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“Trust me,” he said. “It’s better for Sof anyway if she doesn’t inherit. No one needs that kind of pressure. Not me. Definitely not my little girl.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t so sure. Not that I cared whether Sofia became a duchess, but more the question of whether or not she would want the choice.
After all, who wouldn’t?
Or was there a different reason he didn’t want her—or me—to be a part of that world?
I turned to the pool, unwilling to entertain that question for now. We’d opened up enough baggage for the evening. This was supposed to be a reunion, not a therapy session.
I sighed, my muscles suddenly aching for release. “Well, your onsen looks divine. I can’t imagine anything but total tranquility in there. Bliss.”
“Ces.”
I turned to find the crooked smile I loved so much had reappeared. Like a direct call to my heart, it made me sing from within.
“I’m really fucking happy you’re here.” Xavier’s deep voice carried over the breeze, like he himself was a part of the lush surroundings. “I might forget to say it sometimes. I’m not very good at saying how I feel. But I am.”
I swallowed, heart so full it felt stuck in my throat. “I—thank you. That makes me happy to hear. Really happy.”
The smile widened, and Xavier reached out to take my hand. His thumb drifted over my knuckles, then he pulled me to him and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “Good. Now, about this pool…” He stood back; one black brow rose impishly. “Want to relax with me?”
SIX
Steam rose from the hot water like the lace of a bride’s veil, clouding the blue of the night. For the first time, I realized just how stressed I’d been.
All day, since leaving for the airport in New York. For the last several days, getting Sofia and myself ready to leave our home for an entire summer.
For the last six months, since reconnecting with Xavi.
Since having a daughter at twenty-three.
Lord, maybe I’d been wound tighter than a guitar string my whole life.
Relax, yes. That was definitely what I needed.
I moved to unzip my dress, but the sight of Xavier removing his clothes, casually unaware of the way his muscles flexed and simmered in the moonlight, stopped me.
He looked up, catching me gawking, and smirked. “All right?”
“Oh, um. Yeah.” I blinked but didn’t stop staring. Because I could. He was all mine, wasn’t he? And he really was a work of art.
He slowed his movements, peeling off one layer at a time until he stood before me, shirtless and utterly comfortable in his skin.
I tipped my head, peering. “Did that always go so far down, or has it been too long since I saw you last?”
I gestured toward his tattoo, its amalgam of designs twisted and turned around his left wrist up to his neck. Now it slid down his chest as well, past his ribs, dipping even beyond his jeans.
Xavier looked shyly down his chiseled body and back to me. “I—er—added to it last month.”
I approached but didn’t touch him. Not yet. Instead, I leaned close and examined the black ink that decorated the otherwise smooth, golden skin.
“A camellia,” I said, charmed by a collage of blooms over his ribs and the foliage that played down his oblique and hip bone.
“Among other things.”
There was snow. And fire. Vines and foliage, both full and withered. Sofia’s name—in both English and as Chie, its Japanese equivalent—in multiple places. Delicate botanical designs mixed with slashing whorls, not a few weapons, and unidentifiable art that evoked beauty and savagery.
Just like him.
