Since she’d moved back into the hotel, they’d stayed in contact through occasional e-mails and texts, but they hadn’t seen each other. Except for one awkward lunch, where she’d smiled a bit too brightly and he’d weighed his every word way too long before speaking.
Tonight should resolve that awkwardness and uncertainty one way or another.
He tapped out his response.See you at seven?
Sounds perfect!
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of anxiety, as he checked the paperwork for the billionth time and readied hishouse for Lucy’s arrival. But then her Prius was pulling into his driveway, and she was climbing out of her car with a package in her hands, and he was going to lose his fucking mind if he hadn’t done so already.
He opened the door before she could ring the buzzer. “Hi, Lucy.”
“Hey, Seb.” She tilted her head, eyeing him with curiosity. “Are you okay? You look…I don’t know. Are you sick?”
“Nope.” With a hand at the small of her back, he ushered her inside his home. “Not sick. Happy you’re here.”
“Wow.” The furrows in her forehead deepened before she suddenly laughed. “You’re just saying that because I’m leaving soon.”
Had he really never told her he was glad to see her? Jesus.
“I’m saying that because it’s true.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “Do you want a drink? I have some?—”
“Thanks, but I can’t stay long.” She chose to sit on the armchair instead of the couch, the package in her lap. “I just wanted to give you this and say”—she cleared her throat, looking down at the sparkly ribbon on the rectangular box—“goodbye.”
From all signs, she wouldn’t receive what he wanted to say, the gifts he planned to offer her in return, as well as he’d hoped. But even at her most frustrated and hurt, Lucy Finch wouldn’t crush him underfoot. She wouldn’t do anything to him he hadn’t already done to her for years.
Only a few days ago, she’d offered to stay here in Marysburg for and with him.
He had to believe. In her. In them.
“I have something for you too.” Instead of taking the couch, which sat perpendicular to her and way too far away for his liking, he perched on the coffee table facing her. “Do you want to open your gift first?”
She shook her head and handed him the gaily wrapped package. “You go.”
The ribbon exploded into a profusion of joyful curls in the center. Not one of them was identical. Handmade, then. She’d carefully folded the edges of the paper and smoothed down the tape until it became invisible.
He opened the gift with care, loath to rip the thick wrapping. Finally, the folds of the tie-dyed paper separated, and he was looking down at himself. Or, to be precise, himself and Lucy. The two of them were lying on a small bed, staring at the ceiling, their heads close together. She was resting closest to the camera and giggling, her smile wide and bright, her nose stud glinting in the light from the bus windows. His face was largely in shadow, his amusement only revealed through the tucked corners of his mouth.
“The dick-lover’s Sistine Chapel. Our first sight of it is well worth commemorating.” He held the framed photo with care, as if it might sift through his fingers and disappear. “Did the film crew get you a still frame from their footage?”
She nodded. “Your house…” Biting her lip, she paused. “I thought you might like something joyful in your house. Something to remind you that you have a friend who cares about you and wants your happiness. Always and forever.”
She rushed on before he could respond. “If you don’t want anyone to see it, put it in your bedroom.” Her cheeks pinkened. “Although I suppose that’s a naïve thing to say. Of course you’ll eventually have someone else in your?—”
“Lucy.” He put down the photo and took her hands in his. “Thank you. I love it.”
Her fingers were trembling, and her eyes had turned bright. She was trying so hard not to cry, and his long-ignored heart cracked in his chest.
“I know just the spot for the picture.” Standing, he tugged her up beside him. “Let’s go and nail it in place.”
“Really?” She blinked hard. “You’re going to put it up?”
“Yes. Right now.” He held one of her hands all the way to his bedroom. “I’m thinking it should go to the left of the bed. There isn’t a lot of space on the other walls.”
Her brows pinched. “Not enough space? Your room looks like the cell of an antisocial monk who really loves pillow top mattresses.”
“See for yourself.” He waved her in front of him, gripping the picture frame with unsteady fingers as she walked inside.
Her gasp echoed in his ears.
