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"Surprise," he said, gesturing grandly to a picturesque spot set for two.
"Shit," I breathed out. "You did this?"
"Guilty."
I wanted to snark at the romantic gesture, but the sight clawed at the part of me that still believed in something more, something beyond betrayal and pain.
"Okay, Nash," I conceded, a rare smile threatening to break free. "This might be better than coffee."
"Only might?" He feigned offense, but the warmth in his eyes told a different story.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," I teased, stepping into the scene he had crafted—a masterpiece even I couldn't deny.
The spread before me was like something out of those old-timey romance novels that I'd scoff at in the bookstore, but here I was, eating my silent judgment. A red-and-white checkered blanket lay on the grass, a wicker basket sitting open with an array of treats peeking out like shy woodland creatures. The scent of freshly baked croissants mingled with the tangy sweetness of marmalade and ripe strawberries, making my stomach grumble.
"Figured you might like to paint," Nash said, nodding towards a pair of easels stationed to our side, complete with a full arsenal of paints and brushes. "Capture the moment."
I couldn't ignore the flutter in my chest at the thought of brushing color onto canvas, capturing the warm kiss of the morning sun over the vineyard.
His brown eyes twinkled with mischief as he popped a grape into his mouth. I took a seat, cross-legged, and picked up a croissant, tearing into it with more ferocity than I intended. "So, this is what rich people do? Picnics with a side of art therapy?"
"Only the truly cultured ones." He smirked, handing me a cup of coffee—black, just how I liked it.
"Culture my ass," I muttered, but a smile threatened to betray my hard exterior. The coffee was good, damn good, and the way Nash watched me sip it, his gaze dark and knowing, sent a shiver down my spine.
"Tell me, Celeste," he said, leaning forward, elbows on knees, face dangerously close to mine. "What do you desire most when you're alone with your thoughts and your... canvases?"
"Who said I'm ever alone?" I countered, but the question echoed inside me, bouncing around the cavernous spaces where I locked away needs too raw, too wild to let see the light of day.
"Fair point," he conceded, pulling back slightly. "But indulge me."
"Fine," I sighed, meeting his gaze head-on. "Control. To lose it, to command it. It's a goddamn pendulum swinging between chaos and order inside me."
"An artist and a philosopher," he murmured, his voice low and soothing as brushstrokes against the rough edges of my soul.
"Or just a hot mess with access to oil paints," I joked, but there was a tremor of truth in my words.
Nash laughed, the sound rolling over the hills like a prelude to thunder. "You are many things, Celeste Holloway, but 'just' isn't one of them."
I leaned back on my hands, feeling the solid earth beneath me, the vast sky above, and for a fleeting moment, I felt balanced between them, with Nash as my fulcrum. There was danger here, in this man who saw through my bullshit, who laid out breakfasts and called forth my secrets as if he had every right.
"Be careful, Nash," I warned, though whether it was for his sake or mine, I couldn't say. "I bite."
"So do I," he teased, reaching for another grape and this time offering it to me. Our fingers brushed, electric, and I wondered if he felt it too—the pull of the abyss between us, promising sweet oblivion.
"Asshole," I mumbled, but I took the grape, and with it, a sliver of the dare he presented. "Seriously, Nash," I started, my curiosity piqued as my gaze strolled through the lush vineyard, "how the hell can you afford all this?" I gestured broadly to encompass his mansion that loomed in the distance, opulent and imposing against the skyline. It screamed old money or some batshit crazy inheritance.
Nash's lips curled into a smile, the corners of his mouth holding secrets I was itching to unravel. "I have a …company that focuses on inclusivity, especially within the LGBTQ community." His tone was casual, but his eyes held a depth that suggested he was skirting the edge of a darker truth, something primal, something... other.
"Sounds noble as fuck," I said, trying to keep the conversation light despite the intensity in his gaze.
His jaw tightened for a moment before he relaxed, allowing vulnerability to seep through his poised exterior. "Yes," he admitted, a rare crack in his facade. "My brother... he was transgender, and the world wasn't kind to him. He deserved better—all of them do."
"Shit, Nash, I'm sorry." The words tumbled out, genuine despite my usual sarcasm. Maybe because beneath all the snark and sex jokes, I understood loss. Understood pain.
"Thank you, Celeste." There was a rawness in his voice that snagged at my chest. "But sorrow isn't what drives me—it's the desire to prevent more tragedies. To make sure no one else has to endure what he did."
"Damn," I whispered, caught off-guard by the oath-like intensity of his words. This man was a maze of shadows and light, and every turn revealed a new layer I couldn't help but want to explore. Even if that exploration scared the shit out of me.
