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“Well, I was actually paying my way through school as I went. I hadn’t taken out any loans. But then my mom got sick with cancer, and since she didn’t have insurance, I had to quit school to help with her medical expenses.”
Understanding hits me at the same time I register a deep sadness in her eyes—the same sadness that I’m all too familiar with, the haunting kind of emptiness that only comes with terrible loss.
I know I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help myself. “And your mom?”
Heidi’s head hangs as her gaze drops to the floor, and she shakes her head slowly. “The brain tumor was too aggressive. They couldn’t stop it. She died just over two years ago now.” She sniffles softly, staring at her hands as she picks at her nails. “I still miss her every day.”
Deep, echoing empathy squeezes my heart, and my chest suddenly feels tight with emotion. “I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to lose someone so close.”
Heidi’s chin lifts so she can meet my eyes, and a single tear rolls down her high cheekbone. Before I can think about it, I reach out to cup her jaw, brushing the tear away with the pad of my thumb.
Then we both seem to realize the intimacy of the gesture. Heidi draws herself upright, squaring her shoulders and quickly pulling herself together as I clear my throat, retrieving my hand.
At the same time, I fight to shove the emotion down, forcing it into a small, dark chamber of my heart. I don’t have room for emotions like that in my life. I need to remember to keep my objectivity.
“Anyway,” Heidi says, brushing off her momentary vulnerability, “my night with you ended up paying for her chemo—and the alternative treatments that followed when chemo proved ineffective. It also covered my last year of college tuition and helped me get my business up and running.”
Somehow, this revelation hits me deeply. I’m glad my selfish offer that night made such a difference in her life. But I keep that to myself.
Heidi’s lips part, as if she’s about to say more, but then she doesn’t, and I don’t press her because I’m walking a thin line of developing genuine feelings for her, and that’s not allowed. I need to shut this conversation down before I get myself in deeper trouble.
“Are you ready to go home?” I ask, the question coming across as rather brusque.
But Heidi doesn’t seem to take it that way. Instead, she gives a small but warm smile and nods, as if I’ve suggested the best remedy for her grief.
We rise together, and Heidi collects her trench coat from the floor. It is quickly becoming my favorite item of clothing in her wardrobe.
“Keep the shirt,” I offer as she moves to unbutton it.
That seems to disarm her. “You don’t mind?”
“I have more than enough.”
Again, Heidi smiles, this time the gratitude burning away some of the lingering sadness. “Thanks.” She shrugs into her coat a moment later and buttons it all the way up to hide the scandalous wardrobe she’s hiding underneath.
I walk her to the elevator, my hand coming to rest instinctively on the small of her back, and the doors ding open a moment later. Pyotr and Sev appear wordlessly in the entryway as Heidi turns to face me, and they step inside the elevator to hold the door until she’s ready.
“Tonight was fun,” she confirms, her eyes taking on a mischievous twinkle.
“Yes, we should do it again sometime,” I tease.
Rising onto her tiptoes, Heidi brushes a soft kiss across my lips. Then she steps back into the elevator.
As the doors close, I find it unacceptably hard to watch her go.
22
HEIDI
Standing in the living room of the Painted Lady I’ve been hired to furnish, I snap several pictures of the current layout, getting it from several different angles. Then I move on to the kitchen. I spend some time brainstorming in each room, jotting down ideas based on what the owners are interested in and how I might incorporate that into their home.
It’s a beautiful home, one I’m eager and excited to be working on. This is every interior decorator’s dream challenge. But today, I find my thoughts particularly preoccupied.
By a particular Russian businessman with the body of a god and the sexiest voice of temptation. As I work alone, surrounded by silence and the din of my own thoughts, I find it particularly challenging to focus on anything but him.
Something about spending time with Maks just feels right, so right that I almost decided to tell him about Sarah last night. It was on the tip of my tongue after confessing how I put the money he paid me to use. Because the truth is that his generosity also helped me get my feet on the ground as a parent.
But that doesn’t mean I should tell him about our daughter. Saying anything would be a mistake because Maks doesn’t want to be a father. He said it himself—he doesn’t want a family. And I don’t want to force that upon either of them.
