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Fuck.
“Helen,” I say, reaching for her arm as she marches past. She shrugs me off and keeps moving, yanking the studio door open so hard it bangs off the wall, then she’s gone, her footsteps stomping down the corridor. “Helen!”
My leg aches like a motherfucker as I limp to the doorway, my thigh hot and throbbing. I grip the wood frame, chest tight with panic, and yell: “Helen, you know I can’t chase you!”
The steps slow… then stop. There’s a distant growl.
My eyes slam shut with relief as she stomps back. Her scent brushes past me and I follow her back inside the studio, pointing at the chaise lounge. “I can explain. Sit.”
“You have exactly one minute, Mr Grangemoor.”
Okay. That’s plenty.
After all, I’ve been confessing my love for this woman in my head for months. I have it down to a fine art.
“The first night you came here, I had this dream…”
She doesn’t believe me at first, I can tell. My assistant sits there with her arms folded tight over her chest, her jaw hard, and glares like I’m her least favorite person on earth. That’s fair. But as it all comes tumbling out in a rush—the dreams, the longing, the despair when she pulled away—Helen begins to soften.
She blinks a few times, eyes damp. Her mouth softens and twists, and I keep going, dredging every last scrap of truth so she can hear it all.
“It hurt when you backed away, but it made sense to me, too. Why would you want a grouchy old man, Helen? You’re the most perfect creature I’d ever seen.”
Her breath hitches and she stares at her lap. Those arms unfold, fingers tangling on her legs, and her cheeks are pink. I limp closer, heart in my throat.
“I meant it when I said it didn’t matter who the father is.” She jerks her chin up, eyes flashing again, but I hold up a palm. “I know it’s me. I know that. But I was ready either way, sweetheart. Any part of you that was on offer, I’d take. Any chance to be a family with you. Don’t you know that by now?”
Her chin wobbles.
And lord, I’ve been the biggest idiot, but Helen lets me come closer; she lets me kneel before her with a groan. When her arms loop around my neck, I gust out a ragged sigh.
“Don’t give up on me now,” I mutter, our foreheads pressed together. “I may be a disaster, but I’ve never once given up on you.”
Her tiny noise splinters through my chest. And when Helen kisses me,reallykisses me, in daylight this time—I lose my goddamn mind. This is happening, and she’s…
Mine.
The word roars through me, my heart slamming back to life, and I kiss her so hard that her head bows back; I lick into her mouth, eager to taste.
Mine. Mine. This woman is mine.
She’s been mine all along.
And I’ve been hers. Fuck.
We have so much lost time to make up for. So many conversations to redo; so many things that will change moving forward. But this is the main thing, theonlything that matters right now: Helen, in my arms.
Kissing me back just as hungrily, her fingernails scratching at my beard. Opening up for me so sweetly, that robe sliding apart, and Christ, I’ll never be able to paint this moment properly. Will spend my life trying to capture the magic.
The chaise lounge creaks as I brace one hand on the green velvet arm.
“Sweetheart,” I say against her lips between kisses. “Which dream was it? Which night?”
Was I any good?That’s what I really want to know, but I’m almost too afraid to ask.
Can’t have been terrible, right? Or she wouldn’t want me now. If I’d known, though, I’d have pulled out all the stops. Given the performance of a lifetime, trying to persuade her to be mine.
But: “The storm,” Helen murmurs, yanking me closer by the arm, “the one where lightning struck nearby,” and I bury a groan in her neck. Her fingers trail down the front of my shirt, flicking the buttons open.
