Chapter 35 #2
The gallery owner approaches us, sniffing a potential deal, and strikes up a conversation. “The artist is here, if you’d like to meet him,” she says, gesturing to a young man chatting with several people near the entrance.
I look at Maeve, waiting to see what she wants to do. “It’s your call, babe.” It slips out before I’ve even registered it. We’re not big on pet names—not unless they’re being used as a joke—so it hits me out of left field.
She takes it in stride though, blinking once before turning to the owner. “Yeah, sure.”
“We’ll also take this one,” I say, nodding at the photograph.
* * *
“That was . . . really nice,” Maeve says as we pull into the underground car park at the Atlantis. “Thank you.”
I squint at her and turn off the engine. “Did you just pay me a compliment?”
“What?” She laughs. “I give compliments.”
“Yeah, like Scrooge,” I say, opening her door.
She socks me playfully in the stomach as we ride the lift up to my floor, and I tug her in close under my arm. If I had to describe what it feels like to be with her, I’d say it feels like home.
Once we’re inside the flat, I unwrap the framed photo and hold it out. “Do you want to take this home or should we hang it up here?”
“You really didn’t need to buy it, you know.”
“I know.” I set it against the wall and cup her face, then lean down to give her a long kiss. “I wanted to.” I’d buy out the entire gallery if it would make her happy.
She rises on her tiptoes and kisses me again. “Let’s put it up here.”
I was hoping she’d say that, hoping it will give her even more reason to visit, to feel like she belongs here. “Great,” I say, hardly able to tear myself away from her mouth. “But it will have to wait for later. Because I have another surprise for you.”
She gives me a droll look. “Pierce, I’ve seen your cock a thousand times.”
Giving her a mock glare, I tweak her nose. “That’s the surprise after the surprise.”
“I told you, I don’t like—”
“And I told you to trust me.” I grab her hand, twining our fingers together, because you’ll have to kill me before I’m letting this woman go. “Now come with me.”
We take the elevator to the rooftop, and Maeve surprisingly refrains from putting me through the Spanish Inquisition on the way up.
She just rests her head against my arm, making my insides churn.
Is this what people mean when they describe feeling butterflies?
It doesn’t feel like fucking insects flying around, but it also doesn’t feel like anything I’ve experienced before.
When the doors to the private terrace open, Maeve stifles a tiny gasp. “Is this where you kill me?”
I take her hand and lead her to the small table lit with candles. “Yes, but first let’s have some wine. It will help with your crash landing later.”
The place is completely decked out. There are twinkle lights everywhere, speakers playing some kind of sappy pop music, and a vase of red roses perched in the center of the table.
I hired an event planner to set it up, but I said “date night,” not fucking “proposal.” Still, Maeve looks a bit in awe, which makes it all worth it.
A server wheels over a cart of plates covered by silver cloches and sets them before us. It’s a beautiful night, the sun low in the sky, the air still balmy with residual heat from the day. Across from me, Maeve shivers and rubs her arms. I guess I’m the only one who thinks it’s still warm.
I shrug off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders. She protests, but I ignore her, pressing a kiss to her hair before sitting back down. I may not be good at relationships, but I do know how to take care of a woman.
She tucks her hair behind her ear and takes a sip of wine.
I wonder if she even knows she’s doing it, if she knows I have all her tells memorized like catechism.
That one right there means she’s slightly embarrassed, and next she’s going to say something that’s borderline aggressive, because defensiveness is her favorite coping mechanism.
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble to get me into bed,” she says, smirking. “You could have just asked.”
And the shields are back up.
I reach for her hand across the table, play with her fingers, wait for her to lower those defenses. “I wanted to.”
She doesn’t know what to do with that. I’ll bet that fucker of a boyfriend never does anything like this for her, and the guys she’s dated in the past have all been fuckwit university boys who think that beer pong is a recreational sport.
“Maeve.” My voice sounds like sandpaper, and I clear my throat, but there’s still a lot of emotion clogging it, making it difficult to get anything out without sounding like a kid going through puberty. “Listen, I—”
“I need to use the restroom.” She stands up, pulling her hand from mine and tossing her napkin onto her untouched plate. “Excuse me.”
And then she’s gone, if not from my life, then at least from me. My heart sinks to the bottom of my chest. It feels like all the progress we made tonight just plummeted over the side of the building. Is this a taste of what it’ll feel like when she finally walks away from me for good?
Her phone vibrates on the table, the screen lighting up. I glance at it, partly out of habit, mostly out of pure curiosity. Who’s texting her while she’s with me?
Preston: Hey babe, can I see you tonight? I miss you. xx
I clench my hands into fists and press them into my thighs.
Is this why she shut down just now? Or was it because something fucked up in her brain told her she still can’t trust me?
Meanwhile, this complete wanker is slipping out behind his wife’s back to see Maeve, and she says he makes her feel safe.
Somebody please explain this to me, because from where I’m standing, it’s all going to shit, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.