I’m an idiot.

That thought sang loud and clear in my head over and over and fucking over again all day long. Lorenzo Ricci, during my meeting, droned on about views of the Grand Canal thoroughfare and sunsets that could make you weep. I’d tried to be present and excited about something I’d wanted for so long, but all I could do was force a smile here and there.

I’m simply a shell now.

And the only person who can fill me with life is her.

Cerys Youngblood.

“Don’t leave me. Give me a chance,” I repeat, my voice gruff with unfamiliar emotion.

She tenses, her bottom lip quivering, and I realize I fucked up. I had a chance at something good and perfect and real, but I crumpled it in my fist just like I do everything.

“Cerys,” I plead as she steps away from me. I reach out to her, but she doesn’t touch me back.

“Your mind must be a terrible place,” she murmurs, her paint-speckled face scrunching as though it pains her. “So why must you spend so much time there?”

I blink at her and swallow. I have no answer.

When she turns, I follow her through the living room and into a studio. She walks over to the canvas she’d been painting and points at it. It’s every bit as beautiful as artwork I’ve spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on before. Except this painting is real. It’s climbing past the fibers, dripping onto the floors, and sliding my way. Taunting and mocking. The painting is me.

My eyes are closed in the picture. Brows furled together as if in excruciating pain. Two fists gripping bars in front of me as though I’m imprisoned. My mouth is parted and red is smeared across my face. Her lips. Red lipstick that belongs to her is the only evidence she exists in my dark, awful world.

“You let it control you,” she says, her voice biting angrily at me. “Big, strong, beautiful James Darden lets memories dictate his every action and move. You’re a puppet, James. This”— she gestures at the art— “controls you. Pulls your strings and makes you dance these dark little jigs.”

Her hand falls, and she regards me with a furious glare. I wilt under the anger she wields like a sword.

“I’m done . . .” She trails off, her lip wobbling. “I’m done watching this show.”

Hanging my head in defeat, I let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Which is why,” she states, her voice softening, “you’re going to get your ass in that kitchen and let me make you a grilled cheese sandwich. You’re going to tell me about yourself. You’re going to listen to me tell you stories. Stupid stories. Silly stories. Sad stories. We’re done with this little production you’ve been the master of.” I lift my gaze to meet her searing stare. Strong. Confident. Brave. Her lips quirk in a cute lopsided grin. “I’m running this show now.”

I have no words.

I simply stare at the brilliant angel blazing her light my way. All my shadows and darkness are being chased away by her. I’m not sure I want to know the man—the real man—who hides behind it all.

She disappears into the kitchen, and I have no choice but to follow. By clipping the strings she claims control of me, she tied them to her own fingers instead. I follow her because I have no choice. But if I did have a choice, I’d still follow.

I pull out a chair and sit. Awkward and uncomfortable at first in the cozy kitchen. But as I look around, I relax. The table has some wear and tear, the chairs don’t match, and yet I find myself calmed by it. Soothed by chaos and imperfection.

“Mom taught me how to make these when I was ten. I was so proud that I learned how to cook I made them for every meal. Each night, I forced my parents to eat grilled cheese sandwiches until one day my mom had had it. She told me enough was enough.” She looks over from the pan where she’s cooking and grins. “She taught me how to make grilled ham and cheese then.”

My lips tug at one corner when she snorts with laughter.

“Mom died five years ago and . . .” She shrugs, but I can hear the pain in her voice. “I’ve been lost without her.”

A chair scrapes, and it takes me a moment to realize I’ve risen from my seat. It’s like I crave to comfort her on a cellular, subconscious level.

“Sit,” she orders.

But I can’t. I need to touch her.

Stalking over to her, I rest my chin on her head and watch her as she cooks. The smells are heavenly, but the way she works away without a worry in the world is even better. I want to roll around in this ease that seems to hover around her like a sweet fog. I want it to cloak me too.

“The key to cutting a perfect grilled cheese sandwich,” she explains as if I have been wondering all my life about these things, “is a good spatula. This metal one is the right size and kind of sharp.” She slides the sandwiches onto two plates, and I watch with amusement as she uses the spatula to cut the sandwiches in two rather than using a knife. Hot cheese melts from the center, and my stomach grumbles.

She laughs, and my chest clenches with joy. “That’s what I thought, big boy. Sit down.”

Reluctantly, I pull away from her and take my seat. She flits about the kitchen grabbing chips and pouring milk. Eventually, she takes her seat beside me.

She babbles on about her friend named Saskia and a show called Big Brother and how her cats Beavis and Butt-Head came to get their names. I try to listen but only hear bits and pieces. I’m too busy staring at the crumbs on her lips, desperately wanting to lick them off.

“Pop quiz,” she announces.

I blink at her in confusion. “What?”

“For someone ultra-focused, you sure do retreat inside of that head of yours. Are you paying attention to me?”

“You’re all I see.”

Her lips spread into a wide grin. “Okay, fine. I’ll let you off the hook because that was really sweet.” A blush blooms across her cheeks. “Come. I want to show you something.”

She walks. I follow.

Inside her messy room, I should be twitching and angered. I’m a clean freak by nature. Messes and me don’t mesh well. Yet, this messy, crazy, horribly dressed girl is in my world wreaking all kinds of havoc, and it’s addictive. I don’t want it gone. I want more and more and more of it.

“Get comfy,” she instructs. “We’re going to watch movies and cuddle.”

I let out a snort. “I don’t cuddle.”

Her hands go to her hips, and she juts them out to the side as she arches a brow at me. “You do now, Stalker Darden.” Then she waves over at the bed. “I’ll be back.”

I strip down to my boxers while she showers in the bathroom, and my mind races. I’m in unchartered waters here, and I’m fucking sinking. The thought of climbing out of her lumpy bed and dressing in an effort to retreat back to my comfort zone is strong.

But then she prances back into her room, beautiful and brilliant and bright, and I’m resuscitated. No longer drowning. No longer panicked and confused.

I’m mesmerized.

Her robe is silky and transparent. I can see the shape of her naked body underneath perfectly. She starts a movie and then climbs into bed with me. Her legs tangle with mine as she settles herself at my side.

My cock is rock hard, and my heart is galloping.

I want to pin her down and fuck my crazy into her. Make her see it’s not all sunshine and rainbows. It can’t be wiped away by a movie called The-motherfucking-Notebook.

But her sighs . . .

Goddamn, those sighs.

Happy. Content. Relaxed.

I want to breathe them in and live off them.

“Cuddling,” she explains. “You’re supposed to relax. It’s supposed to calm you.”

With her palm splayed on my bare chest, I can feel my heart beat slowing. She remains still, and I find myself engrossed in the movie. A fucking movie. It isn’t until the credits roll and my little snorer drools on me that I realize—I can do this. I think. I fucking hope. I’ll try my damnedest, that’s for sure.

Hank, the curious little fucker, jumps on the bed and curls up against her back. Evidently, he knows all about this cuddle shit and is a fan.

Hank may be a texture man . . .

But I’m a cuddle man, it would seem.

I smile at the fucking cat.