Chapter 15 Julian
FIFTEEN
JULIAN
LUCY
Something is wrong. If not wrong, then different.
Off.
And I don’t like it.
He won’t tell me what it is. He won’t give me a chance to ask him about it before he’s changing the subject, focusing only on me.
On how I’m doing. On what I remember. On how I’m continuing to settle in.
But I feel it in the way the air changes when he walks into a room.
In the way his shoulders stay tight even when he’s sitting still.
In the way he stares out at Harmony Heights like he’s daring it to try him.
Dallas is not the same.
And I don’t know why.
At first, I thought it was due to what happened with Heather.
The poor girl got the wrong idea in her head that she was supposed to enter an arranged marriage with Dallas, as though that’s something normal in Harmony Heights.
He told me he would take care of it, and I think he must have, because—at the very least—she hasn’t come back.
After how he chased after me, then brought me to the dandelion fountain in the old park, I wanted to believe him when he said that I was his wife, and that there was no one else. Of course the girl was confused. How could he marry her if he was already married to me?
Unless we were divorced, not separated, but when I floated the idea to Dallas, he looked at me with such a curious expression and said, “We don’t do divorce in Harmony Heights.”
I had blinked, folding in on my house, apologizing for even asking the question, before he shook his head, coming out of a daze, and kissing me so thoroughly I stopped doubting the fact that we were still legally wed.
For that night, at least, I managed to set aside my suspicions. Too bad they always come creeping right back in…
It’s so strange. Especially how, sometimes when he thinks I’m distracted doing something else, I walk into the living room and see him standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows with his hands clasped behind his back, rugged jaw set, like a king surveying his kingdom.
King.
The word flickers in my head sometimes, uninvited. I think it, then I choke, and it’s all I can do to banish it before I examine it too closely.
The changes aren’t all bad, I have to admit.
After he caught me staring in the mirror over the vanity in the guest bathroom, tugging on my hair, poking at the purple bags under my eyes, and, in a rare state of vulnerability, murmuring that I didn’t understand why a man like him loved me, Dallas has gone to even bigger extremes to make sure I know that he does.
It was my fault. I know he told me that Heather had the wrong idea about Dallas being a bachelor, but I couldn’t stop comparing myself to how young and fresh and put together she was.
She was the type of poised woman that would believe that a wealthy man—or a dangerous one, like Dallas—would take one look and want to corrupt her.
Hell, I want him to corrupt me. Everything about him, from his job as a mechanic to the truck he drives, his tattoos, his scruffs, and his muscular build…
the dark look in his eyes, the scars on his hands, and the way he holds himself…
the man radiates danger, though the most amazing part is how safe I feel when he’s around.
So he looks and dresses and acts like a biker.
He laughed when I mentioned that one, saying that it’s Bas in their friend group who’s into motorcycles, but my point stands.
If I didn’t know him and I saw him on the street, one part of me would freeze.
Sure, the other part would want to start taking my panties off, but still.
He looks like someone you wouldn’t want to cross, but he’s so, so good to me.
This man is kind. He is gentle. He is patient.
Then, when I need him to bend me over the nearest surface, fucking me so wildly that I have bruises that I relish come morning, he’ll do that, too, because that’s what I want.
No. That’s what I need.
And after he picked up on how my self confidence has been in the dirt ever since my accident, he’s done the sweetest thing.
He leaves me notes. Scrawled on torn scraps of papers or on the backs of receipts, they’re where I wouldn’t think to look for them, but when I find them, it’s just so obvious.
The first one was tucked under my coffee mug.
You scrunch your nose when you’re thinking. I love that. It’s adorable.
The second was folded beside the bathroom sink.
You always tilt your head to the left when you laugh.
The third was slipped between the pages of the book I was reading that I had left on the coffee table in the living room.
You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known.
By now I have at least ten of them, one left for me every morning before he goes to work—
You have no idea how much I missed you, Lucy. You are my motherfucking wish come true.
You snore when you sleep, but you give me the honor of sleeping next to me, so snore on, baby.
Take your time healing. Just know: I’ll never forget you. Ever.
And then, this morning when I went to grab a water bottle because I was thirsty, I found the latest one nestled on top of the plastic pack that he orders specifically for me.
Now I’m sitting on the kitchen floor, my back against the cabinets, bare feet flat against the cool tile, staring down at the one in my hand because the simplicity of the words did such a number on me, I couldn’t find the strength to make it back to the living room.
You’re beautiful, Dandelion.
Beautiful.
My reflection stares back at me faintly in the dark oven glass. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Hair hanging limply around my face because I don’t remember how I used to wear it. I don’t remember if I used to wear lipstick or mascara. I don’t remember if I used to smile easily.
Most days, I don’t feel beautiful. I feel like Humpty Dumpty. I had a great fall, but when they put me back together again, they did it wrong.
But my husband calls me beautiful, and he doesn’t lie to me.
Does he?
I really am fucking broken.
It’s hours later, and though I pulled myself to the feet earlier and forced myself to move, I’m back on the kitchen floor again.
I’m pathetic, too. Dallas left me the note saying I was beautiful.
For once, I wanted to be beautiful. For him.
So I made myself shower, and after I went searching around the penthouse, I found a hair dryer in one of the closed-off rooms. I figured, when I saw a large, six-foot-tall standing mirror in one corner, that it would have the best odds of having any kind of haircare products, and I hit the jackpot: an old can of mousse and a dusty hair dryer that still worked.
I didn’t have make-up, but I styled my hair the best I could.
Instead of changing into another sweater and leggings set—Loni seems real big on sweaters and leggings which, okay, same—I pulled out one of the silky nighties I haven’t worn to bed yet.
This one was a virginal white, and I thought it was pretty so I pulled it on so that, when Dallas came home for dinner, I… maybe I would be beautiful.
But then I went into the kitchen and that was a mistake.
I was grabbing plates and forks for dinner when, once again, I caught a glimpse of myself.
I can’t really explain why, but embarrassment turned my stomach.
Me? A virgin? Especially after what happened between Dallas and me at the park, he’d take one look at me and laugh.
Who did I think I was? One of the fresh-faced beauties who found some way to sneak up to the penthouse and throw themselves at my husband? Dallas assured me that he spoke to security about whatever leak allowed Heather to reach our door. It shouldn’t happen again, and so far it hasn’t.
I guess I’m still afraid that it might, though, because here I am, wearing a nightdress at six o’clock in the afternoon as though I laughably thought I could seduce my husband once he got off of work after a long day at the garage.
Stupid. That was so stupid. Beautiful? Maybe when I felt more comfortable in my skin, I was, but now… just like earlier, I sank to the floor, leaning my head back against the wall, working up the nerve to get up and change before Dallas showed up.
I didn’t.
Before I know it, the elevator hums down the hall. The sound is quiet, but in this penthouse, everything echoes, especially when you’re in the front room or the kitchen. I freeze when I hear him approach. He’s whistling something under his breath as the keys rattle and the door opens.
Like always, he calls for me. “Luce? I’ve got dinner.”
Shit.
He’ll come to the kitchen to go through the order to make sure it’s right. That’s what he always does. Why didn’t I remember that? My memory before the fall is shit, but shouldn’t I have picked up on his habits? Shouldn’t I have known?
Too late. I’m too late. I can’t even pull myself up into a seating position before he’s walking into the kitchen, still whistling. He stops—his walk and the whistling—when he sees me on the floor.
His eyebrows draw together. “Lucy? What are you doing on the floor?”
I can’t get up because I’m paralyzed by my own ridiculousness, isn’t it obvious?
That’s the answer. Since I can’t admit to that out loud, I just shrug.
Dallas doesn’t hesitate.
He sets his keys down. I hear the faint click of metal against marble. Then the rustle of the bag as he places the take-out order next to his keys. Once his hands are free, he uses them to help guide his big body to the floor so that he can join me down here.
He doesn’t care that the tile is cold.
He doesn’t care that he’s Dallas Collins and, as a thirty-year-old grown man, he probably hasn’t sat on the floor like this in years.
He just plops down beside me. “Hey. You okay?”
No. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
I nod.