by T. K. Leigh
“I guess there’s a lot about me you don’t know.”
“There certainly is, Mr. Gage. So why don’t you tell me something else most people don’t know about you.”
After a moment of contemplation, he shakes his head. “You first.”
I lift my brows. “Me first?”
“Precisely. You just learned I enjoy cooking. I want to know something interesting about you, Miss Fitzgerald.”
“Okay.” I adjust my posture, squaring my shoulders. “What would you like to know?”
He pinches his chin, studying me. “What would you like to tell me? What are your likes, dislikes, hobbies, stuff like that?”
“I enjoy saying ‘You’re welcome’ loudly when someone doesn’t say thank you.”
Julian bursts out laughing. “I’d love to be around to see that. But how about something serious?”
“That is serious.”
Not saying a word, he narrows his eyes.
“Fine.” I push out a breath. “I speak four languages.”
“Is that right? And here I was trying to impress you with my knowledge of French. Which do you speak?”
“English.”
“Obviously.”
“But I’m also fluent in profanity, sarcasm, and pirate.”
He chuckles, but it quickly fades, his expression contemplative. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Use humor as a mask.”
I blink repeatedly, his words surprising me. “I don’t use humor as a mask,” I insist as I avert my gaze.
“You do. Over the summer, I’ve picked up on that. Anytime we broach a subject you’re uncomfortable with, you make a joke. Granted, I think your sense of humor is incredibly sexy, but I often wonder what you’re hiding, what skeletons lurk in your closet to cause this uncertainty or apprehension.”
“There are no skeletons in my closet.”
“Everyone has skeletons.”
“Do you?”
Julian’s jaw hardens, his stare becoming distant. I’m reminded of the scars on his abdomen, of Camille’s warning that there’s a darkness hanging over him. I’ve seen it firsthand. One minute, things will be great. Better than great. Then something happens to force him to withdraw into himself.
“I do,” he finally says, surprising me. I expected him to avoid the question. “Like I said. Everyone has skeletons.”
“Well, I don’t.” I stab one of my brussels sprouts with my fork, bringing it to my mouth. “I had the perfect life. My parents are still married and live in the same town. Dad was my high school principal and Mom’s an Honors English teacher in the next town.”
“Siblings?”
“An older brother.”
“And what is it he does?”
“He’s an English professor at the University of Nebraska.”
“And you studied English, as well, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re not a teacher. Excuse me for saying, but it appears as though that’s the normal track, at least in your family.”
“That’s true, but—”
“But you didn’t want to teach, did you?”
I shake my head as a small smile forms on my lips. “That was their dream for me, not mine.”
“Then tell me…” He leans back in the chair, his eyes bemused. “What is Guinevere Fitzgerald’s dream?”
“This conversation feels awfully one-sided.”
“How so?”
“You’re giving me the third degree, yet you don’t have to answer my questions?”
“You can find anything you’d like to know about me on the Internet. The same doesn’t go for you.”
“Not everything…,” I draw out, but he ignores my comment.
“So tell me your dreams, baby doll.”
When he uses such an endearing term, I’m cast under his spell, opening like a flower, urged to spill my secrets, hopes, frustrations, things I never even shared with Trevor, mainly because I didn’t want him to worry about my problems when he had his own worries with college, law school, and his career.
I’ve often told my readers that relationships aren’t fifty-fifty. Sometimes you have to do a little more heavy lifting to help your partner through a difficult time, just like they’ll have to do the same for you. It’s more like a see-saw. There are ups and downs, but it eventually evens out.
It was never really even with Trevor. I was always the one using all my weight to lift him up, sacrificing my dreams so he could achieve his own. I deserve better than that. Now, thanks to Julian, I realize that. This makes me want to share things I’ve kept inside.
“Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamt of being a writer,” I say finally. “That’s all I wanted. I remember sneaking into my parents’ room and stealing one of my mother’s romance novels when I was only twelve or thirteen. I’d hide away in my room and devour it in hours. That’s when I fell in love with…love. And unrealistic expectations.” Laughing at how naïve I was back then, I look at the ocean waves with an unfocused gaze. When I sense the heat of his stare on me, I return my attention to my dinner, taking a bite of my steak before I continue.
“Sure, I read the classics, like any person who loves the written word. But like my mother, sometimes you want the fantasy, too. Although I don’t think I realized it was just a fantasy. So, being the planner I am, I made a list of who my dream man would be. I pictured it all in my head. I’d meet the love of my life in college when I was old enough to have some experience, but young enough that we’d both come into adulthood together. We wouldn’t rush into getting married right after graduation, as I researched the statistics and the success rate of marriages increase as you near thirty. He’d be a professional of some sort. A doctor…”
Julian lifts a brow. “Or lawyer…”
“Yes. Or a lawyer. We’d spend our twenties finding out who we are individually and as a couple, as we’d both navigate our chosen career paths.”
“And what would your chosen career path be? In this plan you made for your life, I mean.”
“I always wanted to write for a magazine. Being a writer is often considered a lonely profession, and it is. I love the idea of being part of a team, so that’s why I wanted to go the magazine route.”
“Then why didn’t you study journalism?”
“I did my research. Many of the columnists at the top magazines had non-journalism degrees — English, political science, art design. So I studied English, despite my parents insisting I study education with an emphasis in English, if only to have it as an option in case things didn’t work out. For a while after graduation, I thought maybe I should have taken their advice. I moved out to New York. Yes, it was to be near Trevor, but also to be in New York, where so many magazine offices are located. I had so much hope and drive those first few months…until I realized how difficult it was to crack into the industry. They were all looking for someone with experience. I had none, apart from working on the university newspaper and magazine. It was by pure luck I even landed the job at Blush. When I saw the posting, Trevor told me I was crazy for applying since I lacked any of the qualifications. But that didn’t stop me. I figured it was better to get rejected by the magazine than myself.”
“If you weren’t qualified, how did you get the job?”
I shrug. “By doing what it appears I do in all uncomfortable situations.” I pinch my lips together, giving him a knowing look. “I made Viv laugh. I used humor in my cover letter. It caught her attention, so much so that she brought me in for a chat. She was trying to shake things up at the magazine, bring in fresh talent. So she told me to come back in a week with a piece she could run in the sex and dating column. That was when I concocted a tongue-in-cheek article about what all women should do for the first thirty days of any relationship in order to keep the guy interested. It starts out pretty innocent, but as you continue reading, you realize it’s satire.”
“I’m not sure I want to know what’s in i
t.”
I smirk. “You probably don’t. But Viv loved it. Better yet, readers loved it. It was the most read article on the website the week it published. So Viv hired me, much to my parents’ chagrin. Like Trevor, all they think I do is write about sex without any substance. So having a chance at this promotion and writing an article about something other than the best sex position for maximum pleasure is exactly what I’ve been searching for ever since I told my parents I didn’t want to pursue teaching. But now…”
“Yes?” He places his elbows on the table, leaning toward me.
“The story’s falling apart and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
“It’s not to the level I need it to be if I want this promotion.”
“This is the August Laurent piece?”
I nod. “All I have is his perspective, his side of things. It’s too one-dimensional. There’s no drama, no compelling reason people would want to know more about this guy. But I know there’s a story there, that there’s more to him than he’s told me. But to figure that out, I need to talk to some of the women who’ve hired him. Unfortunately, he flat out refused to reveal any of their identities, even when I guaranteed their names would never be disclosed. I thought I’d try to encourage him and mentioned I’d heard the rumors of him and Sonia Moreno, asking if it were true. He never responded. It’s been over a week.
“So not only is the piece complete crap, he’s no longer cooperating. There’s no way I can submit this story to Viv like it is and hope to be promoted. Hell, as it stands now, she won’t even publish this piece as a column, let alone a feature story.”
“You sure about that? There must be another way, a different angle you can take to make it compelling.”
“I’ve tried.” I push my now empty plate away. “Boy, have I tried. I’ve written and rewritten that article a couple dozen times. No matter what I’ve done, it still falls flat.” I stare into space, trying to figure out a solution, but it remains out of reach. I shake off the thought, smiling at Julian, my voice brightening. “But I don’t want to think about that right now. The idea that my parents were right about teaching being the best career path for me will only depress me. For the rest of the weekend, I want to pretend I’m not a complete failure.”
“You’re not a failure, Guinevere. You’re an extremely talented writer. You just need—”
I shoot up my hand, silencing him. “Not now.”
“Going to pull another Scarlett O’Hara?” He smiles slyly as the memory of the night we met fills me with warmth. We certainly have an unusual story, one most people would never believe, one you read in romance novels and fantasize about. Like I’ve said from the beginning…it’s a real-life Cinderella story. Except this version won’t end with Julian tracking me down after he finds my glass slipper. It will end when the clock strikes midnight, no matter what.
“Why, Mr. Gage…,” I coo in my best Southern accent, burying the thought. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I do use humor to mask my emotions. “That is absolutely what I plan to do. Because—”
“I know, I know. ‘Tomorrow is another day.’”
When I hear Julian speak with a Southern drawl, I practically come in my chair. It’s almost as beautiful as listening to him speak French. Truth is, the mere sound of his voice sets my heart aflame.
“Yes, it is.”
He pushes back from the table and takes a few steps toward me, extending his hand. I eye him as my fingers link with his, standing up.
“So what would you like to do tonight?”
“We can always make a fashionably late appearance at whatever party’s scheduled. That way, you’re not sacrificing your entire weekend.”
“Out of the question. This weekend is all about you. If you weren’t here, what would you be doing? How did you spend most of your Friday nights before we met?”
“Usually watching a movie and being a complete couch potato.”
“Then let’s be couch potatoes.”
I step back, brow furrowed. “Really?”
“Yes. What’s so surprising about that?”
“You don’t strike me as the couch potato type.”
“Didn’t that steak teach you?”
“Teach me what?”
Leaning toward me, his breath tickles my neck. “I’m just full of surprises.”
With that, he pulls me away from the patio and into the house, despite my protests that we need to clean up. He assures me he’ll take care of it later, then leads me to a part of the house I’ve yet to spend any meaningful time in…the theater room. It’s impressive, an enormous projection screen across the far wall. About a dozen leather recliners fill the tiered setup, along with a lush sectional in the front, which is where he heads.
“What do you want to watch?” He settles into the corner of the couch, draping his arm over the back. “Name the movie and it’s yours.”
“Any movie at all?”
“Any movie at all,” he confirms.
“Even a chick flick?” I walk toward him, sitting next to him on the couch, but leaving a few inches between us. “You’d seriously be happy watching some sappy romance?”
“Like I said, this is your night. If you want some sappy romance, sappy romance you shall have.”
“And if I wanted to watch porn?”
His eyes grow intense as he narrows them on me. “Do you want to watch porn?”
“If I did?”
“Whatever Evie wants, Evie gets.” The sensuality in his tone has me squirming in my seat. “What does Evie want?” He toys with a few tendrils of hair in my ponytail, the light touch sending a shiver down my spine. “What movie makes you happy?”
A slave to his touch, I say the first thing that pops into my mind. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
His mouth gradually curves into a brilliant smile. “You got it.” He grabs a remote and presses a few buttons. The screen sparks to life. After sorting through a few menus, he hits play and the familiar strains to the opening measures of “Moon River” fill the room.
“We don’t have to watch this if you don’t want to,” I say quickly, crossing my arms. “I’m sure you’d much rather watch something with big explosions and lots of boobs.”
Shaking his head, he wraps his arm around my shoulders, enclosing me in his embrace. “Absolutely not.” He props his long legs onto the cushioned ottoman in front of us. “Actually, this is one of my favorite movies.”
I tilt my head, meeting his eyes. “It is?”
“It is.”
I peer into his deep blue pools. “Why is that?”
“I like the story. How even someone who didn’t think she was worthy of being loved eventually found someone who did love her.”
“Everyone deserves to be loved,” I whisper as my gaze remains locked on his. He reaches out, brushing an errant curl behind my ear, his finger tracing the lines of my face. My heart rate increases as desire heightens deep in my core. I focus on his lips, what they must taste like. I’ve thought of little else the past few weeks, how much I want to kiss him, but I fear I won’t be able to stop at just a kiss. I’d want more. I’d want everything he’s adamantly insisted he could never offer me.
“Come on.” He clears his throat, the moment breaking before it had a chance to begin. He gestures to the screen. “Watch the movie.”
I peer at him for a moment longer, then shift my eyes to the movie, watching as Holly Golightly, wearing an oversized nightshirt, accessorized with an eye mask and earplugs, meets Paul Varjak. I laugh at the absurdity, reminded of my own initial meeting with Julian, how I was thrust into his life just as Holly and Paul were thrust into each other’s.
I nuzzle into Julian’s chest, inhaling a deep breath of his familiar scent. The first time I smelled this soothing aroma, I nearly had a heart attack, thinking I’d just had a one-night stand. Heat radiates through me as I reflect on how far we’ve come since the night I expelled the contents of my stomach
all over my dress and his shoes.
He rests his hand on my hip, lightly tracing different patterns on the small slice of exposed skin between my tank top and maxi skirt. It relaxes me even more than Julian’s mere presence does.
“I like this,” I murmur, no longer worried about how he’ll respond to my admission.
Leaning down, he places a soft kiss on the top of my head. “I like this, too.”
That’s the last thing I remember before dozing off, the gentle beating of his heart the perfect metronome to lull me to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A soft snore rips through my slumber and I flutter my eyelids open, my surroundings unfamiliar at first. Then the day trickles back… Spending the afternoon with Julian. Having dinner with Julian. Falling asleep cocooned in Julian’s warm embrace as we watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s, where I remain. The movie still plays on the screen, but it’s the final scene where Holly Golightly frantically searches for Cat in the alley, rain pouring down on her.
When she locks eyes with Paul, I lift my own to Julian, observing the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps peacefully. The sight brings a smile to my face. Despite practically living together these past several weeks, I’ve yet to see him sleep. I should feel like a creeper, watching him like I am, but there’s something so tranquil about his expression, I can’t look away. It’s the most relaxed I’ve seen him. The darkness can’t find him there, allowing his brain a moment’s rest.
As the music in the movie swells, I float my eyes back to the screen as Audrey Hepburn slowly walks up to George Peppard, Cat stuffed safely in her trench coat. When they kiss, my heart expands with the emotion between them. I’ve seen this movie more times than I care to admit, can probably recite most of the lines from memory. But the kiss in the rain between Holly Golightly and Paul Varjak, once she finally realizes love isn’t such a bad thing, is one of my favorite kisses of all time. So much passion. So much heartbreak. So much hope.
Looking back at Julian, I stare at his face, his eyes still closed, deep in slumber. His lips part with every exhale before his chest expands on a short inhale. My gaze remains transfixed on his lips, unable to look away. I’ve exhibited extreme restraint all summer by not kissing him, by keeping the ball firmly in my court. How much longer can I hold out?
