by Colet Abedi
“How can you put yourself in that situation?” Abby asks in awe.
I see the respect she has for me and I almost laugh. How did this ever happen? How am I the fearless one? How am I suddenly the one who’s going to follow her heart and let the chips fall where they may?
Who would have thunk it?
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I don’t understand the need that’s come over me. But suddenly I just—I just feel like this is what I need to do. For me. Or I’ll regret it. And I don’t want that.”
Wow.
I said it. Because it’s the truth. I do feel brave. A foreign feeling, no doubt. But one I like.
“I wish you could rub off on me,” Abby mutters.
“Maybe I can?” I smile.
“My situation is completely different than yours.”
“How so?” I ask.
“He’s my cousin—”
“By marriage,” I interrupt. “And there’s definitely something between you guys.”
“There is?” I see the longing in her eyes.
“Yes,” I tell her honestly. “I don’t know what it is. Or what it could be. But it’s for you to find out.”
Abby is pensive.
“And what if my heart is broken?” she asks softly.
The million-dollar question. One I’m facing right now, even though I’m being gutsy chasing after Clayton.
“Then it is.” I think I say these words for myself as well as for Abby. Because there is nothing I can do but try.
“Abby, all you need to do is look at what happened to William.”
Her eyes go wide.
“Life is short,” I tell her the obvious. “It can be gone in a blink of an eye. Do you think he woke up that morning and thought he’d get in a car accident—and die? No. He was just going to catch a plane and come to his cousin’s wedding.”
Her eyes well up with sadness.
“It’s the truth,” I go on. “A fact of life that we never really take into consideration until it happens. So how can we not follow our hearts? In the end, what do we have to lose? It’s all about now, and living in this moment.”
What the hell was I thinking?
Yes, this is the thought that is racing through my mind as I sit in the cab in London on the way to Clayton’s home in Hampstead. I sat on a soapbox and regurgitated all the information I had read in the dozens of self-help books I’ve read over the years, acting holier-than-thou to Abby. And now I feel like I’m going to pee my pants out of anxiety.
Abby was the one who gave me his address and assured me he would be here today because William’s funeral would not be for four more days. I thought about coming after it was over, but I was afraid that he would disappear to some location that neither I nor Abby would be able to discover. I also knew that there would be no way Clayton would leave his family right now. But just to be sure, she enquired for me and confirmed me that Clayton was holed up in his home not seeing any guests. Just grieving.
It’s been less than a day since I’ve seen him.
Which is not long at all.
I left Erik and Orie at the airport. They were flying to Italy, and had graciously accepted that I couldn’t go with them, as wonderful as their offer was. As expected, the car ride with them was more than memorable.
Erik had turned to me and stared inquisitively. “So you’re really going?”
“Yes.”
“I fucking knew it!” he said. “Orie and I made a bet on whether you’d get chicken shit and change your mind at the last minute and come with us instead.”
The idea had merit.
“And then what?” Orie asked, ignoring Erik.
“And then I don’t know,” because I didn’t. The only thing I did know is that I wanted to be with Clayton. And I was going to gamble and see where that want left me. Who knew if he’d even see me? The thought of having the door slammed in my face was sickening.
“Well, you have our numbers,” Erik told me in a comforting voice. “If anything goes wrong—”
“You sound like my parents,” I laughed. But let’s be real, they were on my speed dial in case the shit hit the fan.
“We feel like them,” Orie told me.
“Do you believe—” my voice was tentative, unsure.
Erik interrupted me with a reassuring smile. “I believe you have to do this for you, because if you don’t, you’ll regret it forever.”
I didn’t want regrets.
The cab pulls up in front of a striking Victorian home. It’s posh and exactly where I picture him living.
“We’re here, miss,” the driver says as he gets out to help me with my luggage. He opens my door and takes out my bags and puts them on the curb. Then he turns to me and gives me a curious look.
Probably because I’m not moving. I feel like my butt is glued to the seat. I just stare at the home and wonder.
Am I crazy?
What if Clayton tells me to leave?
What if he sends me away?
What if he doesn’t care about me anymore?
“Are you getting out, miss?” he finally asks.
15
I’m standing on the doorstep of Clayton’s home.
The taxi is long gone and I’ve actually been contemplating ringing the doorbell for give or take fifteen minutes. Yes. That’s right. That long. Even though it’s beyond freezing, it’s dark out and snow covers the ground and I’m not dressed to be standing outside like a crazy person, I haven’t quite been able to bring myself to ring the bell.
Shit. What to do?
When all else fails, text Erik.
I pull out my phone.
ME: I’m outside his door.
Thank God I don’t have to wait long for him to reply. It’s like he has ESP or something. He must have been waiting for me to message him.
ERIK: Is he not home?
ME: I have no idea. I haven’t rung the doorbell yet.
ERIK: (sigh, eye-roll, etc.) Have you thought about the fact that a man of his caliber might, just might, have a security camera watching you? #yourecrazyandyouknowit #dothemath #tres
Oh shit!
Startled, I look up and around the door and sure enough there’s a round, black, glass-looking device that I can only guess is a camera.
Oh. My. God.
Has he been staring at me this entire time?
ERIK: Are you there, stalker? Or is your mouth hanging open? #howarewefriends
ME: Hanging open. Totally ajar. #tres
ERIK: Well close it because you most certainly are not on candid camera.
ME: Fuck. Me.
ERIK: No thanks. But you’re hot. Ring the bell before this gets even weirder. #howdoyoufunctioninsociety
I sigh.
ME: Okay. I love you.
ERIK: Don’t forget to text me with updates.
ME: I won’t.
I put the phone in my jacket and try to fight off the completely mortifying feeling of being caught on the security camera. I’m sure someone from his staff has told him that I’ve been standing here for a quarter of an hour with my luggage staring at the door like a lovesick lunatic.
You are a world-class idiot.
Whatever, I tell myself. I was gathering the courage.
And now, my subconscious snorts derisively, you’re talking to yourself, which makes you look even crazier than you already are.
I wish I could shove my foot up your—
Before I can finish my thought, the door opens, to my horror. Embarrassment. Humiliation.
Thankfully, it’s only Sergei, Clayton’s bodyguard. Hired to protect him against people who talk to themselves and stand outside his home. People just like me.
“I was worried you were going to turn into an ice statue,” he says dryly. “I didn’t know how much longer you’d last.”
Who knew he had a sense of humor?
“I was just thinking,” I tell him lame
ly.
“I think you should ‘think’ inside,” he tells me. “Or you will catch pneumonia.”
“Good idea.”
He gives me a knowing smile and steps outside to take my luggage. When he turns back inside I follow him tentatively and take my first look at Clayton’s house.
I can only describe it as classically beautiful.
The floors and walls are white limestone. There’s a mix of contemporary art and beautiful antique pieces that come together incredibly well. The foyer is done in shades of pale blue, which, combined with the limestone and the art, makes it feel warm and welcoming.
“Follow me,” Sergei says and shows me into what looks like the living room.
He helps me out of my jacket then says, “Wait here. I will get Mr. Sinclair.”
I’m sure you will.
I nod nervously then try to concentrate on the glorious room that I’m standing in.
There is an enormous stone fireplace that must be hundreds of years old. He has the same kind in his chateau in France, and I bet he had it sent from there. Thankfully, there’s a fire blazing that immediately warms my numb fingers. I hadn’t even realized I didn’t have feeling in them anymore.
White linen couches flank the fireplace and between them is a huge coffee table that’s a giant shell with a glass top. It looks like it dates back centuries, too. It’s like art. Every piece in the room is perfectly placed. An oil painting almost covers an entire wall of the room, and I move closer to it. It’s a beautiful ocean landscape in pale blues and greys. It reminds me of scenery you’d see on the East Coast.
And then it happens again.
The energy in the room changes, and I know he’s here even though he has not made a sound. I can feel his eyes on my back. I have to take a moment to gather my courage before I can turn around to face him. I’m dressed casually in jeans, a black turtleneck, and my black knee-high boots with a heel. I figured that I needed the extra height for an advantage. I don’t know why I thought that would change a thing because just being near him, smelling him, feeling him, instantly puts me at a disadvantage.
“Sophie.”
My heart flutters.
God.
His voice.
The way he says my name.
I slowly turn around and his sapphire blue eyes burn into mine.
I quickly take in his appearance.
He looks tired and worn out. Grief stricken. He’s dressed in blue jeans and a long black thermal shirt. And he’s barefoot. I try to keep my thoughts purely PG- or G-rated but it’s hard when I’m staring at well over six feet of male perfection.
“Clayton.”
On cue, a crackle in the fireplace.
I try to remember what I was going to say. What I had planned on the plane, in the taxi over here, and it all goes out the window. I can’t remember anything.
“How are you?” I offer.
Shit.
Dumbest question ever, Sophie! How do you think he is? I brace myself for a cutting response. But he surprises me.
“I’m devastated.”
My heart aches. But the relief I feel from him not shutting me out again is overwhelming. He continues to stare at me. I watch as his eyes roam possessively over my body and that single action reassures me in a way that nothing can. He still wants me. I affect him. That’s all the courage I need.
“I know you are,” I tell him softly.
There’s an awkward silence between us as I try to think of at least one of the great lines I had come up with on the short flight over.
“What are you doing here?” he asks guardedly.
“I’m here for you,” I say as I take a step toward him.
He watches me silently so I continue.
“I’m here because I can’t see you like this. In this much pain. All alone. My heart is breaking for you. With you.”
I watch how his eyes waver and he looks down. Like he’s fighting his emotions. Fighting for control.
“You don’t have to be brave in front of me,” I continue. “You loved your brother. You love your brother.”
He runs a shaky hand through his hair.
“Sophie—” his voice is choked up. “Please—”
“No,” I say as I courageously make my way to him until we’re standing face to face.
“Look at me, Clayton.”
He doesn’t.
“Look. At. Me,” I command, using the same words he always says to me.
His gaze finally meets mine.
There’s an angry fire in his eyes. I know it’s because of the authority in my voice. Until now he’s always been the one in control and I know he probably doesn’t appreciate the role reversal. But I continue and speak my heart.
“I love you.”
So much it hurts, I think.
I watch him take in a breath.
“You shouldn’t,” his voice is rough with emotion.
“Really?” I challenge. “Do you want me to go find someone else to give my love to?”
Clayton is silent.
“Do you want me to let someone else touch me?” I press on and watch with satisfaction as his eyes flare in fury.
But he still doesn’t answer me.
“I can, you know,” I continue in a serious voice. “I can walk out that door and go find someone—”
I can’t even finish my sentence because he grabs me by the hair and pulls me to him. His gaze sweeps over my face.
“You’re pushing me.”
“You didn’t let me finish my sentence,” I say as I bring my fingers to his lips to silence him. “I can find another man, Clayton—”
His jaw flexes.
“—but I don’t want to,” I plead with him. “I just want you. I will always want you.”
There is a brief second when I wonder if my words have even had an impact. If he’s going to let go of me and tell me to walk out of his life. I can feel him fighting me, or himself. But then there’s a change, something happens.
And his lips crash into mine.
It’s not the type of kiss I’m used to from Clayton. It’s different. It’s frantic with longing. And need. Maybe he craves the warmth I can give him. Maybe he’s looking to escape from the grief. And I’ll give him whatever it takes.
We rip each other’s clothes off, touching each other with maddening need, our lips barely breaking apart. Desire tingles all over my skin I want him so bad. I need him so bad. He picks me up and takes me to the sofa, comes down on me, and runs his hands through my hair as he stares into my passion-filled eyes.
“I can’t wait.” His voice is raspy.
“I don’t want you to.” I feel just as demanding. I need him.
I’m given exactly what I need as he plunges into me, filling me so completely.
“Oh, God,” I moan.
“Oh God, what?” he whispers against my mouth as he moves inside me.
It’s rough. Hard. But I still come apart in his arms. We both find our climax at the same time. Our hearts pound together. Intertwined in their beat. Like one.
“What are you doing to me?” he whispers against my mouth as he kisses me, still buried deep inside.
He leans up on his elbows and looks down into my eyes. The raw pain is there. I take my hands and cup his face.
“Please just listen to me,” I whisper to him as I hurry to tell him my jumbled thoughts. “I just want to be here for you. I don’t expect anything. I don’t need anything. I just want to be with you through this.”
As quickly as I’m given a glimpse of his pain, it’s gone. And he’s hiding from me again. The barrier is back.
“Don’t do that,” I plead as I hold on to him, not letting him move.
“Do what?” he asks aloofly.
“Go cold on me,” I tell him. “You need me right now.”
He closes his eyes.
“Use me however you like and I’ll deal with the consequence
s of what will come,” I say with a shaky breath. “But don’t push me away now when more than anything you need someone to hold your hand.”
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he gets up and grabs a throw from one of the couches and wraps it around my body. I have a fleeting moment of panic that someone from his staff or even Sergei might have witnessed our intimacy, but I brush it aside because I know he would never compromise me. He picks me up like I’m the most precious thing in the world to him and heads out of the room and up the stairs.
“Be careful what you wish for,” he finally utters.
I answer by wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling myself closer to his body.
“I always am.”
I wake up the next morning alone in his giant bed. The sheets and comforter feel like butter and are winter white. His room is very similar to the one in Avignon except that the palette is grey instead of navy blue. But the style is almost identical.
I get out of bed and find my purse on the grey linen couch next to the fireplace. I explore his room and find the master closet, which is beautifully done in dark wood. All my belongings have been unpacked and are hanging neatly opposite Clayton’s clothing. Someone had obviously made room for my things. The fact that I slept through this is astounding to me but then Clayton kept me up for most of the night and I haven’t had much sleep since arriving in Europe.
I get my phone from my purse. I have about five missed calls from Erik and twenty text messages that basically say, “What the F is going on? We are dying. Details. Now bitch,” in one way or another.
I quickly text him.
ME: I’m alive. I’m at Clayton’s home. Obviously I slept here. My stuff is unpacked so it looks like I’m here for a while.
ERIK: Took you long enough to respond.
ME: Sorry. I slept in.
ERIK: Loverboy keep you up all night?
I blush.
ME: Maybe.
ERIK: Whore.
ME: Takes one to know one.
ERIK: Better believe it. We’re just sitting down to lunch so I’ll call you when I can talk.
ME: Love you.
ERIK: Me more.
I put my phone down and go about the business of getting ready.
