16. Some Itches Just Can’t be Scratched
VINCENT MIGHT CLAIM he doesn”t cook, but the man makes a mean omelet.
I sit at the giant island dominating the center of the open kitchen, eyes bouncing everywhere as I shovel in another mouthful of cheesy, mushroomy goodness. Vincent sits beside me, his posture oddly stiff as he plows through his own omelet.
The woman who was here when we came in is nowhere to be seen, and since her car wasn”t in the driveway or garage, and there”s supposedly no other bedrooms in the house, I”m a little confused about where she might have gone. I”m pretty sure I didn”t imagine her, but it”s been a really weird twenty-four hours, so I’m starting to doubt myself a little.
I hesitate a second, but then decide what the hell, if Vincent didn’t want me in his business, he shouldn’t have brought me here. ”Who was the woman in the kitchen?”
Vincent”s eyes come my way, holding a second before going back to his plate. ”Vera.”
His normally grumpy demeanor has shifted slightly since we got here, going from irritated to something more like exasperation. Like he”s not really sure what the fuck to do with me now. I have a few ideas, and seeing as how we get to share a bed tonight, I”m hoping to turn them into reality.
In the years since my divorce, I assumed when I finally did have sex it would be sort of like scratching an itch. Would simply offer a reprieve from the need that”s been gnawing away at my inside for decades. It”s been more like breaking the seal on a bottomless pit. I can’t get enough. And the itch is spreading like hives, leaving me hot and bothered in a way I’ve never been before.
And ninety percent of the cause is the man sitting next to me. I’ve been fascinated by Vincent since the first time I laid eyes on him, but now it’s more than that. Now I’m starting to see exactly what’s behind all the frowns and scowls and threats. All the claims he’s made of who and what he is.
And most of them are turning out to be lies.
He supposedly doesn”t smile—except he smiled at me. He doesn”t laugh—except I made him laugh. And he doesn”t cook—but here I am eating an omelet he made.
I spent my entire marriage getting the worst of what my ex-husband had to offer, and I can”t deny the appeal of a man who seems to hate everyone but me. A man who, despite what appears to be his best effort, can”t seem to stop showing me the parts of him no one else sees.
It makes me crave more of him. More of the pieces no one gets but me.
”I’m assuming Vera isn”t your girlfriend or wife, otherwise she probably would”ve thrown me off the mountain by now.” Not for one second did I think she and Vincent were romantically involved. I wouldn’t be here if they were. He loves to talk about what an asshole he is, but I keep seeing more and more that tells me he”s the exact opposite. Makes me wonder why he works so hard to make the rest of the world believe otherwise.
Vincent”s eyes come back my way, his expression startled. Like he can’t believe I’d even consider the possibility he had a woman in his life. ”Vera”s my housekeeper.”
I let my eyes wander the space around us. ”That explains why this place is so spotless.”
It”s a lot of other things too. I lived in a nice house when I was married, but it was a more traditional design. Closed off rooms. Small windows hung with heavy drapes. Lots of carpet and wallpaper and wingback chairs. My ex-husband loved it. I decided it wasn”t worth the fight.
When my younger son left for college and I finally moved out on my own, I was thrilled to finally be rid of all the shit. The knick knacks, the area rugs, the patterns and over decoration. Was my condo boring as hell? Abso-fucking-lutely. But it sure as shit didn”t look like the nineteen nineties barfed on my walls.
Vincent”s home is everything I would have picked out if I”d been allowed to build my own place. It”s mid-century modern meets male, and I am here for it.
The floors are slightly textured slate, with the exception of the bedroom, which had light, ultra plush carpet I can’t wait to squish my toes into. Every exterior wall is a window, offering the most amazing views and bringing a sense of spaciousness that makes the house feel bigger than it actually is. The furniture is sleek with sharp lines and low-profiles. Warm wood accents keep it from feeling harsh, and multiple vases of fresh flowers give everything a cozy feel.
”Your house is stunning.”
Vincent grunts beside me but doesn”t react to my praise of his home. He”s back to pretending to be a sourpants, and that amuses me for some reason.
I laugh. ”That”s it? Are you just so used to hearing how amazing your house is that your only reaction is to grunt at me?”
Vincent goes still, his jaw working from side to side as he slowly looks my way. ”No one”s ever seen my house before.”
I open my mouth to say something, but I don”t know what to say, so I clamp my lips back together again.
No one’s been to his house before? That can”t be true. It isn”t true. I just met Vera. I open my mouth to point that out, but Vincent shoots me a look that makes my voice die in my throat.
”Eat your food, Julieanne.” He watches me, almost like he”s daring me to continue this conversation.
But the longer I sit here and think about it, the less I know what to say. I always pictured Vincent as sort of a loner, but not lonely, and now I”m wondering if I was wrong. And if I was, what exactly does it mean that he”s brought me here? Let me into his world.
I go back to my omelet, even though my throat is tight and an almost overwhelming amount of sadness makes it difficult to chew. He”s been telling me what an asshole he is, but I never believed it, because he”s not. But what if other people don”t see what I see? What if they take him at face value? What if no one ever tried to get closer to him? Close enough to see the truth?
I manage to finish off my omelet and as soon as my plate’s clear, Vincent collects it, adding it to the dishwasher along with our empty juice glasses. It’s odd to just sit here while he cleans up the mess, but it’s his house and I have no idea where anything is, so I just stay put.
Once he’s set the washer to run and the counters are wiped down, he comes to my side, resting one hand on my back. “Come on. It’s time for you to sleep.”
“But it’s morning.” A yawn slips free, dragged loose by the mention of sleep. I managed to doze on the flight here, but I think that was more of a passing out situation thanks to a combination of adrenaline crash and post orgasm paralysis.
Vincent’s hand presses on my back, urging me out of the seat. “And you’ve had a very long night. You need to sleep and I need to get some work done.”
I finally slide to the floor. The socks he slipped onto my feet at the airport keep my toes from pressing against the tile as we walk to his bedroom, but I can still feel the texture through the cotton. “You had a very long night too.”
“I’m used to long nights, Jules. You’re not.” He doesn’t point out that I’m not used to shooting people either, but I can tell from the flat line of his lips he’s thinking it.
“How long will you be gone?” I’m not worried about being here alone. I just don’t know how much I want him to not be with me.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Vincent leads me back into his room. “I’ll be down the hall in my office.”
The curtains are still drawn and the room is just as dark as it would be at night, making me yawn again. “I thought you said there was no Internet?”
“No. I said you wouldn’t have any internet.” Instead of taking me to the bed, he directs me through another door. I step in as he flicks on the lights to reveal an absolutely gorgeous bathroom. Sunshine streams through two skylights in the ceiling, adding to the glow of the backlit mirrors over the double vanity. I stop in my tracks, staring at the matching sinks and mirrors.
“Vincent—”
“No more questions, Jules.” His hand slowly slides away from my body as he steps around the glass panel partitioning off a shower lined in natural stone. “Take a shower. Put on some fresh clothes. And go to bed.” He switches on the water, holding one hand under the spray. He must be satisfied, because he steps out and starts to leave. Pausing beside me, his eyes hold mine, and for a split second I think he’s going to kiss me. But then his posture stiffens and he’s gone, leaving me alone in his space.
I guess I can kinda see why no one’s managed to get close enough to earn an invite to his house. Vincent is not easy to read and his resting asshole face probably scares the shit out of most people. But that’s because they don’t know how to make him smile.
I do.
Which is why I’m the one smiling as I peel the clothes I borrowed from his closet off from my body and step into his shower. Then I wash with his products and dry off with his towel before pulling on more of his clothes. Then I lay down in his bed. In his house. That no one’s ever seen but me.
And Vera. But I’m kinda glad he’s had her. It makes my heart hurt less thinking of how very alone he’s been.
I roll over and find myself in a spot that smells just like him. It’s not even in the middle of the bed. It’s all the way on one side. It makes me just as sad as that lonely second sink in his bathroom did.
Vincent might be alone, but he’s not a loner. A loner would only have one sink. They would sleep in the middle of their bed, enjoying the space. And they sure as shit wouldn’t have brought me here. I would have been dumped in some hotel somewhere so he could keep living his life without the hassle of me invading his solitude.
Burrowing deeper into the Vincent-scented blankets, I smile again. Because Vincent might actually be an ass, but he’s not an ass to me.
And I’m only here because he wants me here.
WHEN I WAKE up,it”s impossible to tell what time it is. The giant curtains are great in a lot of ways, but they are really going to make it difficult to gauge whether I”m sleeping late or not. Then again, Alaska in general might make that difficult. Don”t they have entire days of sun and entire days of darkness?
I’ll ask Vincent. He loves it so much when I ask him questions. I slide out of bed, smirking to myself, a little excited to find him and give him a hard time. Tease him just a little.
Taunt him a lot.
After remaking his bed, I move out into the hall. And that”s when I hear it. Music.
It”s not at all what I would have expected, but it”s beautiful. I don”t know what I would have guessed Vincent”s taste to be, but mournful, somber piano instrumentals wasn”t it. There”s no sign of Vera as I pass through the kitchen, so I have to assume it’s still just me and him in the house.
That means the tune selection is all his.
The music is coming from the opposite direction, so I turn that way, moving into a part of the house I haven”t seen yet. The first room down this hall is a bathroom. It doesn”t look as recently renovated as the one in Vincent”s room, with wall tile and fixtures that are more in line with what was used twenty years ago. It”s still nice, just nowhere near as updated. Humidity lingers in the air, carrying a smell identical to the one clinging to my skin, and a slight sheen of condensation clings to the mirror. Someone took a shower of his own while I slept.
I pass the bathroom and peek into the next room in line. It’s a laundry room with a door leading outside. It looks like the furnace and water heater are also in there, but I don”t flip on the lights to get a better look. I”m not trying to be nosy. I”m looking for one, very specific thing.
The music gets louder as I continue toward the last door. Not only does it get louder, but I can now tell the tone of it is different. Not like something that”s been recorded in a studio and is now being pumped through speakers. It”s more raw. More rounded.
I suck in a breath when I reach the doorway and find Vincent seated on the bench of a black, baby grand piano. He”s dressed in fresh pants and his standard black fitted T-shirt, his salt-and-pepper hair combed back, the strands barely clumping the way damp hair does.
His back is to me as I quietly pad into the room. The space is nearly as big as the rest of the house combined, with soaring ceilings that offer perfect acoustics for the private performance he”s putting on.
A performance no one”s ever heard but me.
His fingers glide over the keys, dragging my attention to their graceful movements. The sadness I felt earlier comes roaring back as I imagine him here, playing so beautifully for no one before brushing his teeth next to no one. Sleeping next to no one.
Smiling at no one.
His movements slow, each pass of his fingers gentling as the song winds down. When it stops, I suppress the urge to applaud. That”s not why he”s doing this or what he would want. Vincent doesn”t do anything to impress other people. That”s not who he is.
I’m impressed anyway.
”That was beautiful.”
His spine barely stiffens, telling me he didn”t know I was here. Didn”t know I was listening.
He slowly turns to face me, long legs easily navigating from one side of the bench to the other. His eyes come to mine and there”s a vulnerability there I”ve never seen.
I slowly move closer, wanting to ease whatever is making him feel so exposed. ”Have you played the piano a long time?”
He’s still for a minute, but finally tucks his chin. ”My whole life.”
”It shows.” I keep moving closer, desperate for a little more of him. More of his secrets. More of the things no one else gets to see. ”Who taught you to play?”
Vincent”s hands grip the edge of the bench as a flash of pain moves across his gaze. ”My mother.”
His tone is tight. Almost sharp.
I pause, tipping my head as I take him in. As I try to fit all the pieces he’s given me together. ”I”m sure she would be happy to know you”re still playing.” It doesn”t take a rocket scientist, or a skilled hacker, to deduce his mother is gone. The sadness is all over his face. The devastation of the loss etched into his expression.
Vincent offers another shallow nod.
I stop right in front of him. “Tell me about her.”
The pain on his face morphs into fear. Panic that makes me ache for him.
I step closer, pressing my hands to his face because now that we’re here—now that I know all I do—I can’t let him close me off the way I imagine he’s done to everyone else. “What was she like?”
He swallows hard, his hands moving from the bench to my hips, fingers gripping my body tight. “She was so…” He takes a breath, his head barely shaking like he can’t believe he’s telling me this. “Good.”
I smile even though I want to cry. Even though this moment is making me imagine what it will one day be like for my sons when I’m the one who’s gone. “That doesn’t surprise me.” I slowly lower to my knees in front of him, my body bracing between his thighs. “You had to get it from someone.”