“Okay, peppermint boy.”
“That’s different.”
“It’s still sugar.”
“Sharp sugar.”
I arched an eyebrow at him. “Sharp sugar?”
“It’s a good phrase. I made it up all by myself.”
I started to laugh, Zachary’s mouth quirking as he gave in and laughed with me. He placed his hand on my knee and squeezed it affectionately, then picked up his book again, still chuckling.
I loved it when he laughed. It was still something rare, but when it happened, he laughed with his whole body, the sound rich and low. His shoulders shook, his eyes crinkled, and his mouth stretched into the widest smile. His entire appearance changed—the constant lines on his forehead dissolving, the serious expression he always wore morphing into one of playfulness. It made my heart soar knowing, for even the briefest moment, I did that for him.
God, I loved him.
Since coming back from Boston, we’d barely been separated. Even when he was in his studio I was with him. He had piled up some pillows and blankets, making me a little nest in the corner, where I happily curled up and read or napped while he worked. On occasion, I’d hear the click of the camera shutter and open one eye to see him snapping away. He’d grin, ignore my glare and continue shooting until he was happy. Daily walks with the dogs, quiet nights by the fireplace, waking up wrapped around him every morning—the past week had been all about us, and I enjoyed every moment of it with him.
I finished my ice cream and set down the bowl. Although I didn’t want to admit it, it was rather sweet, given how much syrup I had poured on. Grinning, I leaned over and took the mug from Zachary’s hand and sipped his coffee, shuddering a little at the bitter taste. He liked it strong and black and drank far too much of it. It did help clear away the sweet taste, though, and I giggled a little at the look he gave me for stealing his mug.
He placed his book on the table. “I forgot to look and see if that paint was still back ordered.” He looked around. “Where did I put my laptop?”
“I think it’s upstairs.” My smaller laptop was on the table, so I grabbed it and passed it over to him. “Use mine.” I’d been using it earlier when I contacted Bill and told him my decision to accept Jared’s offer. As much as I hated to do it, I’d take the money and move on with my life. What I had in Cliff’s Edge with Zachary was more important than fighting a battle I knew I was destined to lose. It had been a hard decision to make, but now I had made it, I was at peace with it. I hadn’t told Zachary yet; I was waiting for the right moment to bring up the subject.
He smirked at me as he took my laptop. “Are you going to give me back my coffee?”
“No.”
He opened my laptop, shaking his head, muttering about thieving women. His long fingers flew over the keys, pausing as he studied the screen with a frown. “Still back ordered.”
“Can you get it anywhere else?”
“No, it’s a rather exclusive shade. I need to ask Ashley to research it again and see if she can find another source.”
Another few clicks of the keyboard and he started to shut the lid. He paused, his face freezing, a frowning glance at me as he started clicking the mouse again. He was silent, his body becoming tense as his shoulders squared and his frown deepened. I stared at him, wondering why he looked so angry. He was glaring at the screen. I sat up, realization of what he was looking at flooding my head. A small tremor shot through my spine, working its way from the pit of my stomach to my throat, tightening the muscles as it worked upward.
“Zachary—”
He spun the laptop my way. “Why do you have a file of me, Megan? Pictures?” He clicked again. “A fucking book on my past?”
I swallowed, the words dying in my throat at the fury on his face.
“Why?” he demanded again. “Why do you have this shit on here?” His eyes narrowed, his face becoming the cold mask I’d seen the first time I met him. “Are you researching me for something?”
“No!” I gasped out. “It’s not like that at all, I promise!”
“Then tell me what it is like.”
“I was drunk with Karen and missing you,” I offered, knowing how lame those words sounded.
“And?”
“I googled you, okay?”
He pushed the laptop off his knee, standing up. He towered over me, his anger evident in the set of his shoulders. “Why?”
“I was…curious.”
“Why wouldn’t you ask me? Why look on the internet or hide the fact you were curious?” His eyes narrowed, filled with suspicion. “What else are you hiding?”
I became angry, as well. How could he think I was lying to him? I wasn’t anything like the people from his past. “I’m not hiding anything, Zachary.” I waved my hand dismissively at the computer. “If I was, would I leave it in a file with your name on it for you to find, if I was hiding something?”
“You never expected me to look on your computer.”
“I gave you my computer! I forgot it was there!” I stood up in my fury. “I was drunk, thinking of you and my curiosity got the better of me! Yes, I looked at some pictures of you when you were younger, before you were scarred. Yes, I downloaded a stupid book about you. I never read it!” I flung out my arms in supplication. “Haven’t you ever done something in a moment of weakness?”
His face softened—only by a small degree—but it was enough. I stepped closer to him, lowering my voice. “I was missing you. I meant to delete the files, but I forgot.”
He stared at me, his gaze still filled with distrust. I tamped down the hurt I felt over how easily he could doubt me, remembering how fragile his trust still was in people: in me—in us.
“I was being silly. I’ll erase it.”
His voice was tight. “If you want to know something, ask me.”
“I will. I never did it to hurt you.”
“I don’t like to look at those pictures or remember the person I was back then.” He drew in a sharp breath. “I didn’t like that person. I might have been good-looking, but inside I was rotting.”
“I know.”
I edged closer, glad when he didn’t back away. “Your eyes were dead in those pictures. You looked so removed in them.” I lifted my hand up, the motion slow so he knew what I was doing, and laid it on his cheek. “Your eyes are alive now. They speak to me.”
“You brought them to life. You brought me to life, Megan. I can’t”—he swallowed—“I can’t stand the thought of you being anything but what I think you are: sweet, honest, and real.” He shut his eyes as a shudder racked his entire frame. Pain and worry clouded his vision when he opened his lids again. “It would end me if you were lying. Forever.”
“I’m not.” I stroked his damaged skin gently. “I’m not, Zachary. I love you.”
Our gaze locked, and I refused to break the connection. I wanted him to see the honesty. See the love I had for him, and him alone.
His shoulders loosened, his expression softening.
“I’ll erase it.” I held out my hand. “Give me my laptop.”
He shook his head. “I’m being an ass. I hate reminders of my past, and I overreacted.” Turning his head, he kissed my palm. “Forgive me.”
“At some point, you have to trust me.”
“I do.”
“Your trust isn’t absolute.”
“I’m trying.”
My chest felt heavy and weariness sunk into my bones. I didn’t want him to try anymore. I wanted him to believe. In himself, in me, in us.
I picked up my bowl.
“Megan—”
I didn’t turn around. “Try harder.”
The fire danced in the grate, the flames twisting and burning, glowing orange, yellow, and red, its heat welcome. I glanced at the door, wondering how long Zachary would be gone. He had told me he was taking Elliott for a walk, and even asked if I wanted to join him, but I said no, and for him to go without me. He hadn’t been for a tramp in the woods for
a couple days, and I knew he needed a little space to think about what happened. I supposed in some ways, his reaction was to be expected—he’d always assume the worst. I was grateful this time he let me explain, and he didn’t walk away, but I hated the fact he was still so mistrustful.
With a small sigh, I picked up my laptop and clicked on the file that upset him. I scanned the pictures and clicked delete. I glanced through the pages of the book, skimming. It was rather inane, bland fodder and I shook my head at the badly written passages. It looked more like a pile of cut and pasted articles from gossip magazines than a biography. The only line that made me pause was in the last chapter where the author claimed that Adam Dennis’s disappearance would be a hot topic for years to come. The book stated the desire for the real story of why he left Hollywood and what really happened to his co-star was a mystery that would never die. I frowned, wondering if that still held true. I knew how much Zachary valued his privacy and distanced himself from his past. He’d hate the thought of being thrust into the limelight again—the entire new world he built for himself destroyed. He lived in constant fear of exposure and ridicule over his scars. The thought of the real story coming out filled him with dread. Groaning, I deleted the book, reminding myself the next time I decided to drink, not to have my laptop close.
The search engine Zachary had been using was still open. I clicked on history and found the name of the paint for which he was searching. Starting a new request, I typed away and twenty minutes later I was successful. The paint was located and I could have it shipped to the gallery in two days. I rubbed my hands together in glee and placed the order, emailing a copy to Ashley so she’d know to play along when Zachary talked to her about it. Somehow, I’d find an excuse to take him into town, and pick it up as a surprise. Instead of discussing it with Ashley, she could hand him the package. He’d be thrilled.
At least that time, I’d done something good with my laptop.
His cheeks were red and cold when he came back. His eyes were calm and remorseful as he leaned in, touching his mouth to mine. He ran his finger over the blank journal in my hand. “Writing something?”
“No, I was looking at them. They’re so beautiful.”
“Not feeling inspired?”
“Not right now.”
“Some people use them to write out their feelings.” He looked down at the floor and hesitated before continuing. “Like if someone pisses them off or does something stupid, they write it out.”
“I’m not pissed with you.”
“You should be.”
“I’m…sad.”
“I made you sad?”
I was completely honest with him. “Yes, you did.”
“I’m sorry, Megan.”
“I know you are, but you need to stop and think sometimes.”
His shoulders bowed. “I know. I react to memories rather than what’s happening now.” He reached for my hand, his touch tentative. I wrapped both my hands around his, squeezing. “I’ll push you away one day, won’t I?”
“No. I won’t let you.”
He exhaled deeply, lifting our hands and kissing my fingers. “Promise?”
“Yes.”
It was warm in my little nest. The sun high in the sky, and the studio filled with light. Zachary had opened the windows and the breeze felt soothing on my skin as it drifted by. He was buried behind a canvas while the strains of sultry jazz played in the background. Every so often, his hand would wrap around the edge of the canvas as he stood close, etching some detail into his work. Other times, his arm would flash as he struck a jagged stroke on to his creation. I had often seen other artists working at street festivals or along the boardwalk when on vacation, standing in front of their canvas, silent and inert, but not Zachary. He was in constant motion as he worked, the odd muttered word escaping his mouth, and at times he’d hum or sing along with the music.
His singing voice was terrible.
I felt lazy today—I had since I woke up from my fractured sleep. In fact, for the past couple days, I had felt weary. I wasn’t sure if it was emotion, or if I was coming down with something, but when Zachary had come up here to work, I was happy to join him, knowing I’d nap for a few hours. Neither of us had slept very well last night, and for the first time since I returned from Boston, we didn’t make love after going to bed. He held me, but he had been restless most of the time, causing my own sleepless night. His quiet apology this morning was tinged with worry when he informed me I looked tired and questioned the reason, thinking I was still upset. I assured him I wasn’t, and he seemed relieved when I followed him up stairs and settled into my corner.
Movement caught my eye and I grinned as he lifted one foot and used his toes to scratch the top of his other foot. It was rare he stood still while painting, his bare feet hitting the planked floor in an uneven rhythm as he moved and shifted, stopping only for the briefest periods as he contemplated his work. I sunk deeper into the pillows, my eyes feeling heavy. I let my book fall to my chest and shut my eyes allowing the soft music, the sound of the brush hitting the canvas and Zachary’s awful tenor to lull me to sleep.
Warm lips ran over my throat, a soft tongue swirling on my skin. Groggy, I opened my eyes meeting the darkened gaze of Zachary as he loomed over me. Sliding my hand around his neck, I buried my fingers in his thick hair that curled around his shirt collar. “You have paint on your cheek,” I mumbled, my voice still thick from sleep.
“Azure blue,” he whispered, dropping gentle kisses to the side of my mouth. Grinning, he rubbed his cheek along mine. “Looks better on you.”
“You got paint on me.”
He sat back, dragging his shirt over his head. “Allow me.” With light touches, he wiped the paint off my cheek, following the linen with his mouth. “I’ll kiss it all better.”
“You missed a spot.”
His voice was husky. “Show me.”
I tugged his face closer, so close I could feel his breath wash over my face. “Here,” I whispered, flicking my tongue out and touching his bottom lip, trailing along the full flesh.
Groaning, he covered my mouth, slipping his tongue inside and kissing me. It was a kiss filled with tenderness and want. One that said “I’m sorry,” and “I’m here—I want you.” His taste filled my mouth, and the scent of him—musky, warm, citrusy—wrapped around me, enveloping my senses as he pressed us deep into the blankets and pillows. Heat surged through me at his touch, shooting down my arms and legs, warming my body. I needed him. I needed to feel him hard and moving inside me—claiming me, and making me his. I whimpered into his mouth as he touched me, delving under my clothes to feel how much I wanted him. Piece by piece, clothing disappeared, our mouths only separating for the briefest of moments before coming back together again. He caressed and teased with his hands and mouth while I arched under him wanting more—wanting closer. He crooned, whispering how much he wanted me, how beautiful I was, how good I felt to him as he slipped inside, rocking into me. I felt his love seeping into my skin as he thrust forward, my name falling from his lips, his rhythm slow and deep. He captured my restless hands, pinning them beside my head, staring down at me, his emotions naked and glaring. Everything I needed to know, every insecurity he tried to hide, blazed from his wide stare as he opened himself to me. I cried out as my orgasm hit me, exploding like glass shattering against stone. Thousands of shards tore through my bloodstream as Zachary gathered me to his chest, burying his head into my neck and groaning his release.
Wrapped in the safety of his embrace, I felt the emotion well in me. It was during our lovemaking he opened himself up most. Trusted me most and gave the most of himself to me. I wanted that trust all the time.
Gently, he laid me down, curling his body around mine. “Shh,” he whispered. “I have you, Megan. I’m right here.”
I nodded, unable to speak or explain my sudden tears. He didn’t utter a word either, but ran his hands up and down my back in long comforting strokes.
“I’l
l do better,” he whispered into my ear. “I promise.”
I held him closer, praying he could.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Two days later, my phone beeped with an incoming text from Ashley. The special paint had arrived, and so had both sets of brushes I’d ordered the day I came back from Boston. I wanted to give him a gift, and after asking her advice, she kindly offered to get two different sets in for me, and allow Zachary to choose which he preferred. He’d want to hold them in his hand, feel their weight and balance before deciding, she explained. Now that the paint and brushes had arrived, I couldn’t wait to surprise him, but I hadn’t thought to ask the price at the time. I frowned as I looked at the screen—they cost a lot of money, but I’d manage it. I really wanted to give him something special and I knew he’d love the brushes. We could go into town today and pick them up.
Zachary still seemed a little withdrawn; the effects of the other night still lingering between us. I thought maybe a change of scenery would be a good thing for both of us.
“What’s that frown for?”
I deleted the message, not wanting to spoil the surprise. “Nothing.”
He glanced down at the phone as I set it on the table. “Problem?”
I resisted rolling my eyes at him. “No.”
His gaze lingered on the phone, then he returned his attention to the paper. He didn’t look convinced or happy. I stifled a sigh, resisting the urge to remind him of our trust discussion.
“It’s nothing, Zachary.”
He shrugged a little, but didn’t say anything. I was a lousy liar and I didn’t want to give the surprise away, so I changed the subject. “I’m going into town today. You want to come?”
He glanced out the window at the dull sunshine. “Not really. Can it wait until tomorrow?”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek. I really wanted to go and get his gifts. He had been muttering again yesterday about this color he wanted and talked about checking online to try and find it. I wanted to give it to him before he had the chance. I was looking forward to seeing his reaction to the brushes and watching him choose the set he wanted. I could already picture him holding the brushes, his long fingers wrapped around the carved wood as he tested them in imaginary strokes on a blank canvas. His eyes would light up when he felt the connection and glow with warmth as he smiled my way, banishing the lingering unease of the past couple days.
Beneath the Scars Page 20