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I flick through the images, wondering why I never knew that he did so many shoots for fun.
I go back to the search and go down the list of sites. There are charity auctions he’s participated in, the prices some of his images sold for—holymotheroffuckingfuck!—and his name associated with some big names. Both professionally and personally. Both here and in London.
Do I even know him at all?
The man I know is down to earth. He’s relaxed and playful, and he doesn’t hesitate to hold anything back. I know he can rock a suit as much as the hottest New York billionaire and wear his jeans as well as the hottest music heartthrob.
I don’t know the man standing next to that world-famous model or the up-and-coming actress. I don’t know the man smiling with the TV host or the man dining with the country’s most famous journalist.
My eyes burn with the realization that I don’t know him. For all my questions, all my desires to know who Tyler Stone is, I’ve never really discovered anything.
He’s a mystery to me.
I press the back button and set the laptop on the coffee table. Angus hops up onto the sofa with me and curls up on my thighs. He rests his head and front paws on my stomach, and I smile sadly as I run my fingers across his head.
“What am I gonna do, buddy?”
He rubs his head against my palm and purrs.
My lips twitch again, still sadly, and I rest my head back on the arm of the sofa. I scratch behind his ears and look down at him blindly, embracing the silence of the room.
It’s sure quieter than my mind.
The lamp in the corner of the room clicks on, jolting me from my sleep. I sit up sharply, rubbing my eyes. “What the hell?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” Tyler’s voice drifts across the room. It’s quiet, but there’s a razor-sharp edge to each word.
“I’m not following.” Angus jumps off my legs and runs into the spare bedroom.
Angus jumps off my legs and runs into the spare bedroom. Tyler leans against the wall, his hands in his pockets, his button-down shirt undone halfway. The shadows from the dark side of the apartment mingle with the light from the room, casting an eerie glow across his face.
“Bad seafood,” he says simply. “I didn’t think anything of it. It’s reasonable—until I realized halfway through dinner that the only seafood you eat is salmon.”
“So?”
“You can eat salmon uncooked. Plus the fact you eat it at least once a week because it’s your favorite food—you’d know instantly if it wasn’t right.”
I freeze.
“So I spent half my night worrying about how you were when, in reality, you’d lied to me.” He looks up and the emotion is his gaze cuts me. “If you didn’t want to meet my parents, you just had to say. I wouldn’t have forced you into it if you weren’t ready.”
Guilt. Heavy, heavy guilt wedges into my body and takes up residence in my heart.
“It’s not that,” I whisper, getting up and walking into the kitchen. My mouth is dry.
“Then what is it?”
I turn on the tap and fill the glass. I take a drink before I reply. “I don’t… I don’t know if I can talk about it.”
My phone buzzes from the sofa and I walk back to it. Then I glance at the screen.
Dayton: Well? You’ve surely peed by now!
I throw it back down, set the glass on the table, and wrap my arms around my stomach. Like holding it will keep the baby a secret.
“Don’t know if you can talk about it?” he asks, repeating my words back to me, anger sneaking in now. “What the hell does that mean? You lie to me and can’t even tell me why?”
“Yes,” I reply, closing my eyes.
