“So it sounds as if you were never actually like them?”
“I acted like them, though. Like an asshole. Entitled. Spoiled. I’ve never been anything but rich. I do what I want, when I want. Yeah, I earn my own income, but I still ran through women like they were nothing. One after another, just for the hell of it. Treated everyone around me like shit.”
“What changed?” I am very curious.
“You.” You don’t look at me as you say this.
My heart sinks. Twists. “Me? Jonathan, I did nothing but what I was paid to do.”
“I want you, X. But I can’t have you, and I know that. It burns my ass, you know that? We’re not even friends. I don’t even get that much. But you . . . you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met. You . . . matter. You need no one, you need nothing. You don’t take shit, not from anyone. I don’t know what it was . . . what it is about you that made me see everything differently. I honestly don’t know. I just . . . since meeting you, I guess I just want to be someone that matters.”
“You matter, Jonathan.” I dare another sip, a longer one, a mouthful of tart, crisp bubbles washing over my tongue, rushing through my brain. “And . . . we are friends.”
“But only friends.” It isn’t a question, but there is a faint, vague, boyish note of hope.
It hurts to crush it.
“Yes, Jonathan. Only friends. It is all that is possible.”
“Why?” You turn, pivot to rest a hip against the bar, face me.
I stand with my back to the bar’s edge, flute held in both hands, watching the crowd flux and shift. “I cannot answer that, Jonathan. It just . . . is.”
“Can’t you change it?”
I let out a breath. “No. I cannot.”
“Do you want to?” Your breath is on my ear. You are too close. Too close. I hate it when you do this. You are my friend, Jonathan. And that is something monumental to me, but you cannot see it.
I wish I could make you see what your friendship means to me. But I do not know how.
“It wouldn’t matter if I did.” I whisper this, because it’s something I should not say. But I do, recklessly.
Thomas is far enough away that he cannot overhear our conversation. I don’t think. But he still makes me nervous. He’s there to keep me safe, and to keep me close. I cannot help wondering what he would do if I were to try to leave, here and now. Bring me back, probably. But . . . where would I go? The world is an expensive place.
A dangerous one, too.
“Why not, X? Why wouldn’t it matter?” Your voice is so close I can feel the vibrations.
Something snaps inside me. “Damn it, Jonathan! Stop asking questions I can’t answer!” I toss back the rest of the champagne, half a flute’s worth, swallow it, feel it rush through me, burn my throat on the way down, hit heavy in my stomach.
I flee. Through the crowd, head ducked, angling for the small discreet doorway hiding the restrooms. Thomas is behind me, following silently at a distance.
I push open the nearest restroom door, lungs seized, eyes burning, chest aching, heart thumping heavily, seeing through a blur. Stall door, slammed open, slammed closed. Lean back against the cold metal door, fight for calmness. Fight for breath.
I do not desire you, not physically. But there is something there, some spark of need. You incite doubt in me. Make me wonder at my own life, at my ordered existence. Make me question who I am.
And those questions bring on panic attacks.
I sniffle. Blink hard.
NO.
I cannot let loose this flood of emotion. I am in control. I am in control—breathe, breathe—I can’t do this, not here, not now. Not because of Jonathan Cartwright the Third. You know nothing of me. You want me because you can’t have me, and that is all it is. And whatever kinship I may feel for you in return is based on less than that. You represent my most obvious success. That’s all it is.
I like my life.
I am content.
I do not need more.
I do not want to know what else may exist, out there, for me.
I am safe under Caleb Indigo’s protection.
So why am I fighting tears?
I hear the door open, close. A faucet runs.
Silence, but the knowledge that someone else is out there, fixing her makeup, probably, steels me. I cannot be weak. Will not be. I viciously push down my emotions. Shut them off. Bury them. Hold my head high, and exit the stall.
Freeze.
I am in the men’s room.
When I exit the stall, look up, see the man, I am struck dumb. A man stands facing me, a cell phone in his hands.
I am left breathless.
There is beauty, and then there is perfection. I have known many beautiful men. Some rugged, some pretty. Some merely handsome. None of them have ever compared to Caleb Indigo, however, in terms of sheer masculine appeal.
Until now.
This man?
He is the splendor of heaven made flesh.
TEN
Hey there. Looks like one of us has the wrong bathroom, I think.” His voice is low and warm and amused and kind, bathing me in sensation.
I cannot move, cannot breathe. He is looking at me, seeing me with eyes so blue they make my heart stutter in my chest, eyes that defy description.
There are countless shades of blue:
Azure. Periwinkle. Baby blue. Navy blue. Ultramarine. Celestial. Sky. Sapphire. Electric. So many others in variation.
And then there is indigo.
Oh, how ironic.
His eyes, they are indigo.
I try to speak, but my mouth only opens and closes without producing sound. Something in me is broken, off-kilter.
“You okay? You look upset.” A quick step, and I am assaulted by the scent of cinnamon gum, laced with hints of alcohol and cigarettes. But the cinnamon, it is in me, in my nose, on my taste buds.
His hand touches my elbow; another brushes past my cheek, not quite touching my skin, sweeping errant hair away from my eyes.
“I’m fine.” I manage a cracked whisper.
He laughs. “I wasn’t born yesterday, honey. Try again.”
My eyes prick. “I’m sorry to disturb you.” I force my body into motion, push past him.
He grabs me by the bicep, spins me back around, and I’m pulled up against his hard warm broad chest. “You haven’t disturbed me. The opposite, if anything. Take a minute. No need to rush off.”
“I have to go.”
“All the better reason to stay, then.” Holy gods above, that voice.
Warmth, like afternoon sunlight through a window on closed eyelids, warming skin. The warmth of early morning, before true consciousness has taken over, when all of existence is narrowed down to the cocoon of blankets.
I don’t understand what he means, but his hands are gently, politely, firmly on my shoulders, my cheek is against his chest—not at all politely, not at all appropriately. And I do not want to move. Not ever. I am at a height that my ear is over his heart, and I hear it . . .
Bumpbump—bumpbump—bumpbump.
Slow and steady and reassuring.
“What’s your name?” he asks, a single fingertip tracing an intimate line from my temple around the curve of my ear, down to the base of my jaw.