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Her gaze wanders from the book to my face. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say back. “What are you reading?”
She glances at the book again. “It’s a memoir. It was written more than fifty years ago.”
“So I can’t accuse you of penning that one?”
That lures a laugh from her. “Not this one.”
I step into the room. “You’ve written a few notable ones, haven’t you?”
She shrugs a shoulder. “Everyone’s life is notable in some way, so I guess the answer is yes.”
That’s one of the things I love most about her. Every person she meets is fascinating to her. She’s always viewed life through the lens of a curious soul who wants to know everyone’s story.
“Have you written much of Denia’s book yet?”
She shakes her head. “A little bit. I’m still gathering and learning. I’m hoping I can interview a man who was incredibly important to her soon. I need his insight to round out my research.”
“Who?” I cock an eyebrow. “Who’s the guy?”
She wags a finger in the air toward me. “It’s you.”
I laugh. “Me? You want to interview me for the book?”
“Yes. I want to interview Holden too.” She sighs. “You two were the most important men in her life when she died.”
I pat the center of my bare chest. “Did she tell you that, Sinclair?”
She bites her bottom lip. “Every chance that she could.”
I didn’t think I needed to hear that, but it’s put to ease something inside of me. “Really?”
She rubs the center of her forehead. “Really. She talked about you both a lot.”
“About how I left?” I steel myself to hear what my grandmother thought about that.
We talked about it briefly before I left New York City. Denia told me she understood my need to get away. I put faith in her words, and even though we often spoke on the phone while I was gone, I never made it back to see her before she died unexpectedly.
“No.” Sinclair shakes her head. “About when you were kids. About the joy you brought her. She loved you a lot, Jameson.”
I somehow keep my emotions in check and nod.
She places the book on a small table next to the chair. “We need to go through her bedroom. I know you’ve been avoiding it, but we need to.”
I take a step back into the hallway to gaze at the closed door of my grandmother’s room. “Now?”
“If you want to.”
I hold out a hand to her. “I want to.”
We hold hands as we make the short trek to my grandmother’s room. I wait while Sinclair reaches down to the doorknob.
Her gaze meets mine. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
I lean down to kiss her forehead. “I’m sure. Let’s do it.”
She swings open the door, and with just the lights from the city illuminating the lavish space, I step forward first, tugging at her hand.
“What’s that?” Her finger flies into the air, pointed toward a framed painting on a wall near the glass doors that lead out to the terrace.
I hit the light switch to get a better view. “What the hell?”
Sinclair breaks free of my grasp to sprint toward the painting. “This is the best thing ever, Jameson.”
I scrub a hand over my face as I trail her every step. “I can’t believe she saved that thing.”
Sinclair turns to me as she runs a fingertip over the frame. “Is this me? This is me, isn’t it? You painted this.”
What once felt like a failure on my part is bringing tears to the eyes of the woman I adore.
I step closer to chase her tears away with a brush of my fingers. “I painted that for you when I was a kid, Sin.”
It’s the painting I did when I was twelve or thirteen. It’s been placed in a black frame. This wasn’t here the last time I visited my grandmother before I left the city.
“I love it,” Sinclair whispers. “I love this too.”
My gaze shifts to where her finger is pointing at another frame. It contains a photograph of the two of us from our high school graduation. It’s a candid shot taken at a moment neither of us was aware of.
I’m staring down at Sinclair as her hand rests in the center of my chest. We’re both wearing our caps and gowns, but we’re lost in each other gazes as our classmates mill around behind us.
“See how I’m looking at you,” I say. “I was in love with you then.”
“What?” Sinclair’s voice cracks. “You loved me then?”
I nod. “A lot. I love you even more now.”
She turns to face me. With her bottom lip trembling, she says the words I’ve waited a lifetime to hear. “I love you, Jameson. I love you too.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Jameson
Nothing can fuel a man more than the love of a woman. There’s even more truth to that if the man in question has loved that woman since he understood the concept – maybe even years before that.
