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His warmth sears me when he moves his head away, so he can look at me. Everything he’s trying to say is right there, in those intense eyes.
His offers a small smile, pleading with only his stare.
But then he begs.
“Don’t leave me. Give me a chance.”
11
James
I’m an idiot.
That thought sang loud and clear in my head over and over and fucking over again all day long. Lorenzo Ricci, during my meeting, droned on about views of the Grand Canal thoroughfare and sunsets that could make you weep. I’d tried to be present and excited about something I’d wanted for so long, but all I could do was force a smile here and there.
I’m simply a shell now.
And the only person who can fill me with life is her.
Cerys Youngblood.
“Don’t leave me. Give me a chance,” I repeat, my voice gruff with unfamiliar emotion.
She tenses, her bottom lip quivering, and I realize I fucked up. I had a chance at something good and perfect and real, but I crumpled it in my fist just like I do everything.
“Cerys,” I plead as she steps away from me. I reach out to her, but she doesn’t touch me back.
“Your mind must be a terrible place,” she murmurs, her paint-speckled face scrunching as though it pains her. “So why must you spend so much time there?”
I blink at her and swallow. I have no answer.
When she turns, I follow her through the living room and into a studio. She walks over to the canvas she’d been painting and points at it. It’s every bit as beautiful as artwork I’ve spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on before. Except this painting is real. It’s climbing past the fibers, dripping onto the floors, and sliding my way. Taunting and mocking. The painting is me.
My eyes are closed in the picture. Brows furled together as if in excruciating pain. Two fists gripping bars in front of me as though I’m imprisoned. My mouth is parted and red is smeared across my face. Her lips. Red lipstick that belongs to her is the only evidence she exists in my dark, awful world.
“You let it control you,” she says, her voice biting angrily at me. “Big, strong, beautiful James Darden lets memories dictate his every action and move. You’re a puppet, James. This”— she gestures at the art— “controls you. Pulls your strings and makes you dance these dark little jigs.”
Her hand falls, and she regards me with a furious glare. I wilt under the anger she wields like a sword.
“I’m done . . .” She trails off, her lip wobbling. “I’m done watching this show.”
Hanging my head in defeat, I let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Which is why,” she states, her voice softening, “you’re going to get your ass in that kitchen and let me make you a grilled cheese sandwich. You’re going to tell me about yourself. You’re going to listen to me tell you stories. Stupid stories. Silly stories. Sad stories. We’re done with this little production you’ve been the master of.” I lift my gaze to meet her searing stare. Strong. Confident. Brave. Her lips quirk in a cute lopsided grin. “I’m running this show now.”
I have no words.
I simply stare at the brilliant angel blazing her light my way. All my shadows and darkness are being chased away by her. I’m not sure I want to know the man—the real man—who hides behind it all.
She disappears into the kitchen, and I have no choice but to follow. By clipping the strings she claims control of me, she tied them to her own fingers instead. I follow her because I have no choice. But if I did have a choice, I’d still follow.
I pull out a chair and sit. Awkward and uncomfortable at first in the cozy kitchen. But as I look around, I relax. The table has some wear and tear, the chairs don’t match, and yet I find myself calmed by it. Soothed by chaos and imperfection.
“Mom taught me how to make these when I was ten. I was so proud that I learned how to cook I made them for every meal. Each night, I forced my parents to eat grilled cheese sandwiches until one day my mom had had it. She told me enough was enough.” She looks over from the pan where she’s cooking and grins. “She taught me how to make grilled ham and cheese then.”
My lips tug at one corner when she snorts with laughter.
“Mom died five years ago and . . .” She shrugs, but I can hear the pain in her voice. “I’ve been lost without her.”
A chair scrapes, and it takes me a moment to realize I’ve risen from my seat. It’s like I crave to comfort her on a cellular, subconscious level.
“Sit,” she orders.
