We stand like that, the rain thrumming on his umbrella and bouncing off the pavers at our feet. I can’t make myself move or say a word. He is stern and forbidding and beautiful, his dark hair misted with silver raindrops.
I haven’t seen him since the night he ran off on me, but time has done nothing to dull the punch of attraction I feel whenever I’m in his vicinity. If anything, it’s worse now. I take a shaking breath, and his gaze darts to my lips.
“Fornasetti,” he finally blurts out, though his voice is husky.
“What?” My own voice is a sad croak.
John’s brows pull together. “You know those Italian plates? The graphic black-and-white ones with the girl on them. She has these big eyes and cute little nose and sweet bud of a mouth?”
I must be frowning, because his cheeks flush and he rushes on. “You remind me of her.”
“Of a girl on a plate?”
The flush on his cheeks deepens. “Yeah … Never mind.”
He quickly puts in the right code and opens the door. His touch on my lower back is gentle as he guides me out of the cold and rain. I trudge to the elevator, leaving puddles in my wake.
With a soft curse, John shrugs out of his damp flannel shirt and wraps it around my shoulders before hugging me tight to his side. “You’re freezing.”
I hear the condemnation in his voice, like he knows how long I’d been outside, trying to get in and failing. I bite my lip harder. Without a word, John punches the button to our floor. The elevator might as well be a tomb in the silence that follows. I glare down at my toes and shiver while John holds me closer and rubs my arm with his big hand.
I should shrug him off, but he’s warm and it feels too good. Yep, that’s me, choosing basic human comfort over pride. My pride takes another hit when we reach our little landing and John types in the code for my front door.
I lurch back, my gaze finally snapping to his. “You know the code?”
John has the grace to wince. “Killian is my best mate. We know each other’s for safety reasons.”
“Not feeling a whole lot safer right now,” I grumble, stomping into the penthouse.
He follows me in. “I hope you’re pissed on principle and don’t actually think I’d ever come in here uninvited.”
I glance back at him, and my steps slow when I take in his hurt expression. A sigh leaves me. “Yes, it’s the principle.” I give him a weak smile. “If you really wanted to get in, you could just jump over the back wall like I did.”
I don’t think he finds my attempt at humor funny right now. But his stiffness eases. “Any time you’re doing yoga naked, let me know, and I’ll hop over that wall in a hurry.”
Despite the tightness in my chest, I laugh a little. “I’ll put that at the top of my to-do list.”
A shiver wracks my body, and he gestures toward the bedroom with a tilt of his head. “Go get dry. I’ll make you some tea.”
“You’ll make tea?”
His lip quirks as he heads for the kitchen. “Perhaps you don’t know this but, at heart, I am an Englishman. Learning how to make a proper cuppa is a one of life’s first lessons.”
I remember then that John is from an extremely wealthy English family. “Your accent is faint, and comes out at odd times.”
Maybe it’s because he divided his childhood between New York and England. But John’s reaction tells me otherwise.
His grimace is so slight I almost miss it. “When we started the band, I tried my hardest to lose the accent. Perhaps I was a bit too successful at that.”
“But why?” When it peeks out, his accent is lovely.
John heads toward Killian’s kitchen, giving his back to me. When he finally answers, his tone is dull. “For the British, your accent defines you. The instant you open your mouth to speak, people know where you come from. My parents are elitist snobs. They hated everything about what I was doing and who I was trying to become.”
He stops at the kitchen counter and stares absently at the cabinets. Tension runs along his shoulders, making the muscles beneath his shirt bunch tight. But then he looks back at me, and the smile he tosses my way is careless and just a bit cocky. “Since they were doing their best to erase me from the family, I thought I’d return the favor.”
Jesus. Hurt for him presses on my chest and urges me to give him a hug. I know all about being abandoned and the defiant rage that follows. I could tell him about that, give him a piece of my own pain. But I also know body language, and his is fairly screaming, “Back off, please.” Besides, we’re not supposed to do heavy and real. He made that clear when he sprinted out of the party. This confession must be an aberration—a slip brought on by my nosiness.