Chapter 12 Pebbles
Silas
Bailey’s apartment is set up so that in the morning, when she has to log into her meeting, I can stay in my underwear and relax on her couch without her colleagues seeing me.
And by relax I mean put the finishing touches on the photos from the boudoir session. I kick my feet up onto her L-shaped sectional and set my laptop in my lap. It’s not as fun as when I have my dual monitors, but it’ll do for now.
I’ve worked on these photos every chance I could get.
Every spare moment. All those late nights when I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about her back in the city.
I’ve spent hours perfecting the lighting, adjusting the shadows, bringing out the warmth in her skin—not because they needed it, but because I needed to see her again.
So much that Hunter asked if something was wrong because he hadn’t seen me at On the Rocks all week.
I could not tell my best friend that I’d rather look at pictures of his mostly naked sister than lose to him in darts. That I’ve memorized each curve, expression, moment of vulnerability she trusted me with. That these aren’t just photos—they’re proof that she let me see her.
Bailey’s in a dress shirt that hides the hickey on her collarbone and she fixed her hair and makeup.
From the waist down, though, she’s wearing these hot little booty shorts.
You’d think after our sexfest last night and this morning I’d be too worn out to be getting hard again, but here I am ten minutes before her call wondering if I have enough time to eat her out again.
Probably not. Or at least, not enough time to do it justice. She sets up for her call and I console myself with the picture of her on the porch.
After half an hour, though, I find that I’m not making any progress on the edits because I am so much more fascinated by what Bailey’s doing.
It’s clear she’s leading the meeting, and these people work for her.
She says things like “Why don’t you take the lead on that, Bennett, and get your report to me by next Wednesday?
” with easy authority. “Jeff, I’d like you to let Shannon finish her thought because I think it’s really relevant to this conversation.
” Not aggressive, just firm. Respectful but in charge.
Then: “I’ll bring it to Max’s attention.”
Max. As in the CEO. She reports directly to the fucking CEO.
I’ve spent the last week looking at photos of Bailey—her curves, her expressions, the vulnerability in her eyes. I thought I was seeing all of her.
But watching her work, I realize there’s so much more I don’t know. This confident, commanding version of Bailey. The woman who manages teams and reports to CEOs and flies to offshore wind farms in helicopters.
She keeps saying this thing between us is temporary. Just getting it out of our systems.
But how the hell am I supposed to get her out of my system when I keep discovering more reasons to want her?
When the call is over, Bailey pushes away from her desk and takes out her headphones. “You just had to do that?”
“Do what?”
She gestures at me. I’d put my laptop to the side and crossed my ankles, my hands behind my head while I watched her. “You’re very distracting.”
“Me?” I say, incredulous. “I’m distracting? You’re the one who was hashtag-bossing like a fucking pro. I didn’t know this meeting was a precursor to you flying out to the site.”
Her cheeks get rosy and she comes to join me on the couch. “Yeah. I’m flying to Martha’s Vineyard next week, where I’ll take a helicopter out to the field.”
“A field of wind generators. In the water,” I marvel. “Damn, you’re a badass.”
She pretends to brush some dirt off her shoulders and we both laugh. “What were you up to?”
“I was completely distracted by your fantastic ass.”
She rolls her eyes. “You couldn’t see my ass.”
“Yeah I could.” I set my laptop back on my lap. “I was working on the photos from the shoot. I’ve got a few finalized. Do you wanna see them?”
Her smile grows, but a wariness also creeps in. Nerves. She nods.
She has nothing to be nervous about. These photos are fucking gorgeous, and it’s one hundred percent her.
I open my laptop and navigate to the folder that contains the edited versions, the ones I’d deliver to a client—the ones I will deliver to my client.
“Okay, these have had basic editing, but if there’s anything you want me to do in particular or something you don’t like about them, let me know.”
“Okay.”
The screen fills with the first shot I chose—a close-up of Bailey’s face while she’s laughing. Her head is thrown back, her hair splayed on the bed. It looks like she’s naked, bare collarbones caving and a slight swell of her breast at the bottom of the frame.
Bailey gasps, and I smile. She’s transfixed on the photo, and my chest warms with pride.
I click to the next one. This one’s my favorite so far—she’s on the porch, backlit by golden hour, the sheer robe catching the light. She looks like a goddamn Renaissance painting. Strong. Sensual. Completely herself.
And then the next photo. And the next.
But after the fifth one, Bailey places her hand on my arm. “Can we stop?” Her voice catches, a husky quality infused in the words. I look at her face just as she brings a hand up to wipe at her eyes.
“Bailey?” Her eyes are filled with tears, and my heart sinks when I realize they’re not tears of joy. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
She shakes her head, cupping her face in her hands. Her body trembles as she fights the tears, and I wrap my arms around her. That snaps her control, and she shudders as she buries her face in my neck and sobs.
A million thoughts fly through my mind, but I bite my tongue and let her emotions be. Several minutes of sniffling tick by, and Bailey finally breaks my hold on her.
She won’t look at me. She wipes her eyes, and I stand and grab a tissue box from the bathroom, giving her time to blow her nose and clean her face.
Bailey frowns down at a crumpled tissue in her hand.
“Want to tell me what’s going on in there?” I ask.
Bailey releases a shaky laugh. “I just hate—” Her voice cracks. “I hate how I look at these photos and all I can see are my flaws.”
“What flaws?” I ask gently, because I genuinely don’t know what she’s talking about.
“My stomach. My thighs. The way my arm looks in that one shot.” She’s ticking them off like evidence.
“The cellulite on my ass. The stretch marks. The—” Her voice breaks.
“I know I’m not skinny. I know it’s superficial to want to be beautiful.
But I can’t—I can’t look at these and see what you see. ”
My heart breaks. Because I see gorgeous curves and soft skin and a woman who trusted me enough to be vulnerable. And she sees a list of supposed imperfections that some asshole like Ben Hartly probably drilled into her head years ago.
“Bailey . . .” I chide gently.
She hiccups. “This was a bad idea. My expectations were too high. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”
“Bailey,” I say, more forcefully. “You did not waste my time. I loved—loved—taking these photos. I’ve seen so much of you, and I don’t just mean the naked kind.”
She gives a weak laugh.
“You have always been gorgeous,” I tell her, hoping she can hear in my voice how much I mean it.
“Thank you,” she says, but it comes out like an automatic response and I can tell I haven’t changed her mind. Of course I haven’t. Bailey’s viewing herself through a different lens than I am—her own lens, and one shaped by society, and it tells her she’s lacking.
“Have you considered talking to someone about this? A therapist?”
“Ha,” she says into her tissue. “No, I haven’t. But Hunter’s brought it up before. But it’s not like I have an eating disorder, or—”
“Stop right there. There’s no sense in comparing yourself to someone else. You’re here, successful and stunning and clearly upset. You deserve happiness.”
Bailey wipes under her eyes, and I wonder how much prodding it’ll take to get her to see someone. Will she get tired of me suggesting it? Will it become a source of tension for us?
“I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship, Silas. I thought I was, but . . .”
I gently push Bailey’s coffee table away and drop to my knees in front of her, resting my arms on either side of her hips. “If you aren’t ready, you aren’t ready. I won’t push you.”
Is that a flicker of disappointment in her eyes? Like part of her wants me to push? Or maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see.
Either way, I’m not giving up. Not on her. Not on us.
“Bailey, you’re building a wall to protect yourself.
I get it. But what if you built a foundation instead?
Give yourself something to stand on, something that gives you strength from within?
No one but you can provide the boulders and big heaps of rock you need to do that.
But whether you’re in a relationship with me or not, whether you want to call this ‘getting it out of our systems’ or something more—I will help you build that foundation.
I’ll drop little pebbles at your feet every day to help you shore it up until you see yourself like I do. ”
Her eyes are watery again, but she’s smiling. “That sounds nice.”
I raise my hand, wiping my thumb under her eye to brush away a tear. “It is. That’s what friends and lovers are for. Besides, is anyone ever ready for a relationship? I’m sure as hell not ready to tell Hunter I fucked his sister.”
Bailey laughs. “Maybe don’t phrase it that way.”
“Making love? Canoodling? Doing the horizontal mambo?”
She rolls her eyes and pushes me away with a laugh.
I grab her hand and use it to pull her toward me while I get back onto the couch.
Bailey leans into my lap, and I catch her with an arm around her waist. “What do you say? We’ll keep doing what we’re doing, you’ll find a therapist, and I’ll spend every day for as long as you’ll let me telling you how beautiful you are. ”
Bailey’s quiet for a long moment. I can feel her breathing, feel the weight of her against me, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too hard. Asked for too much.
Then she shifts, burrowing closer into my chest. “You really want to do this?” Her voice is small, uncertain. “Even when I’m a mess? Even when I cry over photos that are supposed to make me feel good about myself?”
“Especially then.” I press a kiss to the top of her head. “Bailey, you think this scares me off? You being real, being vulnerable? That’s the opposite of scary. That’s you trusting me.”
She lets out a shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can see a therapist right away. It might take a while to find someone, and work is—”
“Whenever you’re ready,” I interrupt gently. “No pressure. I’m not going anywhere.”
Another long pause. Then: “Okay.” It comes out as barely a whisper, but there’s something solid underneath it. A choice. A step forward. “Okay, I’ll try.”
The small, quiet words light my whole heart up.