by T. K. Leigh
“All of it.” I hold my head high, squaring my shoulders.
On a long sigh, he lowers himself onto my bed, his head hanging. I’m about to berate him for being so bold as to make himself at home when he interrupts me.
“I was in Paris this morning.” He peers up at me through his long lashes, the confidence he typically wears like a shield absent. He still looks amazing in his dark suit, and smells even more sinful, but he’s pale, dark circles under his eyes from an obvious lack of sleep.
“Did you come here to rub that in my face?” I press my lips in a tight line, my tone sharp. “If that’s the case, mission accomplished. I’ve never had the luxury. I hope you enjoyed some macarons while you were there.”
He shakes his head, briefly lowering his gaze. “I didn’t mean it like that. You see what you do to me? You make me so…flustered.”
He runs his hand through his sandy locks, tugging at them. My fingers twitch at the memory of what his hair feels like.
“I was there for work. This morning, as I went through my routine of reading the newspaper while having coffee, the TV was on as background noise, some classic movie channel. Do you know what was playing?”
I swallow hard, not saying a single word. My heart echoes in my ears as my eyes fixate on the despair and remorse hanging over him.
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” he says in a measured tone. “It was the final scene. You know the one when Paul finally calls out Holly Golightly for who she really is, for being scared of falling in love because she doesn’t want anyone to put her in a cage?”
Tears form in my eyes as I recite one of the most poignant lines from the film. “‘No matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.’”
“Exactly.” In an instant, he’s on his feet, striding the short distance toward me. When he cups my cheeks in his hands, a current runs through me, my body waking after a nearly two-week slumber.
Drawing in a deep breath, he rests his forehead on mine. “I don’t want to run into myself anymore. I am absolutely petrified of this, of you, of us. But I’m even more scared of not feeling this anymore.”
I close my eyes, allowing his words to fill me with the hope and promise I’d been yearning for since it all came crumbling down. But is it enough? Does it change anything? How do I know it’s real?
Shaking my head, I release myself from his hold. I need more than that, more than him being scared of losing me. I need…him. All the broken, damaged pieces that make up who he is.
“Thank you for finally admitting that. I can only imagine how difficult it is. But just because you’re scared of losing me isn’t enough reason for me to stay, not after…” I trail off.
“Guinevere…” He grabs my hands in his, pleading with me. “You have to believe me when I say I’m willing to try. For you. That’s all I can give you right now. Please understand.”
“I do understand.” I pull away, glancing at all the clothes he spoiled me with, all of it as artificial as he is. All glamour, no substance. “But I need more than that. Just two weeks ago, you wanted me to believe you’d never change who you are for anyone.”
“I lied.” He rubs his temples, his jaw clenching. “Okay? You know I lied, too!” He returns his impassioned gaze to mine. “You saw the truth.”
“You’re right. I did.” I sling my purse over my shoulder, retreating from him into the living room and toward the front door. When I reach the foyer, I pause, glancing back at him standing a few feet away, looking confused. “The truth is, I don’t know what to believe. You can say you made a mistake today, but how do I know it’s because you truly believe it, not because you have some ulterior motive?”
“Please, Guinevere.” He closes the distance between us, his chest heaving in desperation. “I want this. I want you. I can’t function without you in my life. Nothing is right in the world. And I’m sorry I was a fool and pushed you away. I promise. I won’t push you away again. Just please… Give me a chance to prove it to you.”
Pulling my lips between my teeth, I consider his plea. Then I place my hand on a hip. “Okay.”
“Okay?” His eyes light up as he goes to close the last bit of space between us, but I step back, holding up my hand to stop him.
“Prove it. Now. Prove you won’t push me away again.”
He parts his lips, his brows pulling together. “How?”
“You say you want this, that you want something real with me.”
“I do.” He reaches for my hands, clutching them in his. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
“Real relationships aren’t all romantic dinners and snuggling on the couch. They require a connection, sharing yourself. All parts of yourself, even the ugly ones. That’s what makes it real. Looking past the ugly at all the beauty hidden beneath the surface.”
Julian swallows hard, his fingers growing cold as understanding of what I’m asking rolls over him. He drops his hold on me and turns from me, staring blankly into space.
“I want your ugly, Julian. It’s the only way this will work. The only way I’ll know you’re in it for real. So I’m going to ask you one question. Whether you respond will determine whether I walk into your arms or out that door.” My voice trembles as I struggle to hide the emotion at the thought of walking away from him yet again. But I can’t be with someone who only allows me part of the way in. I made that mistake with Trevor. I won’t do it again. “How did you get your scars?”
Julian slowly glances over his shoulder, lifting his eyes to mine. Moisture pools in the corners as he pleads with me to ask him another question…any other question. But I can’t. This was the question that started it all. And it may be the question that ends it all, too.
I’m unable to move, my heart caught in my throat as I wait for him to finally answer me. He doesn’t. Instead, he faces forward, shaking his head.
My shoulders fall as my heart deflates. “I understand,” I manage to squeak out. I turn from him, heading toward the front door. I only make it a few steps when his voice stops me.
“My step-father shot me.” His words are low, devoid of emotion. He speaks so softly, I’m unsure I heard him correctly.
I whirl around. “What did you say?”
“The scars.” Facing me, he pulls his shirt out of his pants, lifting it and revealing the marks on his abdomen. “From my step-father.”
“Why?” I return to him as he tucks his shirt back in.
He rubs the back of his neck, drawing in a pained, shaky breath. “I was trying to protect my mother.” He slumps onto the couch, the truth weighing him down.
“Your mother?” I sit beside him, unable to take my gaze off his remorse-filled expression.
“It wasn’t enough. He killed her. She was trying to get us away from him so he couldn’t hurt us again.”
I lean into the cushion, briefly closing my eyes as I put the pieces together. No wonder he used a large portion of the inheritance he received from Mr. Price to open a women’s shelter. He lost his mother to domestic violence.
“The instant she slumped to the floor, all I saw was red. I charged at him. He pointed the gun at me, warning me not to do anything stupid. But I didn’t care. And he was drunk. So I grabbed a knife out of the butcher block and stabbed him, but not before he got off three shots. Thankfully, a neighbor, who was a paramedic, heard and burst into the house. If he hadn’t, I probably wouldn’t have made it.”
“And that’s what landed you in foster care.” I tilt my head at him, studying him.
He shoots his eyes to mine, surprised at my statement. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling. “Camille.”
“You didn’t have any other family you could live with?” I press. I come from a rather large extended family. The idea that there was no one else Julian could count on boggles my mind.
“Mom was young when she got pregnant. The result of an affair with a college professor. Her parents were well-respected, affluent members of their community. They saw her pregn
ancy as a blemish on their reputation. When she refused to get rid of the baby, they cut her off. She raised me on her own. We were all each other had. When she died, there was no one to claim custody of me, so I was put into foster care. Since the system’s so overworked, none of the foster parents wanted to deal with an adolescent boy suffering from emotional trauma. Sure, I was in therapy, but I got moved around between therapists, too.”
“Julian…” I shake my head, unsure what to even say. I’d learned about pieces of his past in the research I’d done on him. I could never have anticipated this was the real story.
“I push people away, Guinevere.” His eyes intensify, the blue hue becoming darker. “It’s what I’ve always done. Actually, I’ve never let anyone get remotely as close as you. No one’s cracked the shell. Until you came into my life.” His expression softens as he leans toward me, grabbing my hand in his. “You saw through me when no one else ever could. You were right about all of it. How I acted the way I did because I was scared. I knew it was true, and I hated you for calling me out on it. Worse, I hated myself because I thought it made me appear weak.”
I bring my free hand up to his cheek, reveling in the scruff. “It doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”
He covers my hand with his, my heart swelling with the longing I feel in his touch. “I understand that now. I’ve spent my entire life running from anything real…including love. I’m just not sure I know how to love.”
“Oh…” My heart deflates as I pull my hand from his cheek. I begin to slink away, my eyes watering, but he grabs my chin, forcing my gaze to his.
“But I want you to show me how.”
I part my lips, my brows furrowed. “Show you how?”
“Yes, Guinevere. I need you more than I’ve needed anyone.” He releases his grip on me, then stands and starts to pace. “But I’m messed up. Really fucking messed up. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d hurt you. I probably will. Just please…” He stops, dropping to his knees in front of me, his hands clasped together. “Be patient with me. I have a lot of scars, ones that will take me a while to finally share with someone after keeping them all to myself for years. But I want you to know all these things about me. I want you to know my ugly.”
“That’s all I want. Just you.” I bring my hand to his face, brushing my thumb along his cheek. “The real Julian Gage. No more lies. No more pretending. No matter how bad you think it is, lying is worse. So just be honest with me. And if I ask something you’re not ready to talk about, don’t push me away. Just say you’re not ready. That’s all I ask. Just be honest.”
A flash of hesitation crosses his expression as he chews on his lower lip. I want to question it, but before I have a chance, he’s on his feet, pulling me up with him. His arms swallow me as his lips find mine. Any doubt is instantly erased as his kiss consumes me, heart, body, and soul. For the first time, I feel like I’m actually kissing Julian, not the man he pretended to be all summer long.
“I like this better,” I murmur against his lips, a tingle trickling down my back from the subtle contact.
“Like what?”
“Kissing you. Not the other person you were.”
“And I like kissing you like this, too.” He circles his hips, then yanks my body, hard and fast, against his. His erection pushes into my stomach, making me gasp. “And I’d like to do more than just kiss you. You have no idea how hard these past few weeks have been, especially now that I’ve gotten a taste.”
I pass him a coy look. “Oh, I have a pretty good idea just how hard it’s been.” I palm his erection, which only causes the fire in his gaze to burn brighter.
Before I can protest, he lifts me up, forcing my legs around his waist. His mouth slams against mine, his kiss voracious, hungry, desperate as he carries me toward my makeshift bedroom.
When he reaches the doorway, he pauses, looking around. “Where the hell’s the door?”
“I told you. This is just a den.”
He glances at me, then out to the open living room before back at me again. “Oh, fuck it,” he growls, practically tossing me onto my clothes-covered bed.
“Julian!” I squeal, laughing at the playful deviousness in his expression.
He hurriedly shrugs off his suit jacket while I rip my t-shirt over my head, both of us frantic to scramble out of our clothes. Finally, once his boxer briefs land on the top of our discarded things, he retrieves a condom from his wallet and climbs onto the bed, crawling up my body.
Impassioned lips find mine and I melt into him. He tastes as I remember…citrus, spice, and Julian.
“Guinevere…,” he pants.
“Yes,” I exhale.
“I’m buying you a fucking apartment with a door. And a better bed than this pullout sofa.”
I laugh, the sound echoing through the room. “And why would you want to waste your money on that when I can just crash at your place?” I bat my lashes, passing him a demure look.
“So I can show up at your place anytime I want.” Leaning back, he rips the packet open with his teeth, then rolls on the condom.
When he teases me with his length, I grab the back of his neck, every inch of me alive with anticipation. “And why would you want to do that?”
“So I can have you anytime I want.” He exhales as he pushes into me, slow and restrained, filling me in a way only he can.
Our eyes meet as our bodies connect, but unlike before, it’s not just the joining of our bodies. It’s the joining of our hearts, our minds, our souls. I thought Trevor made love to me all those years we were together. He never did. But Julian… This moment, this feeling. This is exactly the love I’ve been searching for my entire life.
Maybe four isn’t such a bad number, after all.
Chapter Thirty-Six
My fingers draw light circles around the grooves of Julian’s scars as we lay in his bed, the motion now as innate as breathing. It’s a far cry from the morning I woke up in this same bed and had a panic attack about where I was, who he was. Now, this is the only place I want to be. It has been for the past two months.
As summer made way for fall, our relationship truly blossomed. We’ve opened up to each other in a way I never did with Trevor. I want Julian to know everything about me. And I want to know everything about Julian. Thankfully, he wants me to know everything, regardless of how sad and horrible. He shares these things because he knows I won’t judge him. I’ll love him in spite of it.
I’ll love him because of it.
It doesn’t matter that he still hasn’t uttered those three magic words to me. He will when he’s ready. In the meantime, I shower him with my own love.
“How did you meet Mr. Price?” I ask in a lazy voice, spent and sated after our latest round of lovemaking. As much as I enjoy going out with him and being seen on his arm, my favorite place is still in his bed. He’s an exciting and enthusiastic lover, one I can admit I’m incredibly addicted to.
“Mr. Price?” He peers down at me from where I rest in his embrace, relaxed from the steady rhythm of his beating heart.
“Yeah.” I continue tracing circles around his scars. At first, it made him self-conscious. Now, I like to think it offers him the comfort he needs, that he deserves. “I know what Camille and you have shared, but I get the feeling there’s more to it.”
“What? You don’t think I’m some criminal mastermind who took advantage of an old guy, like his children do?”
His words bring a smile to my face. Now that I know the real Julian Gage, thinking of him as a criminal mastermind is absurd.
“Absolutely not.” I shake my head. “Plus, I did the math. When you met him, he was in his sixties, not this elderly, feeble man his kids made him out to be.”
“That’s for sure. He had more energy than I did some days. Thankfully, the judge realized his kids were greedy and pissed off their father didn’t give them the bulk of his wealth.”
“But I also think there’s more to the story than you befriending a lonely
man over a game of chess.”
“I can’t get anything past you, can I?” he comments on a long sigh.
“No, you can’t.”
His lips curve into a small smile, eyes sparkling as he stares into space. He pulls me closer into him as he sighs, relaxing. If I asked this same question a few months ago, he would have closed up. Now he talks about his past with no hesitation. It hasn’t been easy. There have been moments he’s struggled to share certain things, especially when I asked about the aftermath of his mother’s death and he told me about the six months he spent in a juvenile detention facility before the judge ruled he acted in self-defense. Regardless, he’s slowly learning how to open himself to me.
“No one really knew how to handle me in any of my foster homes. I never got the help I should have when I was first placed in the system. I went to therapy, but it didn’t work…at least not for me. I kept blaming myself for what happened. When I got to be too much for my first family, they sent me on to the next home. The cycle repeated for years, so much so that I thought this was my penance for taking another man’s life.”
“Julian…” I tighten my arm around him, kissing his chest. “You don’t honestly believe that, do you?”
“I did at the time. And I’ll admit there are times I still do. I had no direction in life. When I first arrived at a new home, my foster parents would care for a little while, hoping to save some poor kid from becoming another statistic so they could brag to their friends about all the good they were doing. Until they realized how difficult it was. They’d quickly lose interest and wait for Child Services to come and take me to a new placement so they could try all over again with a new kid. By the time I was sixteen, I was so used to the cycle, I stopped caring, stopped trying. I’d been through so many foster homes, I’d lost count.”
“It couldn’t have been all bad. I’m sure you had friends at school.”
“I was never in the same one long enough to make friends. Child Services did everything to keep me in the same district, but it wasn’t always possible. I always had to start over again in new schools. After a while, I stopped trying to form friendships with anyone there, since I knew it would only be a matter of time before I was uprooted again. Plus, I hated being teased by everyone about the fact that I didn’t have real parents. I acted out, allowed my anger to get the better of me. I was suspended from school a lot. And that’s actually what brought Theodore Price into my life.”
