~ 14 ~
“Why are we standing on the porch in the freezing cold again?” Amy complained.
“You run in the freezing cold all the time,” I pointed out.
“Key word there being ‘running.’ Standing is just chilly.”
“You’re keeping me company so I don’t go crazy waiting.”
She checked her phone. “It’s only two minutes after four. He maybe got stuck in traffic.”
“On a Sunday afternoon?”
“True. Will he be on the bike?”
“I don’t know. He just said to wait on the porch. I have no idea what he has planned.” I wasn’t sure of any of this at all. Part of me was all fantasy-riddled, dreamy, excited; another part had my stomach in worried knots. Damien said he wanted to explain and I’d said I’d listen. Elizabeth Bennett, reading Darcy’s letter. She’d probably felt like this—still angry, also hurt, and yet with that longing…
Amy clutched my arm. “Oh. My. God.”
I followed her gaze and my throat went tight, my heart fluttering. A white stretch limo came down the block, a guy in black hanging out the sunroof, holding something in his arms. The car stopped in front of the house, and Damien climbed out of the sunroof, sliding down onto the sidewalk. He held out two enormous bouquets of roses, one red, one pink.
I gaped. Frozen in place and not by the whipping wind.
Amy elbowed me. “At least go get the flowers.”
Numbly, I made my way down the walk. He’d changed his look again—something between Gabriel and Damien. No lip piercings, but there was a small gold hoop in the eyebrow and matching gold beads in his ear. His hair was lighter, not blond but much more brown. He wore the black jeans he’d had on for Thanksgiving, and the black leather jacket over the deep green hoodie, both hanging open over a white t-shirt. The adorably chipped tooth.
“I figured you should have both,” he said to me. “For the grown-up you and for the little girl.”
Gingerly, I took both bouquets, cradling them in my arms. The blooms were full and lush, redolent of that perfect rose scent.
“I researched,” he said, “to get the kind with the right aroma. Apparently a lot of florists’ roses don’t smell right, or at all, and most people don’t care, but I knew you would.”
I pressed my lips together, not sure of my reply, but terribly moved that he’d thought of that. That he’d thought of all of this, that he knew me so well.
“No pirouettes, I see,” he observed with a rueful twist of a smile. “Should I leave?”
His eyes were no longer that bright aqua, but back to the twilight blue of Gabriel’s.
“They were contact lenses,” I said inanely.
“Yeah.” He half-shrugged. Nodded. Stuck his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a bottle of Jameson, black label. “I brought the good stuff, in case you needed more bribery to hear the extended apology. If you even want to hear it.”
“Come on in,” I said, before I knew I’d decided. “You know where my room is. I’ll grab glasses.”
He nodded again, then went with me inside, saying hi to Amy. She took the roses from me. “I’ll arrange them for you, if you want,” she said, a small excited smile on her lips. I grabbed a couple of glasses and headed upstairs.
Damien was standing there, the familiar black slice, but no longer such a stark contrast. With my new pale and deep gray accents, he fit in. He looked really damn good in my bedroom.
“You changed things.” He finished the turn, watching me come in.
“Some. Felt like time.”
“Glad Ulysses made the cut though.”
I glanced at my unicorn, rather incongruously perched on the watered silk pattern of the shams. “I’d never give Ulysses the boot. Sorry, I have only juice glasses. Nothing fancy.”
“These work.” He set them on my repainted vanity and poured for us both. He handed me a glass and held his up mutely.
I clinked without comment and took a sip. So good. “This stuff is pricey. I looked it up.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“How the hell can you afford it, let alone in that bar?”
“This is your first question?” He laughed, shaking his head.
“My first question was about the contact lenses, technically.”
“True. And, yes—the lenses, haircut, dyed it black.”
“That’s why your hair smelled like aloe. I knew I recognized that scent, but I didn’t put it together.”
“You and that hyperactive nose.” He shook his head. “I even got some really strong bay rum aftershave, to throw you off the scent. Har har.”
“What about the lip piercings?”
He bit his lower lip, curling it up for me to see the twin holes beneath. “I have them still. I was at a teaching job today—out in Evanston, that’s what I do on Sunday mornings—so I take out the ones more likely to offend for that.”
“And the tattoo?”
“Had that, too—and, before you ask—for the reason I told you. I didn’t lie to you about anything real, Marcia.”
My heart lurched a little, then settled back into place, only a little tender. “You knew I was a virgin though.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “Yeah. That. I didn’t know whether to let on that I knew. I kept waiting for you to tell me, and then you never did. And you were so…. hot.” His blue eyes lifted to mine, his smile wry. “I really never planned that, when I went home with you. I thought we’d mess around and you’d put a stop to it. But then you never did.”
“I didn’t want to.” I couldn’t quite even out my breathing, so I took a longer sip of whiskey.
“I didn’t want to either.” He got a serious look, glancing at the bed and back to me, like maybe it had meant something to him, too. “That was the kicker. I knew all along that I should tell you, but it was so… powerful that you wanted me to be the first. Maybe it sounds dumb, but I felt kind of honored by that. Special. I thought if you knew I was Gabriel you’d cut things off and then we’d be really done. You’d made it clear how you felt about him—me—and this whole fight you had going with Charley. I didn’t want to run afoul of that.”
“Yes, well—Charley and I are good now. That’s all done.”
“Good.” He offered the bottle and I took it, pouring a tiny splash more. “Careful there,” he nodded at the glass with a smile. “It’s a crime to puke up stuff that expensive.”
“About that?”
He grimaced. “My dad owns that warehouse we went to, plus a lot more. I don’t really work there—I just help out when he’s slammed. I have a trust fund. Useful for buying good whiskey to impress pretty girls. Only you didn’t know it was the good stuff.” He shook his head at himself.
“So that wasn’t true, about him wanting you to get a real job.”
“Oh yes it is. I meant it. I never lied to you outright or misled you about anything important. He just hates me wanting to be an actor. We fight about it on a semi-regular schedule.”
“Did you get the part?”
He cocked his head, puzzled.
“The one you traded with Charley for. She was putting in a good word for you.”
“Didn’t she tell you? I told her to forget it. I screwed up my end of the deal, so I forfeited.”
“No, she didn’t mention.”
“She was seriously pissed at me. Rightfully so, but man—a real bear when she’s defending someone she loves.”
That made me smile. “Yes, she is. So, what’s your name, really.”
“Really? Gabriel Damien Tobias Mitchell-Bersham.”
“Good God,” I said, after a moment.
“Right? So you could pick what you want to call me.” He paused, studying my face. “If you want to call me anything but asshole.”
“I liked Damien.” I paced a little, tossed back the whiskey for courage and set down my glass. Then I turned back and confronted him. “But I want the truth—how much of him was real?”
“Everything. Everything except the accent,” he allowed.
“And the hair color.”
“Yeah. And the tooth veneer.” He tapped his chipped tooth. “I used dental acrylic for that. Contact lenses, of course. I waxed off my body hair, so you wouldn’t see I was naturally blond. Oh, and while my roommates are shits, they’re not that bad. I didn’t want you to see where I lived because you’d figure out who I was.”
“Anything else?”
He raised his eyes, contemplating. “I don’t think so, but I’d hate to swear to it and fuck up again.”
“What about what you said—that you… liked me.”
He set down his glass and took my hands. “Marcia, love, I do like you. I like you so much. I’ve been kicking myself up one side and down the other for not telling you sooner. For not calling a halt to it all. I just—” He broke off, shaking his head, stroking my fingers with his. “I got caught up in the ride. I fell, and fell hard.”
A tremor of joy leaked through my heart, making it past the locks. “You did? For real—no games or embellishment.”
He held my gaze, perfectly somber. “For real. I’ve fucked up plenty of things in my life. You should know that. The trust money helps, but I’m not some super successful guy like Daniel and Brad. I’m a struggling actor who works a lot of jobs to keep my dad off my back. But I’ve never regretted anything like I did screwing up with you.”
“Your ad was pretty good on that.”
“I spent hours composing it.” He stroked my hands, a funny half smile on his mouth, then laced his fingers with mine. “I don’t know exactly what appropriate groveling entails, but I’m willing. Tell me what I need to do for you to give me a chance, to start over. A clean slate, maybe.”
“This was pretty good as is. But, Damien—we can’t just erase everything that happened between us.”
“No. No, I guess not.” He looked glum, and let go, sliding away from me.
I held on. “I wouldn’t want to.”
He cocked his brow, that gesture at least, completely familiar. “Then what?”
“I’m still figuring that out. I’d like for that to be okay, that we don’t have to solve everything and have it perfectly sorted right off. I’d like to…” I laughed at myself a little. “Chill and enjoy.”
“I can do that.”
I moved in, putting my arms around his lean waist, enjoying his scent, sweet as honey, vitally masculine, and wiggled against him. Bold me. “We were pretty hot together.”
He returned my smile, a sultry turn to it. “And then some.”
“I want more of that. But for real this time.”
“Oh, love,” he murmured, then leaned in and waited. I met him halfway, drowning in the kiss we created. “Nothing was ever more real than this.”