by Beck, Jamie
Should he touch her, hold her, jump off the bed and apologize? “Peyton?”
She opened her eyes, held his gaze, chin quivering. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I just . . . I’m not ready.”
Chapter Twelve
“Please don’t cry.” Mitch’s distraught expression completed her humiliation. “I’m sorry. God, I swear I thought—”
“You thought right.” She curled onto her side, tucking one of the red crushed-velvet pillows under her head before pulling her knees close, like she could make herself invisible. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I did.”
“No. I broke my rule. I came in here knowing we were both too buzzed to make good decisions. Knowing this could happen—hell, I wanted it so much I couldn’t stop myself.” He sat up and shook his head, wearing an expression of self-hatred. The same kind she donned anytime she thought about how much she’d hurt Claire.
“Mitch, look at me.” She waited to see the molten-gold shimmer in his hazel eyes. “I asked you here. I kissed you first. I orchestrated all this, starting earlier today when—stone-cold sober—I bought the wine. So don’t act like I’m your victim. You’re mine.”
His eyes widened. He didn’t say a word, but she noticed his lips twitch. A smile in hiding, perhaps?
“That’s right.” She pushed up with one arm, lying on her hip. “You’re my victim.”
“Willing victim.” He let that smile loose like a boy who’d got caught stealing the last piece of cake but knew he wasn’t really in trouble.
The band of anxiety around her chest eased, allowing some air to fill her lungs. “That’s nice.”
“Trust me, where I was headed involved a lot of things, none of them remotely ‘nice.’”
“Now you’re being a tease.” She fell back on the bed and closed her eyes. A few seconds later, she peeked at him. “I’m so messed up.”
He stared into space while rubbing his thigh. “I should go.”
“Wait.” If he could read her mind, he’d know she didn’t want him to go. Yet asking him to stay to cuddle would make her look more ridiculous than she already did. “I don’t want you to think that I was playing you.”
“I don’t, Peyton.” He leaned back on one elbow and grabbed her hand. “It’s been a long couple of weeks, and you’ve had only me to lean on. That can muddy things. Make you think there’s more to it.”
“I’m not confused. I’ve been thinking about this for a while, even before Paris. But this got so hot so fast it scared me.” She covered her face for a second, calling out to her old self. That woman would’ve dived into bed with Mitch and kept him there all night. “Not proud of that, but at least I’m being honest.”
His eyes got that distant look he had when analyzing his options and things he could say. Optimus mode. She fought her smile because it seemed inappropriate in the moment, despite how much this trait of his intrigued her.
“If you want to take it slow, I can do that.” He trailed a finger along her hip. “Nice and slow.”
His touch moved through her until she felt it everywhere. She needed it so much she almost cried again. Her selfish nature begged to drag him into her uncertain world, in which her moods blew hot and cold and the future might not be so very long. She covered his hand with hers. “It’s not that simple. I’m conflicted between what I want, what I’m ready to handle, and what you deserve. I don’t understand myself anymore, and my body . . . Whatever you think you see in me, you aren’t seeing clearly.”
“It’s simple to me. Maybe you feel a little lost now and then, but everything will work out. You’re a fighter, Peyton. I see you clearly, and I like what I see.”
Beautiful words, soothing as ointment on an open wound, but he couldn’t have thought this through.
“You only see me from a distance. Trust me when I say that’s the best view these days.” She looked away, ashamed of her own vanity.
He took her chin in hand and turned her face back in his direction. “I prefer you up close, where I can smell your perfume, touch your hair, and look in your eyes.”
“Other parts don’t look so good.”
“I’ve seen all the photos, and to me you’re still one of the sexiest women I’ve ever met. I won’t like you less because of a couple of scars.” He rested his hand on her thigh, soothing her. “I’ve fought my feelings this entire trip, but I have to say, I’m not sorry I gave up that battle. It feels damn good to be honest with you. You know me well enough to know that I don’t break my rules lightly. Doesn’t the fact that I’m lying here tell you all you need to know?”
“Mitch, it’s not only that.” She didn’t want to talk about her upcoming appointment, so she dodged. “Your life is complicated enough without taking on my baggage. Wouldn’t you be better off with someone fun and breezy who can make you smile, instead of another person to support through recovery?” Or worse . . .
“You’ve been pushing me to throw caution aside since we met, and to live in the moment. To chase happiness. What’s changed? Is there something else you’re not telling me?”
She wouldn’t discuss her concerns about the dryness down there or how the lack of nipple sensation might affect her enjoyment, or share how she hated her body for making her so afraid of grabbing hold of happiness when she couldn’t trust that she might have to give it all up. Everything inside screamed to push him away rather than end up devastated by yet another loss. “It’s been so long since I . . . you know.” She gestured at the bed. “Since before I was sick . . . since Todd. I . . . I’m not ready to handle too much yet . . .”
If she could disappear, she would try.
When embarrassment and shame caused her to sniffle again, he reached out for her, tucking her against his chest like a spoon.
“I’m sorry that guy hurt you.” He paused as if weighing whether to ask a question, then frowned like he’d decided against it. “I know you’ve been through a lot, and I’d never push. But I also can’t leave you here alone and crying. How about we turn off the lights and get some sleep and see what the morning brings?”
Falling asleep in his arms with no obligation to disrobe sounded about as close to heaven as a sinner like her would ever get. She lay there listening to the sound of his breath, noticing his blunt, neatly trimmed fingernails, and staring at the stray dark hairs that peeked out from his shirtsleeve.
Cuddling had been much overlooked in her “before cancer” love life. This definitely qualified as a silver lining. “Thank you.”
“For what?” His muscular body wrapped her in warmth and security.
She clasped one of his hands in hers and brought it to her lips. “For being a good guy.”
He hugged her tighter to him and kissed the back of her head. “If being a decent human is your idea of a good guy, we need to reset your expectations.”
Rolling over in his arms, she then planted one last kiss good night on his lips. “No matter what happens, I think you might be my very best worst mistake.”
He kissed her forehead and fell onto his back, dragging her with him until she was nestled in the crook of his arm and her head lay against his shoulder.
Following three focused, calming breaths, she closed her eyes and drifted into a fitful sleep.
At dawn, Mitch woke her when he accidentally bumped into the luggage rack while trying to navigate his way out of her bathroom without turning on any lights.
“Are you okay?” she asked, rubbing her eyes as they adjusted to the dim room.
“I’m fine.” He repositioned her suitcase on the rack. “Sorry I woke you, but I need to pack and shower before we head to the airport.”
“Oh, of course.” She pushed herself upright, glancing down at the wrinkled mess of her dress turned nightgown. Apparently she’d removed her bra sometime during the night. “I should get moving, too.”
He came to the side of the bed—freshly washed face, minty breath, perfect hair—and leaned down to kiss her good morning. “If we hurry, we could grab a decent breakfast b
efore we go.”
She nodded, although her hangover-induced queasiness intensified at the thought of digesting anything other than water or juice.
Mitch stared at her before letting his gaze roam the bed, the pillow on the floor, the open terrace door. “The only silver lining about leaving today is knowing this is my last flight for a while.”
“I’ll get you through it.” She smiled at him.
He winked and then grabbed his jacket on his way out the door.
Once he left the room, she set her feet on the cold wood floor before dragging her unwilling, achy body from the bed. Her pounding head demanded aspirin and water. She flicked on the bathroom’s bright light, which made her squint. When she caught her reflection in the mirror, she gasped. Hair matted on one side while shooting out the other like a scene from There’s Something About Mary. Mascara streaks beneath her eyes. Pasty skin.
No wonder Mitch had bolted from her room.
Bottles of medication and vitamins that she’d take for years to come littered the vanity. Mitch couldn’t have missed seeing the stark reminder of how unwell—how literally toxic—she was, either. Strike two.
She growled and swept them aside, sending them to bounce off the floor.
He’d said he didn’t care about her scars and her cancer, yet how could she trust that heroic claim? And what had she, a selfish woman who’d betrayed her friend for a man who left her at the first sign of trouble, done to deserve him?
She knelt to collect the bottles off the cold marble floor. After lining them up on the sink like toy soldiers—the battalion keeping her alive—she took her morning doses with an aspirin and water.
One by one, snatches of memories from last night replayed like yesteryear’s erratic Vine videos. She dropped her chin and covered her face with both hands, desperate to hide from the images. She’d thrown herself at him and then dissolved in tears, yammering about her body and her fears. An unattractive and pathetic display that only a person with a savior complex would find attractive. That made sense. He’d rescued his mom, his sister, his clients, and now her. Peyton understood very little about healthy love, but this didn’t seem like a good starting point.
For the first time ever, Mitch hardly thought about the fact that he was strapped in a chair thirty-six thousand feet above the earth, hurtling through space at five hundred miles per hour. Ocean’s Eight hadn’t held his attention. Planning for Kendra’s upcoming release and updating his PR tracker for the curated lists that would promote Peyton’s memoir had distracted him only a bit. But the main reason he’d been unconcerned about the flight was because he’d spent the majority of its eight hours trying to figure out what Peyton was thinking.
With the plane starting its descent, he’d almost run out of time to get an answer. He reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers with a firm squeeze. Without taking his eyes off their hands, he said, “We’ve spent the whole day avoiding talking about what happened last night. Is this your way of letting me down easy?”
He risked a glance at her face.
She’d sucked her lips inward and stared at their hands. “I’ve been thinking about it.” When she met his gaze, she was smiling. “I know, I—I rarely think things through before blurting opinions, but I’ve learned something from you these past weeks about the benefits of taking my time.”
His chest tightened around his lungs. “So what have you concluded?”
“I really like and admire you—”
He groaned and released her hand. “It’s okay. No need to continue the ‘let’s be friends’ speech.”
“It’s not that, Mitch.” She sighed. “Even at my best, I couldn’t find a good guy, so I’m kinda leery that this version of me would appeal to anyone.”
On the surface, he understood her point, but her distorted views about love were more layered than his most complex mille-feuille. “Do you think someone has to be perfect to be worthy of affection? If that’s the case, I promise I’m not worthy. No one is.”
She frowned. “Proving my point that I don’t know anything about relationships. I spent my twenties footloose because I had too many adventures to experience. Then I met Todd and, bam, I was all in at all costs. I thought that thunderstruck feeling was love, but I got burned by its lightning.”
“From what little I heard about Todd, he sounds nothing like me.”
“True, but I’ve always jumped into things with both feet, and looking back, that’s often led to pain. Leading with my heart again, after everything I’ve gone through to survive, seems much riskier now.”
“Or maybe all those lessons led you here”—he gestured between them—“to a place where you can appreciate a steady, if sometimes less carefree, kind of man.” He stared at her, and when she made no reply, he said, “Maybe whatever is between us won’t last, but it won’t be because I betray you or lead you on with false promises, Peyton. I can assure you of that much.”
The heavy, bumpy thud of the plane touching down distracted him. He closed his eyes, gripping the armrests as the wheels screeched in response to the pilot’s putting on the brakes.
Peyton touched his shoulder, bringing him back to their conversation. “I wish I’d met you before Todd and cancer. Before fear and selfishness tore me up. And when I say ‘selfish,’ I mean it. Hell, you’ve seen it on the tour. I’m struggling to find my way each day. How can my need to focus on getting myself together now be any good for you? You deserve someone in your life who can put you first for a change.”
He remained quiet as the plane began to taxi to the gate, remembering his mother’s warning that Peyton was not “their” kind of people. She’d grown up with choices instead of obligations. Her brush with death drove her to seek something larger-than-life while he’d be satisfied with something simple and grounded.
Yet he did understand her. In fact, he could even imagine feeling the need—the right—to be selfish. What would happen if he told his mother and sister that he wanted to focus on his own life instead of constantly managing theirs? That didn’t mean any life he built for himself could be interesting enough for someone like Peyton, though.
The clatter of unbuckled seat belts drew him back from his musing. Passengers stood and started wresting bags from the overhead bins.
He turned to her while they remained captive in their seats. “I won’t beg you when you’re so uncertain. After the Strand, we won’t have much contact, if any, unless you want it. When you leave here today, know that I think we could be exactly who the other needs. As you’ve pointed out, my life could use more laughter and adventure . . . more everything outside of my work and my family. If anything, you’ve convinced me it’s okay to be a little selfish now and then. And I’d love to help you figure out what you need in the future.”
She looked at him with a mixture of surprise and pride, but they deplaned before she could reply. While strolling toward customs, she slipped her arm through his. “Just when I think I have you figured out, you throw me for a loop, Mitch Mathis. Remind me not to play poker with you.”
He smiled, sensing a softening. An opening. Enough room for hope.
They wound their way through the crowd filled with couples and families with parents scolding their kids for playing around the carousels. Happy, tired people returning from trips with more memories than they could fit in any luggage. Things that made life worth living, as Peyton would point out if she were paying attention.
She, however, seemed to be lost in her own thoughts, staring ahead at nothing at all. Anyone looking at her now would covet her patrician good looks; the tailored black-and-taupe floral cargo slacks, strappy sandals, and sleek black silk top; the Tory Burch tote bag. She looked like something out of a magazine or movie—that girl with the perfect life.
He grabbed her cherry-red Louis Vuitton bag, which had to cost more than his monthly rent, knowing what no one else could see. She was no better off than anyone—and, in fact, she might be in worse shape than many. He did want to help her
find her way back to happiness, but it had to be her call.
After the final checkpoint, they spilled into the chaotic main terminal, walking past the chauffeurs with bored faces and whiteboard signs scrawled with client names.
“This is where we part.” The prospect of saying goodbye without any answer filled his chest with sand. “Will you get an Uber?”
He hadn’t quite finished his sentence when Peyton snapped her head toward a man who shouted her name. She let out an excited squeak. “Logan!”
Mitch stepped back as the siblings embraced. Logan lifted her off the ground for a second before setting her back down. Together they made quite a striking statement of beauty and privilege.
“Welcome home.” Logan messed with Peyton’s hair and then extended a hand to Mitch. “Hi, I’m Logan. You must be Mitchell.”
“Mitch,” he said, envying Logan’s easy charm and warmth. “Nice to meet you. After these past weeks with your sister, I feel like I know you. And, of course, your work precedes you. The photographs in the book are remarkable.”
“Thank you. And thanks for everything you’ve done to help promote our book.”
“My pleasure.” Mitch darted a look at Peyton, whose gaze bounced from her brother to him and back again.
“You two must be glad to be home after that endless dog and pony show.” Logan bumped shoulders with his sister.
Not so glad, Mitch almost uttered. He studied the siblings again, both all smiles and comfort. Real friendship. He and Lauren didn’t kid around that way. He’d been more paternal than friendly for most of her life. Could that dynamic change, or was it too late?
He said, “It’ll be great when you join us at the Strand next week.”
Mitch had a lengthy to-do list this coming week. Preorders looked good, but next Tuesday was launch day, and he wanted that Wednesday’s event to be flawless because Savant staff would attend.
“Can’t wait.” Logan nodded. “First I have to get through the party this weekend. Mom’s gone overboard.”
