“And if he gets in your head again, how long will it be before you get there again?”
“I’m past him. And this show is for me.”
“And what about Nick Rogers?”
I frown. “What about him?”
“Is he still distracting you?”
“You mean, inspiring me?”
“I take that as a yes. And I thought you were painting for you?”
“I am.”
“And yet, one man convinced you to stop painting. Another convinced you to paint again.”
That assessment hits me hard. “That’s not—”
“I need to know that you’re a painter no matter who is in your life or what is going on in your life.” His line beeps and he curses. “Macom’s calling me. I’ll handle him. You avoid him. And paint. Fuck the winery, Faith. Be a damn painter.” He ends the call and I grimace. Fuck the winery. He knows I can’t do that, not with the money connected to it, but it doesn’t matter to him. It’s not his money. My art could be. It’s a thought that reminds me that Nick understands why I can’t walk away from the winery, and yet, he pushes me to embrace my art.
Glancing at the time on my phone, I suddenly realize I’ve been sleeping for two hours when I’m supposed to fly home today. I grab my boots and my head spins, while my stomach growls. I’m not drunk, but I’m not myself, and I don’t like it. There is enough spinning out of control in my life without me drinking myself there, too. But then, doesn’t the fact that I let this happen here with Nick, say trust? On a core level, I didn’t even recognize until today that I trust Nick. I’m not sure who I said that about last.
Finishing the task of pulling on my boots, I stand up, testing my footing, and decide that I’m light-headed, but otherwise, really okay. I walk to the bathroom to pee and fix my face, frustrated as my conversation with Josh replays in my mind, as does the memory of Macom that Josh had brought forth. And suddenly, I need to see Nick. I need to feel the connection I have with him, the trust. And the minute he touches me or kisses me or simply looks at me, I will.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Faith
On my quest to find Nick, I quickly make my way through the bedroom to the hallway. I head down the stairs, only to grab the railing with the queasy, dizzy sensation called foolishly drinking syndrome, which I’m fairly certain is a real medical term. Or perhaps it’s the kind of college kid I never was, and am not now, thus I should not be using it in my life—ever. A thought that has me taking slow, cautious steps, down to the first level of stairs to ensure I don’t tumble downward.
My feet are thankfully still on solid ground as I reach the platform below and turn the corner to take the second level of steps. Instead I find myself halting at the sight of Nick and another thirty-something man, with buzz cut blond hair, sitting at the island bar, both men with files and computers in front of them. Aware that I’m about to interrupt their obvious work session, I fully intend to sneak back up the steps, but instead, find myself staring at Nick. Something inherently sexy about the way his brown hair tied at his nape, his high cheek bones, and full mouth come together to accent his masculine beauty. The man literally oozes power and arrogance, reminding me that he is all about control. All qualities that remind me of Macom and my mother in different ways, and that I swore I never wanted in my life again. And yet, Nick might as well be a drug, and me an addict, because I am officially incapable of walking away. Some might even call my attraction to him a form of self-destruction, and yet, Nick is more than the sum of those descriptive words. He’s become the wings in the wind of change for me. The one person in my life who has ever truly lifted me up.
Shaking myself, I take a step backward, but the stranger with Nick sits at the end cap of the island facing me, and suddenly, his gaze lifts and lands on me. Nick follows his visitor’s lead, his attention immediately rocketing to me as well, and when his gaze meets mine, I forget leaving. I forget the stranger. There is just this man taking my life by storm in all the right ways, and that connection we share that I was looking for. The bond, I am now certain that we’ve shared in different incarnations since the moment we tangled words in my mother’s gardens, our connection intense and fierce, even then.
“Faith,” he says, pushing to his feet, his voice warm, welcoming, the look in his eyes, hot. “Join us.”
“No,” I say, holding up my hands. “Keep doing what you’re doing. I just wanted you to know that I was going to do some painting.” But he has already stuffed documents into his briefcase, shut the lid, and is now crossing the room toward me, his stride long, confident. Everything about this man is powerful, intense. Riveting.
“I’m going to go paint,” I say again, hurrying to meet him at the bottom of the steps. “I can tell you’re working and I didn’t mean to—”
He pulls me to him and kisses me, his really wonderfully hard body absorbing the softer lines of mine. “Don’t do that,” he orders softly, a rough, intimate quality to his voice.
“Do what?”
“Act like you don’t belong here, because you do. And since you obviously don’t know that yet, I’ve got work to do. Abel’s a close friend, of which I have few. I wanted you two to meet. And we ordered pizza with the intent of waking you up to join us.”
“You did?”
“Yes,” he confirms. “We did. How do you feel?”
“Unsteady,” I admit, my hands on his upper arms. “I don’t know what I was thinking drinking like that.”
“I’d like to think that you trusted that you were here with me, and safe.” He caresses my hair behind my ear. “If you fall, I promise I’ll catch you.”
“You already did,” I say, my hand flattening on his chest, my mind reflecting on the secret I sense in him, and trying to understand when I pain him. “I’ll catch you, too. You know that, right?”
His gaze sharpens and then darkens, a hint of that secret flickering in his eyes, here and gone in a few flashed seconds. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says softly, but I sense the wall he now throws up, even as he twines the fingers of one of his hands with mine. “Come sit down and meet Abel.”