Chapter 11 Abby #2
I lift a brow at his imperious tone, but my insides are molten. I don’t mind his highhanded manner one bit, and he’s absolutely right: I would love to watch the sun set with him.
He rumbles another low chuckle. “I saw you glancing longingly at the horizon as soon as we got off the elevator. You’re very easy to read.”
A laugh bubbles from my chest. His intense focus on me goes straight to my head, and I’m in awe that this gorgeous man is so fixated on me.
We come to a stop at the railing, and I rest my elbows on it. I crave to be close to him in a way that defies all logic. After what happened to me only a few nights ago, I shouldn’t want to be near any man.
Before memories of the attack can surface and drag me out of this perfect moment, I lean into Dane so that our forearms brush. Even the light contact makes my skin prickle with awareness of his powerful body so close to mine.
“How long have you lived in Charleston?” I ask, eager to learn more about the man who’s starred in my fantasies.
“Only three months,” he replies. “I came for work after finishing my residency at Johns Hopkins.”
“You’re a doctor?” He told me his job at the market when he checked my scraped palms, but I want to know everything about him now.
“Yes.” He gives a dismissive little wave. “But that’s work. I’d much rather talk about your art.”
“Don’t you like your job?”
He shrugs. “I like being good at what I do. I like being successful and self-sufficient. The details of my profession don’t really matter. I find that Americans tend to be defined by their careers in a way I’ve never fully understood.”
“What brought you over from England? Did you want to come to America for college?”
“Yes.” He acknowledges my query, but he doesn’t allow me to change the subject. “From what I saw at the market, I noticed that your preferred style is impressionism. Did you study Art at school?”
I fix him with a small pout. He’s not being forthcoming, and I’ve spent too many long nights wondering about this gorgeous man to let it go so easily.
“Do I have to beg for more information?”
He releases a low hum, and his lips tug in a lopsided smirk. “I don’t hear you begging yet.”
My cheeks flame with a surge of lust and embarrassment, and I drop my gaze to hide from his intense attention. If I maintain eye contact, he might glimpse a shadow of my inner darkness.
Because the pulsing between my legs indicates that I would very much enjoy begging this man for satisfaction. I would eagerly debase myself and relish every deviant second of submitting to his cruel will.
I shove the perverted thoughts away. I have to stop thinking of him like he’s the rakish villain from my forbidden fantasies. The real Dane is here with me: solid and imposing and almost painfully beautiful.
I try for a nonchalant shrug and choose to engage with his preferred topic: my art.
“I studied Art at College of Charleston, but I didn’t finish my degree,” I admit. “I just love painting. I decided that I don’t need a degree to prove that.”
I have my own reasons for dropping out of school, but that’s too much to dump on him. I summon up an easy smile and skate over the moment of discomfort.
“My only regret is that I didn’t get to study abroad before I quit,” I continue. “I actually wanted to study in London for a semester. I’d love to visit England one day. You said you’re from York, right? Is that close to London?”
He shoots me a half-smile. “By American standards, yes. By English standards, it’s quite far. Yorkshiremen can get very prickly about differentiating themselves from Londoners.”
My brows lift, interest piqued. “Oh? Are you a Yorkshireman, then?”
He barks a laugh, white teeth flashing in a perfect grin. “Let’s just say I was born in Yorkshire, but I don’t exactly fit in with the locals.”
“Is that why you decided to come to America for college?” I press. “Don’t you like where you’re from?”
His gaze focuses on something beyond me, and the slight distance between us makes it feel as though he’s shut off the sun.
“Yorkshire is beautiful,” he rumbles. “But I wanted to forge my own path.”
Maybe I have more in common with Dane than I would’ve guessed.
“I understand,” I murmur, drawn to open up to him so that he’ll focus on me again. Being the center of his attention is thrilling and addictive. I’ll confess almost anything to get it back.
“My family wanted me to finish my undergraduate degree and then pursue a master’s.” I reveal one of my secrets. “They wanted my success to be their own.”
His gaze cuts back to mine, sharp enough to pin me in place.
“They put a lot of pressure on you,” he surmises.
I nod and continue my confession, the words tumbling from my lips as though I can’t help myself.
“My parents never really cared about my art. They just wanted to be able to tell people that their daughter’s a successful artist.”
“My family had certain expectations for me too,” Dane says, offering me a small confession of his own.
I latch onto it like a lifeline. A sense of intimacy blossoms between us, and the promise of this connection is as seductive as his heated gaze. I crave more, so I press, “And you defied them?”
He inclines his head. “I’m here, aren’t I? An ocean separates us, and I prefer it that way.”
I’ve only managed to move a few cities away from my family, but I’m determined to live my life separately from them. This shared, painful history with Dane takes my breath away.
He takes a sip of his old fashioned, and I mirror him, allowing the moment of kinship to settle between us.
He commands my full attention, and I’m hyperaware of him: his intoxicating scent swirling around me on the light breeze, the setting sun illuminating his green eyes, the subtle brush of his arm against mine.
He’s being respectful of my space, allowing me to dictate the contact while staying close enough to maintain our simmering connection.
I want to trust Dane, despite everything I’ve been through at the hands of dangerous men.
He came to my rescue at the market. He’s protective, even if he is imposing.
I decide to push for more information. “So, you came to Charleston to practice medicine? Didn’t you like Baltimore?”
He takes another sip of his drink, as though he’s considering his answer. I do the same because I’m feeling slightly jittery. I don’t want to ruin this moment between us with inane chatter.
“I value the education I received there,” he says.
“My time in Baltimore gave me the skills I needed to pursue the life I want. One of my colleagues is from Charleston, so when he asked me to move here and form a private practice with him, I said yes.” He fixes me with that wicked half-smile.
“I’m still fairly new to the area. You can show me around. ”
He’s charming enough that it doesn’t sound like a command, even if it isn’t exactly a question. Why would I argue with him about his imperious manner when I’m eagerly hanging on to his every word?
“What kind of medicine do you practice?” I ask, anticipating more intimate confessions from him. “You must really care about helping people if you chose to move to a strange city and start from scratch.”
The slight shake of his head is a touch self-deprecating, and I think he’s going to dismiss my enthusiastic description of his altruism.
“Like I said, it’s just a job,” he reiterates. “I chose plastic surgery because I’m good at it.”
My heart sinks.
“Oh,” I reply, and my voice is a touch cooler than I intend. “I didn’t realize that’s your area of expertise.”
I’m not sure if I can stomach it if he’s chosen a profession where he gives people fake masks to present false perfection to the world.
The image of my grandmother’s strangely stretched features fills my mind.
She’d never looked like herself after the facelift.
And my mother’s perpetually frozen expression haunts my most anxious nightmares—even when she’s feeling especially cruel, her face remains disturbingly serene from years of Botox treatments.
We need to get that large freckle on your cheek removed, Abby. Imagine having the blemish in your wedding photos. You don’t want that. And you’ll find a husband more easily once it’s cleared up.
The snide comments about my own physical flaws tease at the back of my mind, tainting the moment with Dane. The reality of him might not be as perfect as I’ve imagined in the months since he first walked into the café.