Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter 21
DECLAN
WHEN THE ELEVATOR DOORS FINALLY open, I jog through the hallway toward the suite. Thankfully, talking to Nakamura didn’t take long—he was very interested—and we scheduled a time for me to fly out to Vegas for an official meeting. Then I only spent a half hour at the gym letting out my anger and frustration with a sparring partner. My head is clearer, I’m back at the hotel, and I’m ready to burrow myself in a bubble with M.W. for the next twenty-four hours.
I pass Jeremy with a quick wave and then can’t hide my smile from Sean as I approach the door.
He smiles back. “You look more upbeat than when you left.”
“Happy to be here. There’s a shit show at work, so we’ll have to cut this trip short and leave tomorrow.”
“Got it”—he nods his head at the door—"Will she be joining us?"
Same question I have. It’s clear she doesn’t want anything serious, and even if she does, she’ll likely hate the weight of my baggage.
I’ve been going back and forth about it. Ultimately, it seems we might be two people on separate paths, no matter how much I want it otherwise.
I’ll offer her a trip home, but even if she takes it, ending things with our fling might be best.
It’s a crushing thought.
I bypass Sean’s question and ask, “Anything eventful happen while I was gone?”
“Nope. She’s just been painting.”
I enter the suite. Despite the situation at work still weighing on me, some of the burden lifts when I see M.W. sitting on the couch facing the open French doors. It’s a warm, bright day, the living room bathed in welcoming sunlight. I cross the space, running my fingers through her black strands when I’m close enough.
“Hi,” she says softly, still gazing out at the ocean.
“Hi, beautiful.” I move around to the front of the couch, ready to pull her into my arms, but it’s like I hit an invisible fist.
My body tenses. Something feels…off about her expression, her posture. Everything about her is strained and artificial.
I sit beside her, caressing her knee. “Something wrong?”
Her eyes dart to mine, flashing wide with alarm, then she gives me a plastic smile. The next second, the smile drops and her brows become weights, crushing shadows over her eyes. I blink and she’s smiling again.
It’s like she can’t get her face under control—a jumble of dueling expressions.
“Oh, uh…no. It’s…” She pulls me into a hug. “How was the conference?”
I press my palms against her back, feeling the rigid muscles, the jutting of her shoulder blades. She’s not melting against me like she has been these past few days. “I couldn’t concentrate,” I say. “And there’s a situation at work we should talk about later.” I pull back. She’s still fighting with her smile. “What’s wrong?”
She attempts to relax the unyielding grooves in her forehead, then she grabs my lapels and pulls me into a kiss.
It feels too good to kiss her after such an irritating day, so I indulge for a moment, cupping her cheek and sighing my pleasure. Her rigid posture finally softens, and she exhales against my lips, letting my tongue explore her mouth.
Fuck, this is too good, too intoxicating.
I have to pull away because my gut knows something is off. My chest constricts when I notice the tear sliding down her cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong,” I say, brushing the moisture away with my thumb. “I don’t enjoy seeing you upset.”
Somehow, my words only fill her expression with more sadness, her gaze withering downward. All I want is to fix whatever the problem is so I can see her happy again. Whatever is causing her pain, I’m ready to burn the world down to stop it.
“I know,” she says. “That’s why you’re so wonderful, Declan.”
Bringing her hand to my mouth, I kiss each knuckle. “I appreciate that vote of confidence. Now tell me what happened.”
She studies the ocean as if hoping to find something out there. Finally, she says, “I finished the portrait, but I’m worried you might not like it.”
“That’s all?” The knot loosens in my gut, and I encourage her to stand with me. “I can’t imagine not liking it. Show me.”
“It might trigger you.”
She’s really piquing my curiosity with that comment. What did she paint? “It’ll be fine. Show me.”
She leads me to her bedroom. The easel is near the window and a towel covers the canvas. My fingers are itching to uncover it and see what she’s so concerned about. I know she has insecurities about her art, but I find her pieces magnetic.
“I’m sorry,” she says as we stop in front of the easel.
“Don’t apologize before I’ve even seen it. And don’t apologize after. Never feel remorseful for self-expression, no matter how anyone else feels. Art is meant to evoke a range of emotions; the stronger, the better.”
I don’t think my words are comforting because her shoulders are still drooped as she grabs the edge of the towel. “Well, hate was not what I was going for. I got lost in the concept and…I just don’t know. You’ll see.” She hesitates to reveal the portrait, so I do it for her, tugging the towel off and tossing it aside.
I inhale slowly.
The portrait is an assault—mesmerizing, provocative, putting me in a clinch and not backing down.
I’m speechless. Frozen.
There I sit on the canvas, off center on the bed and gazing at the viewer with an expression that’s a mixture of so many emotions. I sense grief, longing, hope, a kindness that’s also jagged and commanding. How did she possibly capture all that in a few brush strokes? My gaze is guarded, vulnerable, warm yet icy. The entire painting is black and white except for bold blue eyes, the faint blue of the ocean framed in the windows, and…
I lean closer to take in the details. The scars on my body are blue. What a perfect parallel to make—the history of those scars connected to the raw emotion in my eyes, while the rest of my body is polished and in control.
But that gaze isn’t in control. Nor the scars. And the ocean is…a loss of certainty with a longing for freedom. There’s a tiny boat on that ocean, and I interpret it as my thoughts seeking escape from everything else in the painting.
Escape from the past. Myself.
True escape.
However, to be on that boat, I have to give up control and face the chaotic ocean.
She’s studying me as I’m staring at the painting in a daze. Her voice is shallow. “Say something. Please.”
“There are no words.”
She sniffs, her voice straining against her throat. “Then you do hate it. I’m so sorry. I know I should’ve taken the scars out. It wasn’t a good decision to leave them. I never make good decisions.”
“I don’t hate it. This painting is—” My eyes finally fall to the bottom corner of the canvas, where there are faint letters almost hidden around the edge of the bed. A signature.
Sienna.
I find her gaze and suddenly, she’s no longer a mystery. My entire world just expanded. “Perfect,” I say, her name ringing in my head. “This painting is a perfect portrait of me. Your name is perfect.” After moving closer, slowly, since she looks on-edge, I caress her cheek. “Sienna. Why does it feel like I knew that?”
This captivating woman…how has she appeared in my life for such a short time, and yet seen me so completely?
Her bottom lip is pinched between her teeth, and she won’t meet my gaze. “You really think it—”
My mouth crashes against hers, savoring her gasp. Since words are too much of a struggle, this is a better way to express myself.