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“You acted like I was a peasant back there.” I stare at him, confused.
“That’s because to me, you were. So what? You were also the most infuriating, entertaining, sweet, fascinating creature I’d ever laid eyes on. Those two things are not mutually exclusive. It was never really about them. Grace and Paul—so help me God, I’m tired of saying their names over and over again. They were an excuse. Something to fall back on every time you questioned why I was in your sphere, in your line of sight, every time I wanted into your rehearsals and your apartment and your bed. It hasn’t been about them since I walked into that theater and saw you.” He stops, frowning now, mulling it over. “Maybe even since Italy. Who knows? Not me, and I don’t care to find out. I’m completely consumed by you, and the last few months have been hell on earth trying to forget you.”
“But Grace—”
“What I had for Grace doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of how I feel about you. You’re the only woman who’s ever made me feel worthy without the armor of estates, money, and pedigree. You don’t care about any of those things. And it makes you special. You’re the exact opposite of Grace.”
My mind is running five hundred miles a minute. It’s going to take me a month, maybe two, to digest this entire conversation. I don’t even know where to begin.
“Then why did you insist on not kissing me at your apartment, the night you held me?” I finally find my voice, and it is choked. Tears prickle the backs of my eyeballs, never making their way out. “Why did you want to walk away the night we got into Paul’s office?”
“Because it was too much.” He starts pacing across my porch, murmuring, more to himself than to me. “I knew that if I had you, I would never let you go, and not letting you go wasn’t an option, because you were still hopelessly in love with Paul. I didn’t want to insert myself into another disastrous situation, of becoming obsessed with a woman who could never be mine. Once was enough. More than recommended, actually.”
He stops. Stares at me helplessly. “IamMars, and there might be life on it. There could be. Thanks to you. I burn for you, Winnifred. And I’m tired of living in the cold. Come back to New York. Make the place livable. For both of us.Please.”
I’m tempted. Oh, I’m so very tempted. But I’m still not sure if it’s the right thing to do. To leave everything behind again and go back to the place where every awful memory of mine was created. And there’s another part of me. A more apprehensive part that thinks of me as Nina. Chekhov’s Nina. And if I’m Nina, he must be Trigorin. A master of turning love into an unhealthy obsession like he did with his fiancée. He would try to ruin me without even meaning to—and he’d succeed.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks urgently. I stand up, and he gathers me in his arms.
I close my eyes. “I want to believe every word that comes out of your mouth, because I’ve been in love with you from that moment in Italy when our eyes met and the world ceased to exist. But I’m afraid I’m another obsession. Another great idea that could turn into a lackluster reality for you. I don’t want to change my entire life and move back to New York for another man. You may burn for me, but I’m terrified of getting burned.”
When I open my eyes, his face is still tender and hopeful. I want to say yes. But ultimately, and especially after what Paul put me through when we were trying to get pregnant, I have to put myself first. Ask all the right questions. And I’m not sure what they are yet.
“I’m not going to let you down,” he says quietly. “Try me.”
“I need time.” I’m proud of myself. Proud of my ability to put myself first for a change. Even if I’m frustrated with the idea of saying goodbye again.
This is the part where I expect him to close up on me. To become indifferent, aloof, but he surprises me by placing a kiss on my forehead—a gentle brush of a feather—before he steps away.
“I’ll be waiting.”
“I might never come back.” I look up, searching his face for ... something. I don’t know what. But he is done convincing me. I can see this on his face. He said his piece, and now the ball’s in my court.
He smiles, tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear, and kisses the tip of my nose. “I’llstillbe waiting.”
“Don’t I have a deadline?” I ask.
He shakes his head, grinning. “I feel strongly that you could do with some unconditional love, and that’s exactly what I’m going to offer you, Winnifred.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
ARSÈNE
The interesting thing about saying hello is that you have no idea how hard it’ll be to say goodbye to that same person.
When I first met Winnifred under the unforgiving Mediterranean sun, I thought of her as somewhat of a toy. Now, as I sit on a plane to take me from Nashville back to New York, I realize that she was the endgame.
She has been everything from that very first moment, right there, in that restaurant, when she challenged me. When she ridiculed me right back. When she refused to fit into the stereotype I’d attached to her.
There’s a good chance I will never see her again. I came here to say what I had to say, and now it is her decision to make.
All I’m left with is the hope that she’ll remember what brought us together.
Because it was never them—it was us.
And while it is true that I am a conceited, manipulative, highly serpentine man, I am also a person of many angles.
And angles, as we know, are everything in life.
