“Why do you always pull away?” she questions, but she doesn’t move. I’ve perched her on a high stool and, with her foot all bandaged, if she were to move, she’d have to jump off onto her other foot.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a woman this close to me,” I tell her honestly. There’s no need to lie, to make up stories about who or what I am.
“The infamous recluse, Julian Elliot.” Her voice has me looking up. “I searched online for you before I even landed in New Orleans. I couldn’t find much, so I figured you preferred your privacy.”
“I do.” Nodding, I run my fingers through my hair and tug the strands. “I used to. Being someone well-known for their critical reviews and harsh comments, I decided a long time ago to steer clear of the public eye.”
“Did that make writing those reviews easier?” Her question makes me ponder my answer. I’ve never considered it like that. I never liked being photographed, and I always hated it when my father would force me to go to events alongside him when I was a child. I’ve always been a lover of indoors, spending my time alone with my painting.
“When I was growing up, my father was shoved into the spotlight. His art was his signature. Everyone knew him, saw him, put him on a pedestal.” I’ve never told anyone this before, and I don’t know why I feel the need to confess this to Nea. “I watched him rise. The fame and fortune took him to places most could only dream of on a good day.”
“There’s a but coming,” she says, and I nod.
“But he fell. Anyone that high will fall. It’s inevitable.” I move around the kitchen, making sure all the broken shards are swept up. Grabbing the Hoover, I swallow up any smaller pieces before I stop, setting down a mug of coffee for Nea as I continue. “He had fallen into a depression before he died. He was broken, torn up inside, and nothing helped. No amount of drugs, alcohol, or even therapy.”
“I’m sorry, Julian, I didn’t know that.”
“Nobody does,” I respond. “Because he ensured that people saw the polished, pristine image they had of him.” This time, I meet her gaze, finding it filled with empathy - no pity - which calms me. I never want people to pity me because even though he did break after years, he was a good father.
“But you’re not him,” Nea insists. Gently, she pushes off the chair and hobbles over to where I’m standing. Her arms wrap around my middle, shocking me at the action. She’s warm, gentle, her touch burning through me. Feeling her skin on mine sends my mind into overdrive.
“Sometimes I feel like him, Nea,” I tell her. The rawness in my throat is an indication of just how painful it is to remember my father’s epic fall from grace. At the time, I was nothing more than a young man with big dreams. But watching my hero take that tumble, it did things to me.
She glances up at me, her hands coming up to my face, and she cups my cheeks in her delicate hands. “You’re not him. You’re you. Different, special, handsome.” The last word is a whisper, and every drop of blood makes its way directly to my dick, hardening for her. I’ve craved this woman since the day she walked in here. And all the time I’ve ignored my need, it’s only grown. It’s only turned me crazy with lust for her.
“This is only going to end in heartbreak,” I tell her. The belief that I’ll hurt her is at the forefront of my mind. And I know I’ll never be able to hide it. Fear has held me back from wanting another woman the way I wanted my ex-wife because I knew I wasn’t the perfect husband.
“Yours or mine?” Nea challenges. She watches me, longing burning in her gaze, and I allow my hands to trail over her shoulders, down to her hips, and I tug her against me. I know she can feel my hardness against her stomach, but she doesn’t shy away from it. She just smiles. It’s a knowing grin because she realizes that as much as I try to fight this, it’s inevitable.
“Both.” The word is a rasped confession on my tongue, and it falls free between us. It’s a promise that I can’t escape because, somehow, I know I’ll break her heart.
“Then, I suppose we better make sure we enjoy this while it lasts.” Nea looks at me with an expression that holds all seriousness. I want nothing more than to believe her, and I’m about to refuse her when she wraps her arms around my neck and pulls herself up to plant a kiss on my lips.