “You guys didn’t have to buy tickets to see it again,” I protest, although it’s already too late, since we paid our entrance fees through a kiosk outside. “We could’ve met up later.”

  “We want to see it again,” Roxy assures me. “I really only remember the boats.”

  “I just remember that sea-life room,” Mike says. “The octopi are pretty impressive.”

  “It’s octopodes,” Roxy corrects.

  “What?” He shakes his head. “No, it’s not.”

  “It is. Look it up.”

  Mike pulls out his phone. A moment later, “I’ll be damned. You’re right.”

  “Of course I am.”

  Garrett throws an arm around my shoulders as we wait to show our tickets to a staff member. It’s a gorgeous summer day, a bit on the warm side for Seattle, but thankfully nothing like the soupy humidity of New York at this time of year.