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“I want to do this for you,” he repeats, his voice steel that is somehow brushed with tenderness. “Not to make you feel obligation or guilt. To make you happy. And because I greedily want you with me.”
He wants me with him. There is a rasp to those words, a ring of truth. I believe him. And that matters. “I don’t need fancy things. I can’t stand the idea of you thinking I’m with you one moment because of your money. I’m not that girl.”
Something flickers in his eyes, and he cuts his stare, seconds ticking by before he meets my gaze again. “I know that, Aria.” His thumbs stroke my cheeks. “I know.”
But he doesn’t know. He can’t know. In that moment, I discover yet another thing I know about this man and he about me. When you hold a prize in your hand, a gift, a wonder of the world that holds value, the entire world wants it and you. There is no peace to be found. Everyone around you could have an agenda, could want what you have. And with that I find yet another reason that I am drawn to him. He doesn’t know what is real in his life any more than I know what is real in mine. And somehow there is a sanctuary in two like souls haunted by demons of the same evil.
“I’m only here for you, Kace,” I say.
“And I am only here for you, Aria.”
“Thank you for the gifts.”
He studies me for several untold moments, unreadable, he is always so unreadable, and then he kisses me, a slide of his tongue that I feel everywhere before he says, “Hurry and get ready. We only have an hour and a half to get there. That means you have an hour to go through the bags and get ready.” He sets me away from him and doesn’t give me time to argue. He heads to the door and disappears into the hallway.
He does not shut the door.
And neither do I.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The bags are filled with everything a girl could possibly ask for: makeup, a flat iron, hair and bath products, several pairs of heels and boots, lingerie, and plenty of clothes. I try not to look at the price tags, but it’s hard not to. Just one bra is two hundred dollars, which is insanity. Searching for the items I absolutely need becomes my new goal. The rest can be returned. I start digging through everything and despite the worthy goal, I’m drawn to a Chanel box for one simple reason: my mother loved Chanel, though we didn’t have the income for it once we fled Italy. Nevertheless, the brand stirs memories of her and I quickly remove the lid of the box to suck in air, shocked at what I find. It’s impossible. I cannot be seeing what I’m seeing, but I am. The purse that I’m staring at is not just a purse. It’s pink, a classic recently brought back, but it is also familiar. My mother owned this exact purse. My father bought it for her before we left Italy and even years later, that bag had been in pristine condition. She adored it. It was a connection to him she cherished. She had it with her the day she died and it was never recovered.
Once again, Kace has managed to become a piece of my past. I swallow hard and slide the lid back on the box. I cannot keep that purse for about ten reasons including the price. It’s five thousand dollars.
Shoving a hand through my hair, I try to calm my emotions. How did I end up with that purse? How did he buy me that purse? It’s a coincidence, of course. It really is an old classic recently brought back, a hot item, but God, it’s killing me. It’s like the universe is trying to tell me something and I don’t know what. My gaze sweeps over the bags. There’s just so much here, so much money, so much generosity. And something in Kace’s reaction to me declining the gifts lingers with me, something beneath his surface, something from his past.
In these bags rest more than fancy trinkets and clothing, for both of us.
I’m not sure what to do with that realization. I just know that I want to understand him. I want to get to know him. Very much, and I can’t even seem to muster up an argument or warning that convinces me to walk away from Kace anymore. I don’t want to walk away.
I head to the shower, and lather up with a luxurious lily-scented shampoo and body wash. When I turn off the water, the sound of Kace’s violin somewhere in the distance sings to me, and my lashes lower, memories flooding my mind. Not since I was a child have I stepped out of a shower to violin music. It was always playing at home. Always. My father loved the instrument. We all did. I still do, but I shove away the past, reminding myself this is the present, and I want to live in the present. For once in my life, I need to live in the moment, if only for a weekend. I grab my towel and dry off, eager to enjoy the luxury of readying myself while he does what we discussed: practices his craft.
