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His jaw clenched. She surmised that he was gritting his teeth.
“It’s as smooth as a baby’s bottom,” she told him, except for the slightly raised scar tissue in places. “I find this more beautiful than you can imagine.”
His shudder hurt her. For him. And maybe for her, too. It was as though he didn’t believe her. Lifting an arm, he pushed her away.
Kacey didn’t step back. She grabbed his arm and ducked beneath it to sit on his lap. Then with both hands, she held his face and looked him right in the eye.
She might have done the same on set. She didn’t know. She only knew that she wasn’t on any set. She was living life and had to deliver the most convincing set of lines she’d ever uttered.
“Michael, this scar...it’s substance. It’s real. A symbol of horrible tragedy, yes, but it’s also a trophy. Every day it tells the world that you are a survivor. It speaks of your inner strength.”
He shifted beneath her. She wasn’t done.
“Look at my face, Michael.” He had been all along. “It doesn’t have a single story to tell. It’s as shallow, as lacking in substance, as the characters I play. I was born with these bones, with this skin, and I’ve done nothing but enhance and preserve them. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to make this about me. Right now, all I can see...or feel...is you.”
He swallowed. His lips parted. But she still hadn’t finished. Words boiled up inside her and had to spill over.
She touched his new, slightly misshapen jaw. “Add to this scar the actions of your everyday life, the way you put yourself out there and serve your clients, the help you give to the women at the Stand and, most important, the unconditional support you give your little brother...even the friend you are to me. Well, it speaks louder than anything I’ve ever heard. It’s poetry, Michael. The kind that lives on through generations. It’s real beauty. Lasting beauty. The kind that touches souls, Michael. You, with this scar, are the most beautiful human being I have ever known.”
And that was saying a lot. She’d grown up with Lacey, who was a pretty tough act to follow in the kindness and decency department.
Well, in pretty much any department.
His eyes glistened. He blinked.
And there she was, sitting on his lap, in his office, with the door shut. No one called cut. There was no dropping of character, no release of the emotional tension. No clear understanding of when or how she was to extricate herself.
His hand rose—to push her away again, she thought—and she braced herself to stand. He brushed the hair back from her face.
“You, my friend, are captivating.”
This wasn’t about her.
“And I need you to get off my lap before I do something we’ll both regret.”
His look wasn’t sexy. Or funny. But still, the pointed way he tilted his head, along with those words, was like that cut call.
She stood and straightened her blouse over her jeans, considering whether or not she should apologize.
“Thank you,” he said. She thought he meant for standing up.
With a nod, she made her way back around the desk, eyeing her bag, wondering what time it was, whether or not she could still make her hair appointment, remembered she’d canceled it. Thought about the pedicure and manicure. About one of the women who did her hair at the studio—wondering if she’d have time to work her in just for a style that afternoon...
“I meant that, Kace.”
Swinging around, she looked at Michael. He was standing, too. She resisted the urge to look desk level and see if there was evidence of her misstep.
Misseat, rather.
“You are by far the best friend I have ever had. I mean that. And...thank you.”
His eyes glowed with...real stuff. And it was all for her.
“I meant what I said,” she told him, just to be clear.
“I know you did. That’s why I’m thanking you.”
She grinned then. Just because it was there and she had to let it out. “So...”
