by Alisha Rai
“Ah. Baby steps?”
He breathed out at her sardonic tone, the one that matched his mental monologue in counseling sessions. “Yes.”
“I had a therapist who kept talking about those. I switched to my new one. She explained that maybe it wasn’t steps back to who I was, but steps to being happy. Functional. Content.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
Her tone softened even more. “I am. But then, I’m not like you, love. I was always aware of how imperfect I was.”
“I never thought I was perfect.”
“No, but you were a perfectionist. And you were good at everything you wanted to be good at. Micah, you never really struggled for anything you truly wanted, did you?”
He opened his mouth to protest, but he couldn’t. Not really. He had enjoyed being the best at anything he did. If something had proved difficult, it had been an easy matter to avoid it and find something he excelled at and was rewarded for. His talent had been nurtured at an early age by doting parents; he had easily gotten into the art school of his choice; he hadn’t been a starving artist for long before gaining critical and commercial acclaim.
He had worked hard, yes, but the rewards had always been there. He pursed his lips, for the first time realizing that maybe his life hadn’t been quite so amazing before the attack. Just…easier. “I suppose not,” he admitted.
“And then you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and almost died,” she said with a heavy dose of self-loathing. “So, yes. I get why you might be less resistant to the idea of settling for a different life.”
He ran his hand over his hair again. What if I’m never able to get my hair cut again?
What if I’m never as successful an artist as I once was? What if I’m never able to go out in crowds? What if I hate going to pubs forever?
What if I’m always weak?
“A lesser life,” he said, barely conscious of whispering the words out loud.
“No,” Paige said immediately. “I never would have so much as dated my Derek before all this happened. I would have been too shy or insecure. Nor would I have had the courage to think of getting a law degree back then. I’m starting a full-time study program soon, you know. I’ll be a solicitor.” Her eagerness and pride was apparent in every syllable she spoke. “So, no. This doesn’t have to be a lesser life, love, I don’t think so. Just a different one.”
His heart beat so hard he had to place his hand over his chest. Though he knew it was impossible, he could swear the scars on his back throbbed.
He thought of his barren home, the home he had purposefully chosen not to furnish. Rana was next door, probably curled up in her too-big bed, listening to the rain pound against her windows.
What if I’m always different?
What if he was?
For the record, you may not think you’re perfect anymore, but I did like you, Micah. From the moment I saw you.
Rana had liked him. As he was.
Perhaps…perhaps he could learn to not mind himself either.
“Are you sure?” he asked hoarsely, feeling stupid for the need for affirmation.
“Yes,” she said, her certainty making him shake. “I’m sure. Same way I’m sure I’ll always feel terrible about what happened to you, like I shoved that knife into your back myself. But I’m learning to live with it.”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter how many times I tell you it wasn’t your fault,” he ventured.
“No. It should, but it doesn’t.” He heard a smile in her voice. “That doesn’t mean I don’t like to hear it.”
His laugh was rusty, but she laughed along with him, though the joke wasn’t that funny. “Will you send me your mailing address?” he asked, mentally flipping through the paintings he had stored in England. There were canvases there with Paige’s face on them. His agent had been supremely agitated when he had refused to sell them. Other works with Paige as his model had instantly quadrupled their already hefty price tag in the months after the attack, driven by sensationalist, hungry collectors. This painting is of the girl whose boyfriend went mad. Delicious.
Something about people being excited about owning a piece of the drama surrounding a near-fatal attack and kidnapping made him want to smash something. He imagined the vultures inspecting the canvases for bloodstains, and he wanted to throw up.
Paige could have them and do with them what she wished. They’d fetch her and her new husband a tidy nest egg if she sold them. Or they could destroy them.
“Sending me a wedding present?”
“Yes.” He’d imagined one day he would be able to walk into that warehouse and peruse the works he had previously done without feeling a pang that he was now subpar. Now, all he wanted to do was get rid of all of them. The ones without Paige could be sold, the money put in an account for a rainy day.
Because he wasn’t subpar, necessarily. He looked at the canvases sitting in the corner of his studio, all works in progress of Rana. He couldn’t call anything with her face or body on it subpar.
Different. He was different now.
A small vein of excitement opened within him, a creative surge he hadn’t felt since he’d walked away from Rana. Hell, he could do anything he wanted now, couldn’t he? The world was his oyster. Long after he was dead, maybe collectors would divide his life’s work into periods. No one period better than the other, but all different.
“I’ll email it to you.”
“Thanks.” He paused. “Paige. Still not your fault.”
“Still love hearing it.”
He grinned at her cheeky reply, his heart lightening. “Be happy.”
“You too. Love you.”
“I…” No, he couldn’t say it, even if it was the love of a friend for a friend. He couldn’t say it to Paige, when he hadn’t been able to say it to Rana. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
The phone went dead in his hand, and he carefully placed it on the bench next to him. Then he walked out of the studio and down the stairs, not bothering to take an umbrella with him as he left his home.
Not weak.
Not less.
Different.
He was almost to Rana’s front stoop when he stopped, finally able to think past the instinct guiding him.
Wait.
He looked up at the house. Lightning illuminated her home, thunder following a second later. The warm rain whipped around his body, plastering his clothes and hair to his head.
No. This wasn’t right.
I was your first taste of normalcy. Like…therapy. I think you called them steps once. That’s what I was. A step.
He didn’t want her to think that. She hadn’t been his therapy, she’d been his…well, his love.
If he rang her bell now, she might let him in. She might even listen to him or take him back. Yet what would he say? That he had changed his mind? She deserved a grand gesture. Not a waterlogged fellow rapping on her door in the middle of a storm.
His own words echoed in his ears. It’s not enough to give someone the answer. You have to show the work, so the person can figure out if that’s the right answer for them.
Lightning lit up the sky, the rain soaking his clothes and hair. He backed off, until he was in his yard, his jaw firming.
Yes, he was a perfectionist. He couldn’t be perfect for Rana, whatever perfect even meant anymore. But if he was going to offer her his battered heart, he could damn well ensure he gave her the best possible version of himself he could. She deserved to be with someone who was certain of what he was and what he wanted. Not an impulsive madman drunk over an epiphany.
What if she finds someone else while you figure things out?
He swallowed over the pain of that thought. Maybe she would. He would suffer. But if she was happy, that…that would be okay too.
He went inside, uncaring over the water he was tracking over the kitchen floor, and went to the old-fashioned corded phone hanging on the wall. As little as he used his cell phone, he had never so mu
ch as touched this thing, something he had connected for emergency purposes only.
His therapists’ after-hours answering service picked up. “Hello,” he said rather simply. “I’d like to make an appointment.”
Chapter 21
Rana’s heels tapped on the pavement outside of the new restaurant’s location, a sense of satisfaction rolling through her as she admired the sign that had gone up yesterday. Royals.
It had been Leena’s last-minute idea not to use the same name as The Palace. Rana had jokingly suggested it be named Royalty, after her rather regal name.
She’d almost cried when Devi had squealed out Royals, and then hugged her, claiming it was perfect. She had cried when Leena had agreed, because, “Well, the whole thing was your idea to begin with.”
The Palace’s little sister was less than a half-hour drive from their original restaurant, nestled in a bustling strip mall anchored by a busy supermarket. The windows were covered in butcher paper, since the interior wasn’t quite ready for public consumption. Next week, the three of them would rip it down and let the world take a look at their risk.
A stir of excitement rose in her belly, sneaking past the low-level depression that came and went. This place had been good for her. Something productive to get her mind off the man next door. She had thrown herself into preparations for their grand opening, gaining more confidence in offering her opinions to her sisters and demanding their attention. She’d even stood up twice to her mother, when the older woman had decided to poke her nose in.
Their relationship still hadn’t recovered from the hurtful things Mama had said to her that day on the porch six weeks ago. It lay between them like an ever-present silent bomb. Yet Rana could tell her mother was genuinely sorry. She was quiet in her presence now, her cutting remarks absent, a subtle sadness in her eyes when she looked at her. That sadness was terrible to see. Rana knew eventually her soft heart would cave and she’d forgive her mom. Maybe the other woman would revert back to her critical words and pressure to get married, Rana didn’t know.
What Rana did know was that she wouldn’t give in. She wouldn’t go back to believing she was worthless. She’d grown too strong for that shit.
She resisted the urge to make a silly face and admire her guns in the reflection of the door. This was their new place. She needed to show some decorum. So she sedately juggled the bag Leena had insisted Rana had to bring over here tonight, unlocked the door, and went inside, flipping on the lights.
Where she promptly dropped her bag and yelped.
There, in the center of the room, on an easel, sat a massive painting. And on that canvas was…her.
Only it was a her she’d never seen before. Rana walked closer, heart pounding hard. Micah—of course it was Micah—had remained true to their agreement and hadn’t painted her face.
His other work had been abstract, dreamy. This was harsh, almost hyperrealistic, like she could touch the canvas and feel warm flesh.
He’d painted her on a bed, on her side, her breasts plumped, her arm outstretched toward the viewer. One leg was crossed over the other one, hiding the place between her legs. Sunlight gleamed on her skin, burnishing it with gold. Her hair covered her face, revealing only the curve of her cheekbone, her stubborn chin, and a glimpse of red lipstick-stained lips.
She had never posed for him like this. Is this what she had looked like, sleeping in his bed?
No, it was her bed. She recognized the embroidered flower on a pillowcase peeking at the top. Now that she studied it, she realized the sunlight cascaded over her in a subtle pattern. Like it was streaming through half-open blinds.
Her chest physically hurt, she was so overwhelmed. God.
Vulnerable and erotic. A well-loved sexual being. That’s what she was.
She was unable to stop devouring the painting with her eyes. When she was within arm’s reach, she realized the lower left-hand corner of the painting didn’t hold Micah’s customary bold signature.
Queen of My Heart
Rana clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle her cry. There was more, in smaller print. She bent over.
Curtains, door, arms, heart. All open. Only for you.
Please.
Love,
Micah
Well. Talk about making her feel.
She straightened up and looked at the painting again. Odd how it was suddenly wavy.
She dashed her tears away and read his signature again. All open. Only for you.
Was there really a decision that needed to be made here?
While she wanted to take the painting with her, it was so big and her hands so clumsy, she feared damaging it. She’d have to simply come back. Maybe with Micah and his big SUV.
Her heart leapt with hope, and she struggled to contain it. Not yet. She wouldn’t be putting the cart before the horse.
How she managed to make it home, she wasn’t sure. When she did turn onto her street, she didn’t bother with her driveway but slid into Micah’s.
The sun had just set, and the evening sky was dusky blue. Rana got out of her car and craned her neck. Sure enough, she could make out flickering lights in Micah’s studio window. Since she’d bought him blinds, the room had been closed off.
She swallowed as she neared his door, her heart thudding. The knob turned smoothly in her hand.
She came inside and shut the door behind her. The house was quiet, still. Rana wiped her hands on her jeans. Was he home? Had she misunderstood the painting?
The stairway light was on, though, and from around the corner she could see the soft glow from the kitchen. Plus the lamp in the living room.
She did a double take at that. The floor lamp was new, as was the leather sofa it was sitting next to. Same with the modest flat-screen TV.
Still sparsely furnished, of course, but a change was a change.
“Micah?” she called out uncertainly.
When she received no response, she made a quick decision. She was here, right? She hadn’t imagined what that painting had said. She had to see, for both their sakes.
She mounted the stairs slowly, drawn to the studio. She pushed the door open and blinked.
Candles.
Dozens, maybe even a hundred of the buggers, all over the place. But they weren’t what truly shocked her.
She was what shocked her.
Every available surface had a canvas leaning against it. Huge newspaper print covered the walls. She was everywhere. Her hands. Her breasts. Her face. Her legs. Her butt. All of her.
In the middle of the empty room was a large sculpture. She stumbled closer. It was rough and lumpy, half-finished, but she could recognize herself in the clay. The pose matched the one in the painting in the restaurant.
She knew he was here—he had to be. Still, she jumped at the slight clearing of his throat, and swiveled around. He stood leaning against the doorway, wearing his standard jeans and a white T-shirt. His hair was wet, and the T-shirt clung to the damp spots on his chest.
He looked good. A little paler, a little skinnier, but good.
She said the first thing that popped in her mind. “You know, this room makes you look like a stalker who has never heard of a camera.”
His eyes warmed before he gave a small laugh. She clutched the sound close to her heart, letting it warm her. It had been so long since she’d been able to pull that sound out of him.
“Not a stalker,” he said huskily. “In love.”
She was gaping, she knew that. He’d signed his name with a “love” on that painting, but that could have meant anything.
But in love? In love was different. That could only mean one thing.
He shifted on his feet. “I meant to be in here when you showed up. Your sister, Devi, was going to call me when you left for the restaurant.”
Ah. There was one mystery answered. Devi had helped him. “I left early, without telling anyone but a couple of the staff. She may still think I’m in the back looking at new apron designs.”
<
br /> “Or she wanted to keep me on my toes. I don’t think your sisters care for me very much.”
“You hurt me.”
His flinch was obvious, but he nodded. “Yes. They made it clear they were unhappy with me when I went to them yesterday to beg them for help.”
“You…begged them.”
“Yes.” Micah grimaced. “Leena wouldn’t talk to me at all at first. Just glared and swore at me. Your youngest sister? Devi? I thought she was nicer. But then she insisted I eat before we talk.”
Rana stifled a laugh, humor winning out over everything else. “Pakora? Fried fritters that almost kill you, they’re so spicy?”
Micah rested his hand over his stomach. “I thought I could handle spicy food. Until yesterday.”
Rana coughed to hide her laugh. God, she loved her sisters. “She did the same thing when she was fourteen and this guy came over to ask for my forgiveness for some terrible sin.”
“Yes, well.” He shrugged, his intensity unwavering. “A little discomfort is nothing.”
She knew her sisters. They were aware she’d been melancholy without Micah. He must have passed whatever test they’d laid out for him.
“They like you,” she said. “Or they wouldn’t have helped you at all.”
“That’s good. They’re a big part of your life.”
She bit her lip. “What is all of this?”
His shoulders lifted, then fell. “I want you back.”
Her heart raced. Her impulsive instincts urged her to throw her hands around him and hold on, but the part of her that was older and wiser hit the brakes. “I want love, Micah.”
The candlelight gleamed on his high cheekbones, deepening the scar on his lip. He walked forward until he was barely a foot away from her. “Are you seeing anyone else? Someone who…someone you could love?”
“No,” she whispered. “I haven’t dated anyone since we broke up. I needed some time to think. Readjust my search filters. The ones I had in place, they weren’t reflective of what I’m truly looking for.”