What the hell was he even doing here? What was she doing here?
Shaking it off, she set her bag down and hung her coat up. She didn’t let herself look at him again as she made her way into her cramped little kitchen. “Anything you have to say can wait until I eat.”
“Do you want to go somewhere? I don’t know many places in this neighborhood, but . . .”
“Nope.” If someone had told her this morning she’d be turning down not one but two invitations to dinner today, she’d have laughed herself hoarse. Forget that dinner out for once sounded amazing. If Rylan was coming all the way out to the boroughs for her, coming into her home, he could deal with her food. Her terrible, terrible food.
She tugged open a cabinet and surveyed the prospects. She hauled out a packet of noodles with a sigh.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. It’d be a hit to her budget, but she was pretty sure she could spare the seventeen cents to feed a guest.
“I could eat.”
She bet he could. She grabbed a second pack and closed the cabinet. “I hope you like ramen.”
“Can’t say I’ve tried it.”
She dug her fingers into the counter hard enough to bruise. Slow and steady, she forced herself to take a couple of nice deep breaths. She unclenched her hands and turned her head.
He was there. Rylan, the guy who had stolen her heart this summer and then ripped it to shreds. He was standing there, his back to her, in that perfect, expensive suit, with his perfect hair, not even knowing what ramen was. And he was in her apartment, looking at her stuff. Looking at her life.
Her vision swam for a second as her focus shifted. She’d tried so hard, on a limited budget and with limited time, to make her home a sanctuary. Dove-gray walls to make a crowded space a cozy one, her friends’ art on display, an eclectic mix of things she’d found at flea markets and rummage sales all over the city giving the place character.
And it all looked so cheap.
If she’d known he was coming, she could have at least picked up a little. Her easel set up in the corner had another failure of a painting on it, and there were more awful drawings spread out on the floor. Every flat surface was covered in papers or books or art supplies, and her paint-streaked clothes threatened to spill out of her hamper. Worse, the ones that stank of fryer grease from the diner were piled on top of them.
And she was even more of a mess. She had pigment on her sleeves and probably splashed across her face. Her hair was all windblown. This man had been the one to make her really believe that she could be beautiful, but letting him see her like this, while he looked like that . . .
Her breath caught, a choked sound sneaking past her throat.
Fuck him for ambushing her. Fuck him for stealing the higher ground and for making her want him again.
“Kate?” He’d turned around to stare right at her, and she couldn’t stand it. Not for another second.
The tightness in her throat threatened to choke her. “Can you go to the bathroom or something for a minute?”
“Excuse me?”
How could she explain? “I just need . . .” She needed him to be somewhere else and she needed to fix this all. Take control of it. She needed to think.
Frowning, he narrowed his eyes at her, and he must’ve seen some fragment of how unhinged she felt. “All right.” He set her sketchbook down, and that right there—that he still had it, whether he’d stolen it or found it or what—that was a whole other can of worms, and her frayed nerves came one step closer to snapping.
She pointed at the right door; there were only two of them, a tiny closet and a tinier bathroom—it wasn’t as if he could miss it. He slipped inside, lingering briefly, watching her as if he knew precisely the kind of time bomb he was dealing with.
She waited until the door clicked closed and the sound of the fan came on to bury her head in her hands and turn around. With her back to the counter, she let herself slide down until her butt hit the ground.
Until there was no farther down to fall.
Okay. This was not how Rylan had seen this going.
While instant forgiveness followed by enthusiastic reunion sex had been his secret, dark-horse favorite for how this might turn out, he’d never discounted screaming, door slamming, and an invitation to go fuck himself. He’d even imagined a couple of potential middle grounds.
Sitting on the edge of her bathtub, idly scanning the ingredients on her toiletries, had not been among them.
How long, precisely, was he supposed to wait in here?
The drone of the exhaust fan muted any noises that might be coming from outside, but he hadn’t heard much of anything. He strained, listening harder, clenching his hand into a fist. She wouldn’t have left, right? If she didn’t want to deal with him, it would’ve made more sense to kick him out, not ask him to go sit in her bathroom while she escaped.
His heart squeezed. He was trying to keep his expectations low, but he’d been waiting so long to see her. If he could just get her to talk to him. To give him a chance.
Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He checked his watch and it’d been a solid ten minutes. With his phone long past run out of batteries and his patience about as empty, he sat up. Checked himself in the mirror. Then took a deep breath and cracked the door open.
“Kate?” What exactly was he supposed to say? Do I have your permission to come out of the bathroom now? He rolled his eyes at himself. “You still out there?”
“In the kitchen,” she called, and it shouldn’t have been such a relief, just hearing her voice.
And oh hell. He nudged the door a little wider and tried to peer through the gap. “Not that I’m not enjoying the décor in here, but . . .”
The sound of metal clinking on metal carried through the space, followed by a sigh. She grumbled something he couldn’t make out, then, louder, “Come on out, I guess.”
He poked his head out first, surveying the room. From his angle, he couldn’t see into the kitchen, which was a wonder. He’d lived in houses with closets larger than this entire place.
And yet he liked her apartment better than any of them. It hadn’t been some designer putting her home together for her. There was no feng shui or flow. Just art. Just life, where there had been so little of it in the mansions he’d been told to call home before.
Stepping out, he furrowed his brow. It was subtle, but the place was different than it had been before she’d banished him. Neater. He drew the one side of his mouth up, ready to tell her she really hadn’t needed to scoop her underwear off the floor for him, but then he paused. That wasn’t the only bit of tidying she’d done.
All the paintings, all of her artwork, were gone. Not gone gone, there wasn’t close to room enough in this place for her to disappear them completely, but the one on the easel—it had been of a bridge, maybe? She’d tucked it behind her dresser, leaving only the edge of it peeking out. The rows of pictures that had been lined up against the wall had all been turned. Staring at the blank backsides of canvases, he frowned.
The second day he’d met her, he’d gotten her to show him her sketchbook. Only the last few pictures, sure, but she’d barely hesitated before baring her soul to him that way. He’d treated it with the respect it deserved, really looking at her work before passing judgment or commenting, and the next time, she’d granted him even greater access. She’d let him flip through months’ or maybe years’ worth of drawings.
She’d let him see himself through her eyes, his hollow places filled in by the tender touch of her hand as she’d studied him and captured him on a page.
Now, he wasn’t allowed to look.
He worked his jaw against the ache it gave him. He’d lost so much when she’d walked out that door. More than he’d even realized at the time.
God, he hoped she gave him the chance to earn it back.
Squaring his shoulders, he turned to face the kitchen. If she’d been watching him, she buried her gaze back in the pot bubbling away on the stove. Didn’t spar
e a single glance at him.
“Dinner’s almost ready.”
He swallowed a couple of times, because that was the last of his concerns. “Sounds good.”
She snorted. “I promise you, it’s not.”
“All right . . .”
Shaking her head at him, she flipped the burner off and stepped to the side. She grabbed one mug from a dish drainer beside the sink, then dug around in a cabinet until she came up with another, larger one in a different color. She sprinkled something from a couple of little foil packets into the pot and stirred, then unceremoniously dumped whatever concoction she’d made into the mugs. Tugging open a drawer, she came up with two mismatched spoons and dropped one in each. “Here you go.” She gestured at the soup as if to say go ahead.
He had to admit. He was intrigued.
Expecting her to step back, he darted forward, and his skin prickled with heat when she refused to yield an inch. It was the closest they’d been since she’d let him inside, nearly as close as when he’d grabbed her wrist. Only this time she wasn’t staring him down or yelling at him. He saw his opening. Ever so slowly, he put his hand to her waist, molding to the soft curve of her frame. Her breath stuttered, and his heart pounded, and maybe this wasn’t a lost cause after all. He breathed her in for a moment, the faint scent of still-wet paint weaving together with the roses and vanilla of her hair, drawing him closer.
And he almost leaned in. Very nearly reached forward to take the kiss he’d been aching for these past three months. But for all that her body spoke of invitation, her eyes were terrified, the line of her mouth hard.
He schooled his reaction and reminded himself: This girl was worth playing the long game for.
Holding her gaze, he reached beyond her to take the closest cup by its handle. With it firmly in his grasp, he let go of her side.
She stared at him, dazed, as he stepped back. Every inch of space he put between them hurt, but he could be patient. He could wait.
There wasn’t a table or any place to sit in her kitchen, so he turned toward the main room. He didn’t find much better options there. The lone chair she appeared to own was a rolling one, pulled up beside a little painted white desk tucked into a corner beside her easel. If he sat there, she’d be worlds away from him.
It was a calculated risk. But after a moment’s thought, he crossed the space to her bed. A double, barely big enough for two—not that he’d mind. If she ever let him take her to it, he’d never want to let her go. Having to sleep pressed tight against her . . . He couldn’t think of anything better.
He cast one look over his shoulder at her before dropping down to sit on the edge of her mattress. It barely gave at all, but it would do. Soft, worn-looking purple sheets slipped beneath his hand as he stroked the material. Maybe she’d join him here. Sit beside him.
But instead, she hovered in the doorway, mug clutched tightly enough her knuckles went white.
For the first time, he directed his attention to his own cup, and he had to stop himself from frowning. Its contents were . . . well, brown. A curly mass of noodles in a murky broth. He poked at it with his spoon and raised a brow. Across the room from him, Kate brought a spoonful to her mouth and blew on it, rosy lips puckering, and he lost the thread for a second, just watching the shape of her mouth.
Then she gestured for him to go ahead. His haze receded, and he regarded his mug again. Her gaze sat like a weight on him as he gathered up some noodles, anticipation like a shiver through his skin.
Shrugging, he took a bite.
This was not a test. If pressed, Kate would swear up, down, and sideways that it wasn’t. She honestly didn’t have anything else in the house to offer him.
And yet, as he closed his mouth around his spoon, she held her breath.
He’d said so many things, their final day in Paris together. She’d been blind with fury and betrayal, shoving her things into her suitcase and barely able to see through the threat of tears. And he’d talked. Told her his regrets, told her how he’d only lied to her because he wanted her so much.
He’d wanted to be normal. To have this little slice of normalcy, there, in that room, with her. And she had so very, very nearly turned around.
The problem was, he didn’t even know what normal was. It didn’t matter how torn up she was over seeing him, bouncing between elation and rage and every possible emotion in between—if he couldn’t handle cheap, terrible noodles—if he couldn’t manage to get them down without lying to her . . . then they were doomed.
He pulled the spoon from between those soft, too-kissable lips, and his shoulders stiffened, his expression going impassive. It took him a hell of a long time to swallow.
“So?” she asked.
His throat bobbed as he managed to get his mouthful down. “Well . . .”
“Don’t lie.” And it was supposed to come out light, even teasing. But there was too much history between them. It was too loaded of a statement. Her throat felt raw.
His gaze snapped up to hers, something dark and sharp passing behind his eyes.
Of course he knew this was a test.
Moving ever so slowly, he reached to the side and set his mug down on her bedside table. She stared at the bright red handle of the thing, a stupid freebie she’d picked up in the student union for signing up for something, and she was serving fucking ramen to some society heir in it. Her eyes prickled.
And then he was in her space, warm hands closing around hers, and she’d nearly forgotten how good it felt to be touched. To have this man, the one who could have any woman he wanted—and who probably had—to have him touching her . . .
Don’t. Her mind screamed at her. Don’t trust him, don’t let him in, don’t let him touch you again. But her body went rigid. Frozen.
He coaxed her fingers to unclench, gently prying her mug from her. Twisted to set it on the counter behind her, and that put them even closer. She felt unbearably brittle, like any little thing could cause her to shatter, but the heat of him, the proximity of his body hovering over hers, it melted the edges of her. Fused them together with this vague, impossible promise that he could make her whole.
Taking her face between his palms, he tilted her head up until she had no choice but to look at him. The dazzling blue of his eyes stared back at her, and she’d loved this man so much. For one perfect week, she had.
But she couldn’t trust him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. For every single thing I did that caused you pain.”
She shook her head within his grasp, vision going blurry. Wasn’t that exactly what she wanted him to say? What she’d always wanted all the men in her life who had hurt her to say?
His gaze went deeper. “If you don’t want me to lie to you about how oversalted and unappealing that soup is, then I won’t. I can promise you, I will never, ever lie to you again. Not about anything that matters, and not about your cooking, either, if that’s what you want.”
A snort of laughter broke through her closed-up throat. “I’d hardly call it cooking.”
He didn’t let her change the subject or digress. “Whatever you want to call it, then. I won’t lie about it.”
She gazed back up into his eyes. “Would you have told me the truth about it, though?” Because that had been the problem. When she’d called him out on all his not-quite truths in Paris, he’d sworn he’d never lied to her, not outright, and maybe he hadn’t been wrong about that. But he’d kept his silences, muttered vague agreements that dodged all around the questions she’d really been asking him. “Or would you have just said nothing? Just let me believe what I wanted to?”
He stroked his thumbs across her cheeks. “We’re not arguing about your soup here.”
“No. I guess we aren’t.”
Sighing, an aching sadness to him, he took one of his hands and braced it on the wall behind her. “So talk to me about something besides soup.”
Like all of her strings had been cut, she sagged, leaning back into
the wall. It would be so easy to let her head fall forward onto his shoulder, to rest there for a moment. He was clearly ready to give her whatever comfort she wanted, but it wouldn’t fix anything. Him showing up here, making promises he’d given her no reason to believe up until this point—it didn’t solve anything.
“Rylan.” She placed her hand over his and pulled it gently from her cheek. “What are you doing here? Really.”
“I already told you. I came here for you.”
“But why?” And this wasn’t the same insecurity from their first night together, eating crepes in the open air on a Paris night. She had some kind of hold over him, there was no denying that at this point. But “Why here? Why now?”
He turned his hand over in hers, tangling their fingers together, and it felt too easy to let him do it. She squeezed his palm, stilling him. Because this was important.
When he spoke again, his voice pitched lower, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “It’s funny, you know. I was in Paris for a year before I met you, and the whole time, I was never lonely. I was too angry, too—” He cut himself off with a harsh breath of a laugh. “I felt too betrayed. I’d gone there running from this shitstorm my father had left for us, and I couldn’t see anything beyond that. Not even how unhappy I was. I knew my life was empty, but . . . it was like it almost seemed better that way.”
And she had seen that, hadn’t she? It’d been lurking in the corners of her vision, all that time they’d spent together shadowed by it. There’d been a restlessness to him, a dissatisfaction he never would’ve admitted to but which she could all but taste. How else did a man like him get so caught up in something the way he had? How else did he change all of his plans for an entire week, and for what? A girl?
She didn’t want to sell herself short, but it didn’t make any kind of sense.
“That still doesn’t explain—” she started.
“And then you walked into my life, and you were anything but empty. You cared so much about life and art, and you let me touch you . . .” He trailed off, gaze darting down the center of her body, leaving a low trail of warmth everywhere it went. “And I didn’t feel hollow for the first time in so long.”
Seven Nights To Surrender Page 29