“After all this time, you’re still a mystery to me.”

I blow steam off the top of my tea. “Is that so?”

“Mmm.” He takes a sip, then sets his mug down on the coffee table. “You’re a study in contradictions. Despite my skill at chess, I still can’t predict what you’ll do.”

That makes two of us.

I want to ask him what he wants, why he’s here if not to appease our appetite for each other’s bodies, but I don’t. Perhaps I’m a bit of a masochist, myself. But at least part of the truth is simple—I enjoy his company. The wordplay, the verbal chess. Even with no sex involved, he’s still the most brilliant, charming prick I know.

“I surprised you, the inimitable James S. Beckett. That’s why you’re here.”

“Indeed. While I was reading your manuscript last night, it occurred to me that you didn’t actually want or need me to read it.” His eyes slant to mine. “True?”

Hiding my smile behind my mug, I nod.

“Then why did you send it?”

“Did you read the dedication?” I ask in return.

His eyes darken, lips tilting wryly. “Ah, I didn’t want to assume that was for me.” He chuckles softly. “Of course it is. My little muse. You certainly put me in my place, didn’t you?”

I shrug, but my smile is pleased. “It was the least I could do. You gave me the idea, after all.”

“I did, didn’t I,” he murmurs. “I suppose you know it’s extremely morbid?”

“Selkie legends aren’t known for happy endings,” I say, not without irony.

He frowns, staring at his hands. “I guess I’m to blame for that as well.”

I sigh, settling into the couch cushions with my tea cradled atop my stomach. “I don’t think either of us is to blame. Things just… happen the way they’re supposed to happen.”

“Perhaps.” He clears his throat. “I said things I didn’t mean on New Year’s Eve. I owe you an apology. Once again, you were right. I wasn’t angry at you but at myself.”

Mindful of our conversation veering in a dangerous direction, I keep my voice even and light. “Believe me, I get it. We were angry at ourselves, each other, whatever. That’s why it’s called hate-sex, James.”

He laughs, sinking back with his arms crossed behind his head. I try to ignore the sliver of skin visible above his belt, but my eyes only move further south, snagging on the thick curve of him beneath soft denim.

Damnit.

I drag my eyes away and blink at the ceiling. “Can I ask a question without you getting weird?”

“That sounds interesting,” he says brightly. “Fire away.”

“That passage you read from Indigo, about the woman with the scar? Was it about me?”

“Of course. I wrote it after our first—and only—weekend together. You fell asleep on the rug before the fireplace after… anyway, I might have slipped the blanket off you to study you in the firelight.”

I swallow hard, shifting subtly to alleviate the pulse of memory and desire between my legs.

“Sometimes I wish I was still her,” I tell him. “That innocent girl.”

“I never saw you as innocent.” When he glances over and sees my surprise, he smiles. “I know that’s hard to imagine, but I’ve seen your childhood photos. At least the ones Richard kept. You were born with eyes that hold worlds. Lifetimes of love and loss and pain. I’m only sorry that I added to your pain. I truly never meant to hurt you.”

“I know,” I whisper.

He recites softly, “‘She lay still and hard and smooth before me, a chrysalises awaiting transformation. Soon, she would break free, and I would revel in witnessing her metamorphosis.’” He smiles warmly. “Indeed, I’ve reveled in witnessing your metamorphosis.”

Fighting a damnable stirring behind my eyes, I force a smile. “Am I beautiful butterfly now?”

His smile softens. “You know you are.”

There’s a question in his eyes that I don’t know how to answer, so I ask a different one.

“Is the novel too depressing?”

“Nah. Besides, depressing wins awards.”

I laugh and kick his leg. “That’s horrible advice.”

He closes his eyes, lips curved in a smile. “In all honesty, I wouldn’t change it past the usual edits. You misspelled dessert twice.”

I jerk upright in horror. My empty mug rolls off my lap and thuds on the floor. “Shit, are you serious?”

He chuckles, nodding. “My favorite was, ‘The desert unfolded on her tongue.’ A poetic take on dry-mouth, certainly.”

Laughing, I cover my flaming cheeks.

James watches me with an impish grin. “Iris Eliot, you’re blushing.”

“Fuck off, Beckett.”

“You didn’t blush when I offered to bend you over, but you blush when I catch grammar errors? Good God, either you’re a unicorn or I need lessons in seduction.”

I swallow laughter, rolling my eyes. “You weren’t even serious. Your girlfriend was waiting outside for you.”

“Tsk tsk. No lying, pet. You and I both know why you looked at me like I was a cretin when I said it.”

He can’t possibly…

“Because I told you once that I’d only want you face to face.”

Until this moment and those words, I didn’t know it was possible for a heart to soar and sink at the same time.

“James…”

He waves off my cautionary tone. “Don’t bother. Water under the bridge, eh?”

I repeat his own words back to him. “Is it, little muse?”

James laughs loudly and freely, the sound warming me from the inside out. By the time he quiets, it’s too late for me to hide the tears in my eyes.

Expression sobering fast, he sits up. “What’s wrong, Iris?”

I shake my head and wipe at my traitorous eyes. “Nothing, really. I just realized how much I’ve missed you. Not the being with you part—that was a mess—just you.”

“I’m a brilliant conversationalist, aren’t I?”

I laugh, silently thanking him for lightening the mood. “And humble, too.”

He nods. “Don’t forget devastatingly handsome and impressively endowed. I don’t suppose you’d fancy a shag?”

I groan. “Stop with the Austin Powers accent. You sound like a wanker.”

He guffaws. “Did you just call me a wanker?”

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

Eyes sparkling, he stands and collects our mugs. “You’re right, of course. I’d better get going. I’ve got a serious wanking on the schedule tonight right after a wee wank or two.”

I make a face. He laughs all the way to the kitchen, where he rinses the mugs and leaves them in the sink.

We meet at the front door. He pulls on his overcoat, buttons it, and clears his throat. When he looks up, his eyes show me a rare glimpse of vulnerability.

“This is awkward,” he mutters. “This is awkward, right?”

I laugh a little. “Yes. But I’m glad you broke into my house tonight.”

He smiles. “Me, too. Lock the door behind me.”

“Will do.”

He nods, then surprises me by taking my face gently in his hands and kissing my forehead. Against my skin, he murmurs, “No matter what, you were my muse first.”

Then he’s out the door, jogging through the rain to his car. I wait until he starts the engine, then close the door and flip the deadbolt.

My forehead hits the wood, then my palms. Closing my eyes, I see again his final glance. The tenderness and warmth in his eyes. I think of how easy and right it felt sitting beside him, drinking tea and laughing.

And I wonder if timing really is everything.