Carry You Home (Carry Your Heart #2)

by K. Ryan

  "Yeah, a few years ago. I had a show there and she just showed up. She bought a couple pieces and we had a few drinks after the show, too."

  His eyebrows shot up into his forehead and more than likely, he was wondering how in the hell the only two women he'd ever been serious about had ended up having drinks together. It was a fair question.

  "Huh," was about all he seemed to be able to muster.

  "It was nice," I allowed, trying to appease him. "We caught up, had a few laughs at your expense. No big deal, Caleb."

  "I just can't believe it," Ariel had sighed as she swirled her martini. "I mean, if I were a betting woman, I would've put my entire life savings on you guys ending up married with lots of kids and..."

  She had trailed off, probably at the crestfallen expression on my face.

  "Well," Ariel had went on quietly. "I know this is really stupid to admit now after all these years, but I was always really, I mean really jealous of you in high school."

  "What?" I'd laughed.

  "It wasn't just the whole-everyone-loves-me-because-I'm-gorgeous-and-a-cheerleader-thing," Ariel had gestured toward me like that description still somehow applied. "There were so many times when I would catch Caleb looking at you. It was like you'd come into the room or walk down the hallway and he'd be doing everything he could not to look at you and would just fail miserably. I just knew if you ever gave him the chance, he'd drop me like a bad habit."

  "Aw, come on. You know that's not true. He was crazy about you back then."

  "Yeah, well," Ariel's lips had twisted with a slight nod. "I guess I knew even then I would lose him to you eventually."

  I sucked in a deep breath to wash away that distant memory, as if that would somehow change the uncomfortable air that had settled between me and Caleb now. Suddenly, something shifted between us and Caleb was grinning down at me with that same smile that could so easily send my heart right into my stomach.

  "Looks like you gave up on getting wasted, huh?" he smirked down at the near-full bottle resting by my feet.

  I glanced at the bottle and shrugged. "I guess I decided I'd rather talk to you instead."

  Me with a bottle was more than enough to do some damage and now that we'd gotten to talking, this was better.

  "Alright," he laughed. "So talk. I feel like I've just been talking your ear off all night."

  "What—"

  "Tell me about New York," Caleb cut in softly. "I wanna hear everything."

  His eyes were blue oceans swimming with hope, regret, anticipation, and something else I didn't want to think about. Now, with our current proximity, my hungry eyes roamed over him and what struck me the most was how he could be so different, yet still so achingly the same, so painfully familiar.

  I liked this new, buzzed hairstyle—it made him look older and probably more professional too, but there were still hints of the boyish, charming 22-year-old I used to know. I'd always known he would only improve with age, but the faint lines around his eyes and forehead and the masculine goatee suited him in a way I couldn't have predicted. It was like he'd morphed into the man he was always supposed to be.

  "Okay," I exhaled shakily. I took a breath and launched into the distraction we both needed. "New York is everything I thought it would be. My internship was...eh."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" he laughed.

  "What can I say?" I shrugged. "It was an internship. I scheduled appointments and showings for other artists, got coffee for other people, made copies, kept inventories, that sort of thing. It wasn't glamorous, that's for sure, and I knew that going into it. But The Warehouse always treated me well, I paid my dues, and when some space finally freed up, they booked my first show."

  It wasn't quite as easy or as simple as I'd made it sound, but the details weren't really important. I'd done the work, put in my time, and earned my space, just like Dr. Jacobs said I would.

  "And now you're raking it in, huh?" he grinned.

  "Oh, I wouldn't exactly say that," I lifted my eyes up to the moonlit sky above me. "But I'm doing okay."

  His lips curled up knowingly and his eyebrows lifted into his forehead. "Okay? Didn't your last show sell out?"

  My eyes narrowed at him playfully. Someone had clearly been keeping tabs on me long before this night. A few hours ago, I might've seen it as a slap in the face, one more reminder that he'd had every opportunity to find me in New York, but didn't. Now I just didn't want this night to end.

  "It did," I confirmed warily. "My PR rep got a nice little bonus."

  "Your PR rep? Hmm...that's what I thought," his eyebrows waggled victoriously.

  "Hey," I pointed out. "I know how lucky I am. That whole starving artist stereotype exists for a reason, you know?"

  "I always knew you'd be rich and famous," he laughed.

  I cocked an eyebrow at him. "I wouldn't necessarily call myself rich or famous. Selling out my last show just means I did well for that month. You're on your own the other months until you do another show. You have to look elsewhere to make ends meet until that next opening happens."

  "Like where?" he frowned.

  "I got a part-time job at the Barney's a few blocks away from where I live and when the hours cut into my painting time a little too much, I bartended on the weekends for a few years until I could save up enough money to quit."

  His eyebrows flew into his forehead and I could practically see the wheels in his head turning. The idea of me bartending in New York probably didn't sit well with him. It hadn't really sat well with my dad either, but the money I earned on those weekends was enough to float me through the time in between each of my shows and freed me up during the week to work.

  Now came my lame attempt at lightening the mood.

  "Hey, it was better than stripping, you know?"

  All the color drained from his face at once and I had a sudden urge to lean forward and kiss him, if only it would make that stricken, forlorn expression slide off his face.

  "That's not funny, Iz," he snapped back, accentuating each clipped syllable like even the possibility made him alternately want to hit something and physically ill.

  "Geez, sorry," I muttered under my breath and rolled my eyes. "My dad didn't think that joke was very funny either."

  Caleb shot me an exasperated glance out of the corner of his eye and leaned back a little in the swing.

  "Being able to quit that job felt pretty good though," I admitted and at this point, it was more to ease his nerves about the whole thing than anything. "It felt like I was really becoming a serious artist, like all that hard work and all those dreams were finally starting to pay off. Hey and you know what? I was even able to put a little money into the gallery too. I'm the proud owner of five percent of The Warehouse. How do you like that?"

  That sent a little more of the light back into his eyes and the exasperation on his face slipped into something more like pride and amusement.

  "So," he grinned, bumping his shoulder into me playfully. "Rich, famous, and a savvy businesswoman? I'm impressed, Iz."

  "Oh, shut it," I knocked him back in the shoulder. "Five percent isn't that much in the grand scheme of things."

  "How does that song go? If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere..."

  "Oh my God. You are not singing—"

  "Oh, shut it," he waved a hand at me, throwing my little dig right back at me. "Who doesn't love Frank Sinatra?"

  Somehow, I think my eyebrows shifted even higher into my hairline. This was just too much.

  "You know, Saul was humming that earlier today," I informed him matter-of-factly. "There's been a little too much of that going around."

  "He taught me well," Caleb just shrugged. "The classics. All that shit."

  "Oh boy."

  His grin only widened. "So New York..."

  "Right," I rolled my eyes at him. "New York."

  I delved back into everything he wanted to hear—Christmas in New York, snow, my series of slightly-increasing-in-size apartments sta
rting with a tiny studio apartment all the way to the three-bedroom brownstone I had now in Chelsea, the studio space I rented a few blocks away, the few friends I'd allowed myself to make, the coffee shop where I got my lattes every morning, the best Mexican food I'd ever had in my life, the park where Cooper and I went on walks...it was such an out of body experience to sit here like this describing the life I had to the one person I'd always wanted to share it with.

  "That sounds real nice, Iz," Caleb's soft voice called out to me. "I'm glad you have a good life there."

  "Yeah, I do."

  It's just not the life I always thought I'd have with you.

  He glanced up at the night sky and squinted in the moonlight. "It's getting kinda late, huh? You cold?"

  "A little bit."

  Caleb gestured with his head toward the house and stood up, wincing a little when he put some weight on his bad knee. Then he reached down to sweep up my wine bottle in one hand and held his free hand out to me to help me off the swing. I stared at his open palm for a little too long—I'd been trying so hard not to let myself touch him.

  I'd slipped back in the house before when my dad went to bed and I'd slipped again in just letting him out here with me in the first place. But like my body had a will of its own, my hand slipped into his, reveling in that familiar roughness, which just sent my mind spiraling down a dark hole as I remembered all the other places those rough hands had touched before.

  I dropped his hand just as quickly. Being so close to him this way was dangerous. It was twisting my mind and knotting up my emotions and that was exactly what I needed to avoid.

  We walked back into the house in silence and were just met with Cooper's low woof as we entered the kitchen.

  "So, um," Caleb ran a hand over his head and grimaced. "You know I have to crash here tonight, right? I'm not leaving."

  It was so direct. I'm not leaving. Of course he wasn't leaving and I couldn't exactly let him sleep in his truck either. Although, on some level, that did seem a little bit safer.

  "Right," I sighed. "You can sleep in the guest room if you want. It's okay."

  He chewed on the inside of his cheek in thought and glanced back at me agitatedly. "I can just take the couch. It's not like I haven't done it before."

  His intentions were pretty paper-thin here. If we were going to sleep under the same roof tonight, the more space between us the better. I couldn't help but wholeheartedly agree.

  We stared at each other for a few awkward beats and he shoved his hands deep in his front pockets as he glanced down at his shoes.

  "I'm sorry, Iz," he murmured. "I know you don't want me or any of my guys hanging around your house all the time, but this is just the way it was to be for now."

  "I know," I tried to ooze as much reassurance into my voice as I could, but came up lacking in a big way. "I get it. And I appreciate it. I really do, especially given, you know, the circumstances."

  His eyes steeled over. "I told you nothing's gonna happen to you and I meant it."

  "I know, Caleb," I whispered and dared a step closer to the island.

  My feet stilled just a few inches away from him and I reached out until my open palm connected with his chest. There was no stopping it now; my body had won over my mind for the time being.

  "Are you scared of him?"

  His eyebrows lifted. "Of Wallace? No. He doesn't scare me."

  My fingers splayed out on his chest just as he wound an arm around my waist to tuck me in a little bit tighter against him.

  "But what he could do scares you."

  A grim line spread across his face and he nodded. "Yeah. That scares me."

  I leaned forward until my cheek rested against his chest and squeezed my eyes shut when I felt two strong arms wrap themselves around me, cocooning me in their warmth and their safety. His lips brushed my hair and his arms squeezed even tighter around me.

  "It's always gonna follow me, isn't it?" he murmured hoarsely into my hair. "I'm never really gonna be out."

  I lifted my face away from my chest so I could look him in the eye. His face had gone ashen and his eyes simmered with so much regret and desperation that I couldn't help but wrap my arms around his neck just to give him something.

  "All these years," he whispered. "And all it takes is one pissed-off president and I'm back knee-deep in the shit. And now I'm just sitting here, wondering who else I've pissed off and what else is gonna come back and bite me in the ass. There are so many things I've done, so many things I should still be in prison for. I mean, Iz, I've killed people. I shouldn't even be standing here with you right now."

  "Hey," my hands flew up to his cheeks to force him to look at me. "You're here though. You gave yourself a chance to have a different kind of life and that's all you can do. You can't control anything or anybody else."

  He closed his eyes and nodded. "You're right. I know that. It's just hard to look at myself in the mirror sometimes knowing some of the things I've done that I can't take back."

  While he could've been talking about a number of things, I chose to just focus on his past in the club, carefully stepping around everything else.

  "Can I ask you a question?"

  His lips curled up. "You can ask me anything, Iz."

  "Why did you stay here?" I asked, finally voicing the question I'd wanted the answer to for years. "I mean, you could've gone to freaking Australia if you wanted to, but you stayed here. I just don't get it. Wouldn't it just have been so much easier if you'd left town?"

  His eyes dropped down to my face, focusing for a moment on my lips, and then he smiled sadly. "Yeah, it would've been easier, but I couldn't."

  "Why?"

  His thumb brushed my cheek as he spoke. "Because if I left, I knew I'd never see you again."

  A million emotions whipped around me all at once—confusion, frustration, elation, anger—but it was those butterflies fluttering in my stomach that held most of my focus.

  "So you didn't leave just on the off-chance that I'd come back someday and we'd...what? Run into each other?"

  It was right on the tip of my tongue to ask him why he'd never come to New York or why he'd never reached out before if he'd really wanted to see me that badly, but that would be too much truth for one night. I'd already gotten more than I could handle.

  "I don't know," he shrugged with a soft grin. "But I do know that if I'd left, we wouldn't be standing here like this right now and I wouldn't trade that for anything."

  Both of his hands settled around my face now and overwhelmed by his closeness and drunk on the emotions he'd resurrected in me, I closed the short space between us and pressed my lips gently into his. Caleb stilled for only a moment, no doubt startled by the fact that I was the one initiating this, but I was way past the point of no return now, and he recovered a heartbeat later, tightening his hold on my face, somehow pulling me even closer to him.

  It started slow and tender as our mouths tentatively became reacquainted with each other and I couldn't help the soft moan in the back of my throat just at tasting him again. It had been so long since I'd felt this, I'd honestly forgotten what his lips felt like...or maybe I'd just forced myself to forget. But there was no denying how good this felt, how at home I felt as his hands slid all the way around my waist.

  Suddenly, I was moving in the air as he spun us around to press me back into the island. He gripped my hips to hoist me up onto the counter and my legs wrapped around his waist to help him sink in even deeper before I had a moment to recover.

  His tongue pushed its way through my mouth and as his rough, familiar hands skimmed up the back of my shirt, just stopping at the edge of my bra. I shivered in his arms and wondered fleetingly if this was just all a dream. If I'd wake up any moment now, alone in my bed, and wondering what the hell just happened. But his lips were still moving over mine, tasting and taking everything I offered to him, eagerly giving it right back to me.

  My hands wound their way around the back of his neck and gripped the top o
f his head as he ground my hips down against the hardness in his jeans. Just as I leaned my forehead against his to sigh into his lips, a loud cough jerked me out of the whirlwind I'd stumbled into it.

  My hands dropped away from Caleb's face and I turned just in time to see my dad shuffling toward the refrigerator. Caleb jolted and hustled out from between my legs to put some space between us. He ran a hand over his head as if to smooth the hair he didn't really have there and my dad cast a wary glance over his shoulder at us.

  "Don't mind me," he chuckled. "Just needed something to drink."

  "Sorry, Dad," I murmured and bit down on my bottom lip as I slid off the counter.

  My dad met my eyes briefly before turning his attention to Caleb. "Where are you planning on sleeping tonight?"

  Caleb cleared his throat roughly. "The couch."

  "Good," he nodded and shut the fridge door as he turned to us with a water bottle in his hand. "Probably best to take it slow, huh?"

  I opened my mouth to protest, but for the life of me, I couldn't find any words to say. My dad just waved goodnight and disappeared around the stairwell. When my eyes found Caleb again, he was staring slack-jawed after my dad and he shook his head.

  "Wow."

  "Yeah," I laughed. "That wasn't embarrassing or anything."

  Instead of responding, he tucked his hands deep in his pockets and grinned at me.

  "I should, um," I swallowed hard, already backpedalling toward the same hallway my dad had just disappeared to. "I should get to bed. I'll see you in the morning?"

  "I'll be here," he nodded. "Sweet dreams, Iz."

  I waved awkwardly because there was no way in hell I was getting out of this gracefully and I scrambled up the stairs, practically running my dad over in the process, and didn't stop until my old bedroom door was shut safely behind me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  A Better Day

  Isabelle

  My eyes fluttered open and I buried my face in my pillow with a groan. God, I felt like I'd just tried to run a marathon—tried and miserably failed, that is—with heavy limbs, exhausted muscles, and a pounding headache.