Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover)

by Winter Renshaw

  I wanted us to work out. As much as I hate to admit it, as much as I had to wrangle my excitement into submission until it was nearly undetectable, I really wanted us to work.

  “Anyway, I should let you go. I’ve got to run to campus and print out my syllabi and drop some things off in my new office,” I say with an exhausted sigh.

  “You nervous?”

  “Not really,” I say.

  “What are you teaching again?”

  “Studio Drawing I and Introduction to Charcoal,” I say. “Easy peasy.”

  “All right, well, keep me posted. Call if you need anything.” Her voice is temporarily muffled, followed by the squeaky whimpers of Noah beginning to fuss in the background.

  “Come visit soon,” I say.

  “I will.”

  Hanging up with my sister, I head to the shower, but first taking a second to clear off some old text messages. But in the midst of sending back a couple of quick replies, I pause when it hits me that for the first time all week, I don’t have any missed calls or texts from Cristiano.

  My chest tightens. I didn’t think ‘the end’ of us would feel so . . . heavy. So dark. I thought cutting ties would be easier than this. But this is how it has to be. This is for the best. As life has demonstrated to me time and again, some things are momentarily wonderful and sometimes those wonderful things aren’t meant to last.

  Stripping out of my clothes, I twist the shower knob and step inside. The water is cold at first, covering my skin in gooseflesh, but I hardly feel a thing. I’m head-to-toe numb, inside and out.

  And I miss him already.

  I miss the prospect of us. The promise of something neon-electric intense. Everything we could’ve had. Everything we’ll never know. Everything that wasn’t meant to be.

  Chapter 40

  Daphne

  “Professor Rosewood,” my teacher’s assistant, Alexandria, taps my shoulder shortly before Studio Drawing I Wednesday afternoon.

  “Yes?”

  “Our female live model canceled,” she says, her red brows arched as she bites the tip of her pencil. “Betty said she found a replacement, but since it was such short notice, she could only get a male. Is that okay? She said he’s a professional model. Should I send him in?”

  Taking a deep breath, I make an executive decision. It’s only my third day teaching and so far it’s been smooth sailing. This hiccup is only minor and definitely not worth getting my panties in a bunch.

  “Yeah, it’s fine,” I tell her. “We’re learning to draw the human form. Gender doesn’t matter so much right now.”

  Alexandria’s face lights and she nods. “Okay. I’ll go get him.”

  Taking my spot at my desk, I log into my university-issued computer as the rest of the students file in and head to their stations. Checking my school email quickly before class starts, I send off some quick replies and clear my inbox. When I glance up, I see Alexandria strutting back into the room, a robed gentleman following behind. Glancing toward the classroom, I see all eyes are on him, though I don’t see his face yet. This is nothing new. A lot of live models are very comfortable in their skin and many of them model for a living, thus many of them are attractive.

  My students need to stare and gawk and get it out of their system, because they’re going to see a lot of naked bodies this semester. By the time they’re done with my class, they’re never going to want to see another penis or vagina again. At least not anytime in the near future.

  “All right, everyone,” I say. “Settle in. Let’s get started. We only have fifty-five minutes and a lot to cover today.”

  Alexandria steps aside, and the gentleman appears. He’s looking at me – and only me.

  That bronze skin. That shaggy dark hair. Those familiar, deep brown eyes. That charming smirk.

  Holy shit.

  Summoning every ounce of professionalism I have, I clear my throat and pull my shoulders back.

  “He looks really familiar,” a student whispers a few feet away.

  “Is that . . . is that Jax Diesel?” her friend says, whipping out her phone and tapping her nails quickly against the screen.

  “Please disrobe,” I say to Cristiano, my gaze quickly averting. “You can stand up here, on this platform. Face the students and select a pose that will be comfortable for you.” Turning to the rest of the class, I say, “Please get started. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Rushing to the hall, I drag in deep breath after deep breath, trying to compose myself before I go back in.

  Was. Not. Expecting. That.

  Chapter 41

  Cristiano

  The rustle of paper and notebooks and book bags signals the end of today’s class period. Relaxing my pose, I step down from the platform and slip my robe over my shoulders. Daphne is seated at her desk in the front, her stare concentrated on her computer screen.

  One by one, her students flee the classroom, and I notice her glancing up for a millisecond, our gazes catching.

  “Daphne.” I casually approach her desk like it’s no big deal that I flew clear across the country, slipped the administrative assistant in her department a couple Benjamins, and finagled my way into becoming her class’s nude model.

  She closes her laptop with force before crossing her arms and peering up at me.

  “What the hell are you doing here? Are you insane?” She rises, stepping around her desk. “This is where I work. This is my job. You can’t just . . . do you know how this looks?!”

  Reaching toward her, my hand hooks her waist and I pull her against me. “Daphne, Daphne. Shh.”

  She stops berating me for a second, her baby blues locked on mine.

  “All my life,” I say, “I’ve run when things got too hard. Things get uncomfortable for me? Boom. I’m out of there. But something changed these last few weeks, and you’re the common denominator. That part of me that always wanted to run off? It’s not as strong anymore. I don’t want an escape anymore, Daphne. I just want you.”

  She looks away, exhaling.

  “And you want me too,” I say. “You’re just too scared to admit it. You’re too scared to give up control of your heart to someone else.”

  Daphne’s eyes flick to mine.

  “The men you’ve given it to in the past have thrown it away. They’ve taken it for granted,” I say. “But I won’t do that, Daphne. I promise you.”

  Cupping her chin in my hand, I breathe the sweet scent of her exotic perfume and it transports me back to Paris in a single fleeting moment.

  “We both have issues,” I say. “But if we can put our pasts behind us . . . if I can stop running and if you can trust someone with your heart again . . . we could have a life together. The kind we’ve been searching for our whole lives.”

  “I read your travel journal.” Her voice is monotone. She doesn’t blink.

  Releasing a held breath, I take a step back, dragging my hand over the side of my head before massaging my temple.

  “You’re obviously still in love with Joey,” she says. “And I don’t want to be your consolation prize.”

  “Daphne, what are you talking about?”

  “I heard Joey tell you she still loved you,” she says. “Last week, at your mother’s house. I heard your conversation. And your journal entries . . . they were all written to her. You wrote nearly every single day that you missed her, you wanted her to be there with you. Cristiano, you can’t tell me you’re over her because you’re clearly not.”

  Pinching the bridge of my nose, I fight a smirk.

  She has it all wrong.

  “Daphne . . .” I begin to say.

  “Please. Go,” she says, stepping away.

  Voices waft in from outside in the hall, and the sound of shuffling feet grow nearer until the doorknob twists and students for the next class begin filing in.

  Daphne shoots me a look, gathers her computer and her bag, and navigates toward the hall, squeezing through the sea of students filling the space.

&n
bsp; “Oh, I bet that’s our model,” a red-haired student says to her friend as they pass me by, their gazes zeroed in on me, enormous smiles on their faces. “Good lord. I could sketch that man for hours.”

  Tightening my robe, I show myself out.

  I’ve got to fix this.

  I’ve got to get her back.

  Chapter 42

  Daphne

  “Betty, do you know who put this here?” I stand outside the faculty mailboxes the following afternoon, holding a small leather-bound journal I found in mine. “I think it was put in my box by mistake.”

  I place it on the edge of her desk, hoist my bag over my shoulder, and eye the doorway.

  “No, no,” she says placing her hand over its chocolate-brown cover. “It’s for you all right.”

  Arching an eyebrow, I glance at Betty then to the book. She pushes it across her desk, urging me to take it with me on my way out. Sliding it off her desk, I tuck it under my arm and head out of the administrative office. My next class starts in five minutes, but curiosity overtakes me. Stopping beside the drinking fountains down the hall, I flip the book to the first page, which is dated for yesterday – the day Cristiano showed up at my classroom. I kicked him out as the next class filed in, and I kept an eye on my phone the rest of the night, fully expecting him to call or text or even show up at the door of my apartment. But he went radio silent.

  Until now.

  My eyes scan the page, recognizing his handwriting in an instant.

  January 18th

  Seaview, California

  You’re probably wondering why I haven’t written in a few weeks, but once I tell you about the girl I met, I think you’ll understand. I think you’ll be happy for me too. I met her in an airport of all places, which feels fitting in a lot of ways, and I think you’d agree. We spent almost an entire week together, traveling across the country in a laughably tiny economy car. She was trying to get home to see her sister who was having a baby any minute, and I was trying to get to Joey’s wedding. Anyway, this girl likes to talk. She may even be chattier than you were. And she likes to ask questions. She’s curious – like you always were. And she got me to open up in a way that I haven’t been able to since . . . well, since you know when. Anyway, it turns out this girl is into traveling and adventure, and there’s this genuine quality about her that I’ve yet to find in anyone else since you. I don’t want to compare the two of you. That wouldn’t be fair. And you’re both night and day from each other in every other aspect. But I think you should know that I’m falling for this girl.

  It’s time for me to move on.

  I didn’t think I could love anyone else after you.

  But now I have hope.

  And her name is Daphne.

  While I’ll cherish the time we had together and the love we once shared, it’s time I let you go.

  And it’s time I let myself live.

  Yours,

  Cristiano

  I don’t know exactly what this means, but I now know the girl he was writing to . . . it wasn’t Joey.

  Flipping the journal to the next page, I’m desperate to read more. But there’s nothing but blank, unwritten pages. With a pounding heart and a racing mind, I grab a cold drink of water from the fountain beside me, take a deep breath, and compose myself before heading into my classroom.

  Ambling back to my apartment after my last class of the day, I stop at the corner and press the ‘walk’ button. Traffic is robust at this hour, most people just having left work for the day, and it looks like I’ll be waiting a while for a green light.

  Sticking my hand into my pocket, my fingertips graze the cool glass of my phone’s screen, and there’s a tightness in my chest and an electric swirl in my middle that accompanies the thought of calling Cristiano.

  I don’t know if he’s still in town or how he got the journal into my mailbox today, but I can’t imagine he’d come all this way just to leave again.

  Pulling my phone out, I thumb through my contacts until I find his name. I press the green button and lift the phone to my ear, my heart running wild and my mouth dry.

  “Daphne,” he answers on the third ring, his voice a low vibrato against my eardrum.

  “The journal in my mailbox . . .” I say. “. . . we need to talk. You still in town?”

  “I am. Here until tomorrow.”

  “Come over. I’ll text you the address.”

  I pace my apartment, re-reading his journal entry over and over, trying to figure out what it means despite the fact that I’ll soon have my answers.

  A swift knock on my door nearly sends my heart into a dizzying freefall, and I lunge for the door, pulling it open with a clean jerk. I want to get this over with. I can’t stand another minute of not knowing who he was writing to or why he left that journal in my mailbox.

  Cristiano stands on the other side, a pale gray t-shirt wrapping his muscled torso and his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

  “Come in,” I say, stepping away and then closing the door behind him. He stands in the middle of my apartment, eyeing the closed journal resting in the middle of my coffee table. Arms folded, I keep a careful distance. “You want to explain what that was doing in my mailbox today?”

  He smirks, like this is some kind of funny to him, and his dark eyes hold on mine.

  “Daphne,” he says my name in one slow exhale, and then he looks down for a second. “My travel journal, it’s not what you think. And what you read? I wasn’t writing to Joey. I never was.”

  Taking a step back, I lift a brow, my arms crossed as I impatiently await his explanation.

  “Three years ago, my girlfriend passed away in an accident,” he says. “I never got to say goodbye. I was in Oregon, with Joey, and when we found out Amanda had died, we were rushing to get back home for the funeral. That’s when our accident happened, and, clearly, I never had the chance to say goodbye.”

  My arms unlock, falling limp at my sides, my hardened exterior melting in real time.

  “After the accident, and after losing Amanda, I guess I wasn’t handling things well. I wasn’t eating or sleeping. I was drinking too much. I was behaving recklessly.” He shakes his head, eyes squinting as if he’s recalling a dark time. “One of my friends convinced me to go to talk to someone. A professional. He suggested I keep a journal and write letters to her. I thought it was a stupid idea, but it was supposed to make me feel connected to her, I guess. It was a way to get closure. And he said I’d know when the time was right to ‘say goodbye,’ and I could do it pen to paper.”

  I want to move toward him, but I stand, frozen, glued to his every word, my heart in my throat.

  “So I traveled, and I wrote letters to her. When I came home, I’d stop by her grave, leave a filled notebook and move on, starting another one. I must’ve filled at least half a dozen over the years,” he chuffs, glancing away.

  “Cristiano . . .” My jaw falls. I don’t know what to say, but I’m sure it lies between an apology for his loss and some sort of words of comfort that could never be enough.

  “I don’t blame you, Daphne, for assuming it was Joey.” He rakes his hand along his five o’clock shadow. “I thought about it some more, and I’d have come up with the same conclusion. You didn’t know.” He takes a deep breath. “But now you do.”

  “I’m so sorry.” My hand splays across my heart, my body humming with a kaleidoscope of emotion.

  Without thinking, I go to him. I throw my arms over his shoulders, and I bury myself against his chest. He doesn’t move at first, and then his hands rest on my hips. The warmth of his breath skims the top of my head, and I shut my eyes, listening to the steady thrum of his heart.

  “I was wrong about you,” I say, my words breathless against his chest.

  His hands slide up my sides, pulling me tight against him. I glance up, meeting his soulful gaze, my lips parted slightly. I want him to kiss me. I want a sign that all is not lost despite the rollercoaster ride we’ve been stuck on these
past few weeks.

  “Daphne,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from my eyes. “I’m crazy about you. Since the moment you came into my life, you’ve flipped it completely upside down. You’re the part that I never knew was missing, and chasing after you? It’s been nothing short of an epic adventure.”

  My lips curl in the corners, and I rise on my toes, pressing my lips into his, melting into him when his soft lips take command of mine.

  “I’m crazy about you too,” I say. It feels good to own my feelings. To blurt them out loud. To give them life and not try to deny their presence. “More than you could ever know.”

  He hoists me up, wrapping my legs around his waist, his face buried in my neck, leaving a trail of fiery kisses along my collarbone. My arms rest on his shoulders, my head tossed back, and he carries me to the kitchen, depositing me on the counter and situating himself between my spread thighs.

  “I can’t believe I’m about to say this . . .” his voice trails softly as his mouth curls upward with a nervous smirk. “But I’m falling in love with you, Daphne.” He takes a moment. “I . . . I love you.”

  My heart swells in my chest, and I press my mouth against his. The words linger, caught in my throat, bursting with a threat to spill out the second we come up for air. My whole life, I’ve been the girl who falls fast and hard and gets burned in the process. I didn’t want to be her anymore, but being here, next to him, looking into his warm brown gaze, I feel it.

  I couldn’t deny it if I tried.

  Cupping my hands around his shoulders, I pull myself away and whisper, “I love you too.”