CHAPTER 28
Sybil
For the first time, the world seemed to burst into vibrant color. There was before the kiss, and there was after, and I never wanted to go back. I was trotting down the yellow brick road, headed to places I’d only dreamed of seeing.
The instant he’d pinned me, his enormous frame pressing down into my core, I welcomed his actions. I was so ready; I would have begged for it if he hadn’t kissed me. My reaction to him was indomitable and out of my control, and yet the most in control I’d ever felt.
Although I had no notable real-life experience, I’d read more than my fair share of love scenes. I’ve often wondered if real life could be as magical as a fairytale. The idea of being swept off your feet, I’ve longed for that—where you fall apart at the seams and melt into another person.
I’d been right on the verge.
Nash’s lips claimed mine with a soft, warm pressure, his tongue a teasing dance.
There was nothing I could do but yield to it.
I couldn’t fight the tidal wave—its heat surging with force, swelling low in my belly.
When I opened my mouth to him, it all crashed ashore.
My response was immediate, a drowning reaction so rich with emotion that it overwhelmed all my nervous thoughts.
Now without him, I kept touching my fingers to my lips, his phantom presence still lingering. I’d unearthed a part of me I never thought I would. It was a braver side, a side that felt supported and daring. That part of me was him.
It scared me, made me feel vulnerable, like an open wound I prayed the universe wouldn’t poke a finger into. I couldn’t handle being let down by another human in my life, not when I felt this much for him already. I feared how safe I felt in his arms.
He’d brought me coffee a while later, freshly showered and dressed. He’d leaned over me, nuzzled my neck, and set the cup on my nightstand. The smell of him—clean soap, cheeks soft and shaved except for his goatee—made my entire body vibrate in his presence.
Bee also returned to work, popping her head in with a big, knowing smile before she left. I’d blushed and sunk under the covers. She’d laughed her way back down the hall and out of the house. I was mortified.
We had the chance to talk more about her career during our movie night.
I tried not to seem enthusiastic about art, but it fascinated me.
She was an art restoration specialist, also at her father’s company of course.
This offered her a front-row seat to some of the world’s most amazing and notable art.
That had to be so cool, having the permission to touch every ridge and stroke of the paintbrush like that?
She said she was currently working on a Degas, and I was in awe. My parents didn’t think I deserved to see art of that caliber if I couldn’t see it the way the artist intended. They found it an affront to the talent.
Finally, crawling out of bed once the house fell silent, and the coffee in my cup was gone, I went to the kitchen. This was my chance to explore without eyes on me. I thought I’d be relieved to have the house to myself again, but it felt hollow and cold without them here.
“Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” I said to Bill, still amused by the Wizard of Oz visions in my head.
Trying to stay busy, feeling like a dog waiting for its people to return. I started my exploration in the kitchen. Opening every cabinet, I familiarized myself with the location of cups and dishes. I opened and emptied the dishwasher, wanting to be helpful.
There was an enormous pantry, much like I had, filled with everything I’d ever need to bake with. Bee must enjoy baking, as the ingredients looked frequently used. I could still taste her delicious soup my first night here, and the charcuterie board was something out of a food magazine.
On a whim, I pulled out some flour, yeast and salt and made a loaf of bread like I often did at home.
As it proved, I sat on the couch in the front window, gazing out at my house across the street.
It was so strange seeing the world in reverse like this.
I was performing the same actions I did on the opposite side of the street, but flipped, as though I’d fallen into an alternate reality.
The ruins of my house swarmed with workers. Nash was right; they’d already pressure-washed the soot stains off the brick. There were dumpsters out front and scaffolding erected.
Cat was clearly fast at work, getting our crew on the job.
I’m sure they were unaware of whose house they were renovating—it’s not like other clients didn’t hire them outside of us.
Knowing Cat, though, I was certain she had her bases covered just in case.
They were so good at what they did; I didn’t want anyone else on the job.
Poking a finger into the puffed dough hours later, I shaped the loaf and baked it in a well-loved Dutch oven I found on a shelf.
Hot from the oven, I cut off the heel and spread butter on the slice.
The butter melted instantly, the first bite a crunchy, buttery assurance of being home.
I cut another knob of butter and gave it to Bill, followed by a sliver for Mr. Beans, who loved butter most.
Nibbling the bread, I gave up watching the demo of my townhome and continued exploring the house.
Bee appeared to have an entire floor to herself, above the parlor floor I was on.
It was fun and a bit exhilarating pilfering through her closet and holding her clothes up in the mirror.
Never in my life had I seen clothes like this, and I’d never once been to a department store.
I tried on a bunch of her shoes. Each pair was more stunning and high-heeled than the last. I wobbled around her room, trying to get used to it. Her feet were a lot bigger than mine, and I felt like a little girl digging through her mother’s closet—something I only did behind my mother’s back.
Above that was another floor of rooms, guest rooms I assumed. They were bland and unused, smelling like clean bleach and crisp fresh linen. Climbing farther up, Mr. Beans and Bill trailed after, and I arrived at what appeared to be the primary suite and Nash’s domain.
I explored without an ounce of shame, loving how deeply masculine it was.
Dark drapes, rich walls and wood trim. A large, dark bed sat in the center of the room with comfortable seating scattered all around the space in little nooks and gatherings.
He had books of all kinds, but mostly nonfiction.
The entire space smelled of oak and leather, and a hint of lingering cigar smoke as though embedded in the wood’s history.
The bathroom was enormous, with the shower a literal room in and of itself.
Next to the shower, a massive, egg-shaped bathtub dominated the space, while a long bench stretched along the wall, reminiscent of a football locker room.
Several other smaller benches were also scattered around the space, with his clothes tossed over them and shoes tucked under them. I liked how lived-in it felt.
I smelled each product on the countertop, closing my eyes and dreaming of the way his kiss felt, driven by the lingering memory of his scent.
He had a beard wash I found to be reminiscent of the smell that lingered with me after his kiss, and I couldn’t help carrying it around with me while I explored the room.
So much of my world was driven by smell.
I sometimes felt I could grasp the color of something from the scent alone.
After placing everything back as I found it, I noticed a private staircase tucked further into the room.
It spiraled up, and I followed it, drawn skyward by the sun that filtered down from another beautiful antique round skylight overhead that matched the one in the main stairwell.
I was on the top floor of the townhome, and it appeared to be an office.
This floor reminded me of my library and studio level, and was about the same size.
The street-facing half was the prime office space, and the back portion was another room.
It was closed behind sliding doors with a coded and locked knob.
I tested the knob to see if he’d left it unlocked—it didn’t budge.
Focusing on the main area, bookshelves lined the walls, leather armchairs scattered about in thoughtful places here and there, and a large oak desk sat in the center of the room. The space appeared cluttered and a little messy, mirroring the lived-in look of his bedroom and bath.
Behind the desk was another giant leather armchair. I strode toward it and sat. It engulfed me, and I found it spun so I could look out the floor to ceiling slatted window behind the desk.
It had a magnificent view of the entire street below, as well as a new and pathetic view of my townhouse. From this vantage point, I could see in through the burned away roof, with the crews tossing planks of wood into a shoot that fed to the dumpster.
Sitting here, I couldn’t help but think how much this felt like a villain’s lair, lording over the city like Mr. Beans liked to lord over the living room.
I wondered if he could see me in my house from up here.
From where I was, I had a good view of everything the crew was doing and figured he probably could.
Had he watched me?
Mr. Beans jumped into my lap then, sitting to look out the window with me, tail flicking. I spent a lot of time sitting and reading in those front windows, and the trees parted to allow a direct view of them. If I were he, I’d have spied on my neighbors all the time.
After another moment in his chair, looking at the gutted remains of what was once my entire world, I made my way back down the spiral stairs to his room.