When the coffee was ready, I poured a cup, unsure what to do next. Stay here and wait? Pour a cup for him and take it to him? The question was answered when I heard the door open and both dogs burst in the room, tails wagging, their coats damp and cold under my hands when I stroked them. After greeting me, they both ran into the other room where I knew they would be warming up by the fire. I hesitated, then poured another cup of coffee as Zachary walked into the room. He paused briefly in the doorway, his eyes meeting mine as he stepped forward, his hand wrapping around my neck and taking me to him. I gasped as his icy fingers grazed my skin, the coldness of the outside permeating his clothes as he held me to him, his mouth covering mine, soft and full. With him, he brought the scent of the ocean. The salty, sharp smell wrapped around me. The chill of his body seeped into mine, as he kissed me with so much adoration, it made my heart sing. My head was spinning when he drew back, dropping a couple more light kisses on my mouth. I opened my eyes to his weary gaze, the fatigue etched on his skin like a map of fine lines.
“Zachary,” I uttered his name, concerned. “You look exhausted.” Cautiously, I laid my hand on his cheek, a sense of relief rippling through me when he relaxed into my touch.
Slowly his head lowered until it rested on my shoulder, the weight heavy. Sliding my hand around his neck, my fingers slipped into his damp hair, caressing the strands.
“I’m tired, Megan. So very tired,” he murmured, his voice rough and drained. I held him a little closer, knowing he didn’t only mean physically. He seemed so vulnerable; my chest tightened with the sound of his pain. I rested my cheek to his head, pressing a kiss to his hair, wanting to offer him comfort.
“What can I do?”
He lifted his head, eyes pleading. “Would you come back to bed with me? Let me hold you while I sleep?” He paused. “I need to sleep. I can’t…I can’t talk right now.”
“It’s okay, Zachary. Yes. Yes, I’ll come back to bed with you.”
His head fell back to my shoulder. “Thank you.”
He slept hard with his head buried in my neck, arms wrapped around me, warm and finally at peace. For the first time since I met him he sought my touch, groaning in satisfaction when I trailed my fingers along his arms and back. I slid my fingers into his hair, keeping my touch light as he relaxed. His body grew heavy as he gave into the weariness that plagued him.
Outside, the wind picked up as the rain started again, drumming heavily on the roof. His warm body, deep breathing, and the soothing beat of the rain overhead relaxed me, and shutting my eyes, I joined him in sleep.
Hours later, my eyes opened as Zachary stirred, his body moving, muscles shifting, his eyes finding mine. “Hi,” he whispered.
I traced a constant circle on his back with my fingers, gently caressing his skin. “Hi.”
“You’re still here.”
“I told you I would be.”
“Sometimes I find that hard to believe.”
“I’ve noticed.”
He swallowed nervously. “I’m not used to people being truthful with me, Megan. The world I lived in, people said what they thought I wanted to hear, even when they didn’t mean it.”
“It doesn’t sound like a very nice world.”
“It wasn’t a nice one, but it was the only one I knew…until now.”
“Until now?” I questioned.
Leaning up, he placed a soft kiss to my lips. “You, Megan. You make it better.”
“I want to,” I admitted, smiling, liking that I could change his life for the better.
“You do.”
He rested his head back on my chest with a quiet sigh; the tenderness flowed through me at his unconsciously needful gesture, making my eyes sting. His scarred cheek was pressed into my skin, the ridges feeling rough against me. I ran my hand through his hair, smiling as he relaxed deeper into my body, his weight feeling so right on me. He was rarely relaxed enough to let me feel him without restraint. I loved him most when he allowed himself to be vulnerable.
“It’s late.”
I glanced at the clock. “It’s just two in the afternoon. You needed to sleep.”
“You want me to talk.”
“I do, but only if you can, Zachary. I want to know you; all of you.”
He didn’t say anything, but I felt his tension start to creep back. He began to pull away, but I wrapped myself around him. “Nothing you tell me is going to change how I feel.”
“You can’t say that for sure.”
“I can. Your past is simply that—your past. I’ve already assumed, from the few things you’ve said, it isn’t pretty or very nice. I know you’re not proud of some things that happened, or some of the things you did, but it made you what and who you are today.”
He looked up; his forehead furrowed. “What do you see me as today, Megan?”
I traced his skin with my finger, trying to smooth out the lines of anxiety. “A gifted artist. Haunted by his past. Alone. Scared to admit what he really needs.”
“What do I really need?”
“To forgive yourself. “ I drew in a deep breath. “To let yourself be loved.”
“You still think you love me?”
“I don’t think. I know.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I still do.”
“You might not after I tell you.”
“And I might very well love you more.”
The startled look on his face told me he never expected to hear those words.
“Megan—”
“Tell me, Zachary. Tell me your story and let me judge my feelings. You want honesty?”
“Yes.”
“Then give me yours and I’ll give you mine.”
His eyes searched my face. “I promise you I’ll listen with an open heart,” I pleaded in a soft, reassuring voice. “We can’t move forward until we get through this. You know that.”
He sat up. “All right, but not here, not in our bed. I need to have a shower and I’ll meet you in the living room.”
Grabbing some clothes, he disappeared into the bathroom.
Our bed.
I wondered if he realized those were the words he used.
He paced, walking around the room, adjusting pictures, shifting small items the slightest fraction to the left or right, only to push it back to its original place. He stood in front of Tempest, staring in silence—a frown on his face, shoulders rigid and unyeilding. From my place on the sofa I watched, forcing myself not to get up and touch him, not to raise my voice and call to him. He had to come to me. He had to be the one to open the dialogue. He traced his initials in the corner with one long finger, over and again, eventually lowering his arm, resting his hand on the mantle. A deep shudder flowed through his body and he turned to look at me, defeat already in his stance. I couldn’t take it anymore and held out my hand to him, pleased when he reached out and took it, coming to sit with me on the sofa. He stared down at our entwined hands, then lifted them and kissing my palm before pulling away. He leaned forward and took one of his peppermints from the bowl on the coffee table. The familiar sound of the candy wrapper being opened made me smile.
Without a word, he offered it to me, unwrapping a new one for himself when I took it out of his hand. The fresh flavor of sweet mint filled my mouth, reminding me of his taste when he kissed me. “You eat these, a lot.”
He grunted in agreement. “When I woke up…after…my throat hurt and I had a funny taste in my mouth all the time. One of the nurses gave me this kind of peppermint and I liked it. It wasn’t as strong as some kinds and I enjoy the sweetness.” He bit down, his jaw flexing as he chewed on the mint. “I kind of became addicted to them, I think. Mrs. Cooper keeps that brand in especially for me.”
“They are good,” I agreed, hoping he would keep talking.
He fell silent again. The cushions shifted as he moved, his long legs stretching and bending. An irregular beat was tapped out by his restless fingers, but still he said nothing. He shifted forwa
rd, his arms resting on his thighs, staring into the fire. I could feel the tension starting to build in him, his lips thinning in a grimace, his face becoming determined, so I slid closer.
“Zachary—”
“I don’t know how to do this, Megan.”
“What can I do?”
“Maybe if you asked me some questions? Could you do that?”
“Are you sure you want to do this today?”
His eyes, tormented and worried, but determined, met mine. “Yes.”
I slipped my hand into his.
“Okay then. Together.”
He nodded.
“Together.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Zachary looked anxious as his hand clutched mine in a tight grip. So, I kissed his cheek gently, trying to let him know I was here and ready for whatever he had to say. I knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant, but I was sure I could handle it. I prayed I could. I also tried to think of how to start the conversation in such a way he wouldn’t immediately shut himself off.
Looking around the room, my gaze landed on his painting. “Have you always painted?”
“No.”
I tried again.
“What did you do before you started painting?”
His inhale of air told me that maybe wasn’t the best question to start with, but I forged ahead. “You must have done something?”
“I was an actor.”
That surprised me. I racked my brains trying to remember his name, but came up with nothing.
“Sorry, I guess I’m not familiar with your work.”
He shook his head. “Given our age difference that doesn’t surprise me. Since you would have been about thirteen when I was at the height of my career, it’s hardly a shock. You were probably far more into boy bands than older movie stars.”
I had to smile at his remark; he was right. I loved music and books when I was younger—I wasn’t much into movies. The same held true today.
“Besides, my professional name was Adam Dennis.”
My eyebrows rose. Adam Dennis—that name rang a bell.
“You won an Oscar.”
“I was nominated.”
“I think I saw some of your films.” My brow furrowed as I tried to remember. All I came up with was a vague image of a tall, slender young man playing a single father. “You look different now.” I held up my hand. “I don’t mean your scars.”
He snorted. “I was young, Megan. Younger than you are now, for most of the films I made. Yeah, I’ve changed. I filled out, I’ve gotten bigger.” He flexed his arms, causing the muscles to tighten and clench. “It happens when everything you eat isn’t monitored.”
“They watched what you ate?”
“I was a leading man. My appearance was carefully controlled; the length of my hair, my weight, the clothes I wore, all of it. I hated all that shit.”
He stood up, pulling away. “I do remember your name, Zachary. You were huge.”
“Emphasis on were.”
“Why did you use a different name?”
“It’s common. My agent thought Zachary was too long—and I hated being called Zach. I still hate it. It was my mother’s idea to use my middle name and flip Adam to be my first. Dennis was her maiden name so she got that in there.”
“Are you parents still alive?” He seemed alone in the world.
He shrugged, but I saw the pain that crossed his face while he struggled to remain composed. “I have no idea. I haven’t spoken to them since I was eighteen.”
“Why?”
“I grew up in England. I was born late in life for my parents. I wasn’t exactly a welcome surprise, but as luck would have it, I was a good-looking kid. So, my mother started taking me to auditions and got me signed with an agent. I worked a lot as a child.” He barked out a humorless laugh. “Earned my keep, so to speak.”
He leaned against the wall; his gaze fixed on a spot over my head. “When I was in my teens, we moved to the States. I got a part in a popular sitcom.”
“Did you like that?”
“I had no choice. I went where my parents told me to go. My father fired my agent and did that job; plus he acted as my manager and my mother was my handler. I just learned the lines and did what I was told. My happiness or what I liked never came into play.”
In my head I pictured a young Zachary trapped in a world he despised. “So you weren’t close?”
Bitterness tinged his tone. “Not even remotely. All I was to them was a paycheck. A way to live a particular lifestyle they enjoyed.”
“Surely they loved you—they were your parents,” I protested.
“My mother loved herself. She was a manipulative shrew, Megan,” he spat. “My father did what she wanted because it was easier than arguing with her. She used anything she needed to in order to get what she wanted: anger, tears, threats. It didn’t matter. The only thing my father loved was the money I brought in.” He paused and squeezed his eyes shut, as if in pain. “What my face brought in, because that’s all I was to them—a good-looking face that made money.”
My stomach rolled at his cold voice. He could have been talking about complete strangers instead of his parents.
“When I was eighteen, I severed all ties. I left them the house, and I walked away. I fired my father and mother—from both my professional and private life.” He pushed off the wall, pacing. “Fuck, what a scene that was. My mother sobbing because she knew the gravy train was gone and my father trying to convince me he hadn’t stolen all the money I’d made over the years.” He stopped his pacing, staring at me. I saw the hurt he denied, written all over his face. “All I was to them was money. They used me. Neither of them said a single word about losing me as their son, only that I couldn’t walk away from them and leave them with nothing. My mother actually had the nerve to tell me how much she had sacrificed of herself over the years, always putting me first.” Zachary threw his hands up in disgust. “I guess she forgot about what I had sacrificed: friends, school, a regular life. I never knew what it was like to have someone who liked me for me—Zachary. I never had what other kids had—a chance to be a kid, get a part-time job, make mistakes—I had to be perfect all the fucking time. Live up to the image they created—or suffer the consequences.” He stopped pacing, his shoulders slumping. “Do you know what I missed most, Megan? What I wanted most of all?”
I shook my head, my hands balling into fists from the pain in his voice. “No,” I whispered. “Tell me.”
“Hugs. I’d watch other kids on the set get hugged by their parents or their agent. Sometimes they’d have a friend on the set. I never did. Not once. Between acting, being tutored, and all the bloody lessons they insisted I have, I never had time for friends. My mother hung around the sets for appearance sake but she didn’t care about what I did as long as she got her designer bags and big house.”
I swallowed a lump in my throat. “Your mom…didn’t hug you?”
He sat down beside me. Cupping my face in one hand, he squeezed my cheeks lightly. “‘Look at this face,’” he crooned snidely. “‘My million dollar face.’” He withdrew his hand.
“That was the only time she touched me and that was what she would say—every single time. My face, Megan. She loved my face. Not me.” His bottom lip trembled a little. “What a stupid kid I was, right? I knew they didn’t love me, yet I still wanted their affection.”
I wanted to weep. I wanted to wrap him in my arms, kiss his ravaged face, and tell him he wasn’t stupid. I wanted to hold him until that kid felt how loved he was now and could start to heal, but he stood up and started pacing again. “Don’t, Megan,” he pleaded.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that. Don’t feel bad for me. The entire time I grew up I was ignored by them. There was no guidance or care. I was a commodity. That was all I was to them; a mistake they used to their advantage. They lived a great life, thanks to me, and when I walked away that was what they mourned—not the loss of their so
n, but the loss of the money and the lifestyle they didn’t want to give up.” He grimaced and pulled in a deep breath. “They didn’t care about me or anyone else, but I was the exact same way. My parents were shit, but I was a great student. I treated everyone like crap. I was the perfect image of a spoiled brat. I was catered to on set. Everything I wanted, I got. People did what I told them to do because of my name—because they knew if they didn’t I would probably get them fired. And on occasion I did.”
“So, you were a brat. It was all you knew. Children learn by example.”
He laughed. “You’re still defending me. You still think too highly of me.” He shook his head, a sad expression on his face. “Except it didn’t change, Megan. Even after I grew up, in fact, it got worse. After I got rid of my parents, I got a new agent and PR team. I became my own manager; I refused to let anyone dictate my life anymore. I surrounded myself with people who wanted from me what I wanted from them.”
“Which was?”
“More—of everything. My father played it safe with my career. He kept me acting in the stupid sitcom because of the consistent money—even though I hated it and had for years. Every decision my father ever made was based on the dollar figure. Every stupid movie he put me in, every endorsement was because of the bottom line. I hated it. I hated him. So, I changed direction and branched into films. I wanted bigger roles and my agent, Ryan, was with me on that decision—more money, more power. I became a Hollywood bad boy. Drinking, drugs, women—all of it. Publicity was my friend because no matter what I did, I had something they wanted…” he sneered “…my fucking face. It was always about my face with everyone. Any movie they put me in was a sure fire winner at the box office and it made having to clean up my messes worth it. As long as I had my face, I had everything. I was worth something.”
I was on my feet before I realized it. “You’re worth something now, Zachary! Your face doesn’t change that!”
Zachary stepped back, looking startled by my outburst. He held out his hands in supplication. “I’m only trying to tell you, Megan. Make you understand.”
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