Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
AMELIA
My senses have been completely hijacked by Max.
Joy bubbled in my chest the moment he stepped through the front door, a reckless spark that I tried to smother, but it was no use. He is here, real and overwhelming, and my heart leaped despite every warning I’d given myself.
He looked devastating—tall, all male, his suit jacket gone, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms. A glimpse of ink had peeked from under the fabric, a tattoo, and my breath had caught. Gosh, this was a bad idea, a daring one, and I was already drowning in it.
I forced my face into a calm smile and clasped my hands tight to hide how hard they were trembling.
When he moved toward me, all my resolve crumbled.
His hug engulfed me, his arms were strong and warm, and my knees very nearly buckled under the weight of the sensations that coursed through me.
That close, his body hard against mine, he had smelled like cedar and spice, a scent that had pulled me back to that summer in the attic.
His lips had brushed my cheek, a quick, searing kiss, and my pulse had skyrocketed, a wild and beautiful rhythm.
Now his steady gaze is on me, and I tell myself it’s only brotherly concern for the grieving sister.
But every cell in my body is screaming that it’s not.
It’s too intense, too heavy, and it creeps under my skin, making me shift in my seat, my thighs pressing together against the ache building.
I’m wet, my clit throbbing with every stolen glance, and it’s so wrong, so shameful, especially with Sara here, her laughter so confident and utterly untroubled by any suspicion as she chats about Jason’s school.
She’s so damn comfortable in the nest she has built, she doesn’t even notice the sexual tension blazing between her husband and the woman she has invited into her house.
Still, her kindness is like a knife twisting in my gut.
I hate how much worse it makes me feel to betray her, even in thought, in her own house.
The bread is warm, soft, and fragrant, and as I chew it, I notice the strange dynamic of the family.
Max says almost nothing, and his son is even worse.
He is so quiet and withdrawn he mostly keeps his gaze resolutely on his plate and throws the occasional shy smile in my direction if I directly involve him.
Sara does all the talking. Not even a minute of pause or silence will she allow without immediately brightly launching into another topic of conversation.
Her determination to keep the dialogue going is pretty impressive.
I survive lunch, forcing bites down, nodding at Sara’s never-ending stories and smiling at Jason, but it is a performance and I feel quite exhausted. When it’s over, I’m relieved, my shoulders loosening as Sara stands, her hand reaching for mine.
“Let me show you the rest of the house,” she says, her eyes lively.
I nod, grateful for the escape from the dining table.
She leads me through her immaculate home, her voice filled with pride, as she takes me from room to room. The house is a testament to Max’s wealth and her good taste—polished hardwood oak floors, soaring windows, classy modern artwork strategically placed on the walls.
A vibrant abstract in the living room catches my eye, a kaleidoscope of blues and golds, swirling like a storm, and I pause, drawn to its energy.
“This is stunning,” I murmur.
Sara beams. “Isn’t it? Max picked it out. He’s got a real eye for beauty.”
I swallow hard, avoiding the urge to glance back at him. We move on, through a cozy den with plush gray sofas, then a sleek office lined with books, and a conservatory full of light. I’m overwhelmed by the opulent life he’s built with Sara… the one I’m only visiting.
Sara guides me upstairs, her hand sure and assertive on my arm.
She pauses outside a door, then, with shining eyes, opens it to a bedroom that steals my breath.
It’s decorated in subtle shades of purple—my favorite color, the same shade Max painted our attic hideaway all those years ago.
Deep violet drapes frame a wide window, pooling on the floor like liquid, letting in soft, diffused light.
The bed is a cloud of white linens, accented with square lilac pillows, the headboard high and padded with lavender velvet.
A plush white rug warms the hardwood, and a vanity sits in the corner, its mirror reflecting the room’s serene glow.
“This is your room,” Sara says, her voice soft.
I turn to her, shocked. “Me?” My voice cracks, gratitude and disbelief tangling in my chest.
She nods, smiling. “We wanted you to feel at home.”
I’m speechless, and my eyes are stinging.
I don’t deserve this kindness, but she’s not done.
She leads me down the hall to another door, pushing it open to reveal the family library, now transformed.
Sunlight pours through tall windows, illuminating floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with leather-bound volumes.
A chaise lounge in deep blue velvet sits by one window, a reading nook bathed in warmth.
A sleek desk stands against another wall, papers neatly stacked, and in the corner—my breath catches—an easel, surrounded by art supplies.
Paints, brushes, canvases, all arranged with care, the space a perfect studio.
The room smells faintly of old books and fresh paint, a blend that stirs memories of my studio back home, but this space is grander, its high ceilings and rich colors a testament to a life I’m only borrowing.
My heart swells, moved beyond words by this incredible gesture.
“And here is your studio,” she says. “I told you we’ll ensure you’ll be able to do your work here.”
“Sara, this is…” I trail off, my voice thick, unable to find the right words. No one has been this kind to me, ever.
She steps closer, her platinum blonde hair swinging and catching the light, her eyes searching mine with a sincerity that disarms me.
“This is your home now. Please remember this. Come, sit,” she says softly, gesturing to the chaise, her voice a gentle invitation.
“Let’s talk for a bit before I leave you to settle in. ”
I nod, my throat tight, and follow her, sinking onto the plush seat, the fabric silky against my palms. Sara perches beside me, her posture relaxed, her hands folded in her lap, and the quiet between us feels intimate, woman to woman, a moment carved out from the chaos of the day.
“So,” Sara begins, her smile easy, “tell me about your work. I know you illustrate children’s books that Jason is obsessed with, but what are you working on now?”
Her curiosity feels genuine, and it loosens something in me, a knot I hadn’t realized was there.
I lean back, my fingers tracing the chaise’s soft edge.
“I’m finishing a book about a dragon,” I say, my voice warming as I slip into the familiar comfort of my art.
“It’s a story about a little dragon who loses its wings after a great battle.
It is grounded and broken, but it learns to find strength in other ways—through its fire, its heart, its connection to the creatures around it. ”
Sara’s eyes widen, her lips parting in awe. “That’s beautiful,” she breathes, leaning forward, her hands clasped. “The way you describe it makes it sound so… alive. Do you paint the dragon on paper or canvas?”
I nod, a small smile tugging at my lips.
“This dragon felt right with the gleam of oils. I’ve been working on a series of paintings for it.
The dragon’s scales are emerald, but they shift in the light—sometimes gold, sometimes teal.
I’ve been trying to capture that shimmer so that it feels like hope even when it’s grounded.
It’s slow work, though. Each scale takes forever. ”
She shakes her head, her expression almost reverent.
“That’s incredible, Amelia. I can’t even imagine the patience, the vision.
Jason’s going to lose his mind when he hears about this dragon.
He has been crazy about dragons ever since I let him watch Daenerys Stormborn flying around on them in The Game of Thrones.
” She grins. “Don’t worry. Those were the only scenes he was allowed to watch.
It’ll be a cold day in hell before I let him watch all that X-rated stuff, gratuitous violence, and incest. Anyway, he’ll probably beg you to paint a dragon for him. ”
Incest? Oh God. If she only knew. I pretend to laugh, the sound light, surprising me. “I’d love to. He’s such a sweet boy, but I’ve never met such a quiet child.”
She smiles happily. “Yes, he is very well behaved, isn’t he? When I found out I was carrying a boy I was terrified my son would be one of those wild brats that trails dirt into the house and draws on the walls with crayons, but thank God, he turned out quite well.”
Before I can respond, a soft knock interrupts us. The housekeeper steps in, carrying a tray with a bottle of red wine and two glasses.
“Thought you might like a little something,” she says, her voice warm, setting the tray on the desk. “It’s a good cabernet—more on the sweet side than dry, but I think you’ll love it.”
“Thank you, Maria,” Sara says with a grateful smile.
I echo Sara’s words.
Maria nods her gray head and slips out, the door clicking shut, leaving us in the golden hush of the room. Sara pours the wine, the liquid glinting ruby as it fills the glasses, and hands me one.
As Sara sips her wine, her gaze is thoughtful. “Have you ever shown your paintings beyond the books? Like, in a gallery or something?”
I shake my head, my fingers tightening around the glass. “Not really. They’re mostly for me, or for the books. I’ve thought about it, but… It’s scary, putting that part of myself out there.”