Chapter 12
BABS
His linen shirt is far too big for me. It swallows my frame, hangs loose off one shoulder, and still carries the faint scent of his cologne.
He’s reclined beside me, tanned skin glowing in the now blistering sun.
Sunglasses hide half his face. His legs are stretched lazily on a lounge chair.
His naked cock is half hard and lying against his stomach.
He’s well-endowed. Great looks, wealth, and a family legacy for generations to come.
Pretty Boy.
More like Golden Boy.
I’m tucked under an enormous striped umbrella, curled like a cat on the chair next to his, with damp hair wrapped in a towel.
Everything about this feels illicit.
Not just because of what we did in his studio or what he tried to start in the ocean, if freezing water didn’t prevent a hard cock, but because I don’t do this. I don’t lounge. I don’t drape myself in men’s shirts like a Rom Com movie.
I don’t chase boys to the Hamptons, and yet, here I am. Running naked on the beach, being tackled, and swept into the sea. It is the thing Hollywood movies are known for, not the nudity, but the feeling of being young again.
That’s one of many things he makes me feel. Young. Desired. Wanted and seen. A very dangerous combination.
The breeze brushes ripples across the pool’s surface.
The scent of soft, fragrant hydrangeas drifts by.
My world is tranquil for once. No burdensome social calendar.
No assistant chasing after me with calls to return, appointments to keep.
No staff or house manager to interrupt me with problems and decisions. None of that.
Just time.
And Hollister.
I stretch my toes toward the edge of the chair, desiring a bit of sun on my legs.
“You draw caricatures.”
I break the silence, casual, like it’s just now occurred to me, when in truth I’ve been holding onto the question since I saw them. He doesn’t flinch or look at me. Just let out a long breath.
“Yup.”
I glance at him, his eyes closed behind his sunglasses.
“But you also work with charcoals and oil paintings in your studio.”
He smiles, slow and lazy, but his eyes don’t open.
“Yeah, well, even tortured artists need a side hustle.”
I shift to face him more directly, wanting to know more about him than the surface-level stuff I already know.
“But why caricatures?”
I tip my head, genuinely curious. It’s an odd choice for a talented person. Not low-level art, exactly, though to the purists, it sits somewhere near street graffiti. Certainly not the kind that fetches millions at the exhibits I bankroll.
“You’re talented. Like museum-level talented. Why exaggerate noses and teeth for tourists when you could be at the MoMA?”
He finally opens his eyes, then turns to look at me. Jaw tight, tongue pressing into his cheek for a moment like he’s deciding how much to tell me.
“I like people,” he says with a shrug, almost flippant.
I tamp down my annoyance.
“I like watching them. Studying what makes them tick, what they’re trying to hide, what they hope no one sees.”
That’s not the answer I expected.
“And sometimes, you can see more in a smirk or a nose than in a whole damn portrait. A caricature doesn’t lie. It’s loud and messy and honest. Like people really are.”
I study him, staring into glasses that reflect me.
“You don’t seem like someone who gravitates toward loud and messy.”
“Maybe not.”
He looks away, his mouth biting his lower lip in thought, before those mirrored glasses look at me.
“But I’ve always been good at drawing the things I’m not allowed to say. Or shouldn’t see.”
There’s something about the way he says it, almost offhand, but not quite, that lands in my chest with weight. I curl my legs back into the shade, feeling suddenly more exposed at what he’s seen of me and not said.
“And mine? What would it say?”
I’m almost afraid to ask. He doesn’t answer right away. Just pushes his sunglasses down and looks at me without flinching.
“They say everything you won’t.”
My gaze moves from his, needing to hide from his scrutiny as it feels very much like the stares I get at the club, charity events, and most everywhere I attend.
“What have I not told you, Hollister?”
He shifts beside me, one foot flat against the lounge chair, the other dangling lazily over the side.
He moves his hand to adjust his cock, his hand lingering on it for a moment, appearing casual, but it’s a lie.
His body is still. Coiled. Like he knows this is a turning point, and he’s not sure if he’s supposed to leap my defense or stay put.
“You haven’t told me why you still wear that necklace.”
My hand lifts before I can stop it, grazing the familiar weight at my collarbone. Pearls, elegant and old, a gift from a man who left my life. Left me.
“It matches everything,” I say. Deflecting. They are expensive. A reminder of what we once had. Now, a slap in his damn face every time that weasel sees them.
The wind picks up, stirring the edge of the linen shirt I’m swimming in. The heat from the day is unable to penetrate the chill he’s stirred inside me.
“You haven’t told me why you look so bored at every party. Or why you always show up alone, even though everyone assumes you could have anyone. Not one date. Not even a dance at all those galas.”
His eyes hold mine now.
“You haven’t told me what you want, Babs. Not once. Not in words. But your body and your mouth?” He exhales and murmurs, “They never lie.”
Heat blooms down my spine, slow and steady, as his words wrap around me. He leans closer in his lounger.
“And maybe you haven’t told me because you’re afraid to admit it to yourself. I think you’re scared to live. Scared to make a mistake and live with the consequences or regrets. I don’t know which. But honestly, you’re not living at all, and I hate that for you.”
I can’t move.
Can’t breathe because everything he’s saying is true. The smooth, cultured pearls underneath my fingertips have been a comfort and a reminder. Of who I am and how strong I’ve had to be. Untouchable. Unflappable. Like a keepsake from a battle I survived but haven’t quite walked away from.
“Today is how I want to see you. Happy, laughing, and fun. Not as an exaggerated caricature but as someone real, open, and free to live again.
His elbow moves to the arm. His head tilts while studying me as I take in all the truths he sees so clearly. That I thought I had hidden very well from the world.
“I . . . I don’t know how.”
“Then let me help you figure it out.”
My gaze drifts away again. Over the lush lawns of their endless property, to the big house at the top of their little hill, taking in everything he’s said.
His offer isn’t rushed, romantic, or even particularly seductive.
It lands deeper than any poetry could. He’s so succinctly analyzed me, but what about him? Is he living the life he wants?
I turn to face him again.
“And what about you? Do you know what you want?”
He doesn’t smile.
Doesn’t flirt.
“Yes.”
“What?”
He removes his expensive glasses, tossing them on the lounger between his legs.
“You.”
The sun catches in the sea glass blue of his eyes. The lightness in him and his carefree smile aren’t na?ve. It’s intentional. A choice. He chooses joy. Playful and possible. While I’ve been choosing control, containment, and perfection.
I don’t answer.
Instead, I release the pearls, finding them more stifling than I should.
I turn away from him, needing silence and space to combat the spilling of truths between us.
My truths. I rise to my feet, his linen shirt billowing in the breeze as I walk the pool decking to a cabana on the far side of the pool, by the diving board.
Other than the call of birds in the air and the crash of the waves, it’s quiet.
Something I need in the storm raging in my head.
Perhaps wanting something and saying it out loud doesn’t have to happen simultaneously.
Not with his stare burning into me as I walk into the shade and privacy of the cabana.
The curtains are drawn on three sides, the only open flaps facing the ocean.
It gives me a chance to really let what he’s saying sink in.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
His words hit me before he appears in the entrance. His expression isn’t cocky or pushy, just as open and honest as he’s been with me since this little pursuit of his started. If anything, he seems a little hesitant. His usual swagger dialed back, replaced with something gentler.
“I’m not upset.” I am and I’m not. Not at him for outing my secret. Madder at myself for starting to feel something. Starting to feel human and capable of real feelings. “I just needed a minute.”
He nods, as if he understands. Maybe he does. Who knows.
“Sometimes a minute turns into years if you don’t do something about it,” he says softly with a head lowered in regret.
Maybe his own. We haven’t talked about him.
Haven’t scratched the surface of knowing about his life, hopes, and dreams. His exaggerated teeth and prominent features would be a caricature of himself.
I move.
One step and then another, until I’m in front of him.
“I’m not like the girls you’re used to.”
He exhales, his hand rising to push back the mess of sandy hair from his face.
“I sure as hell hope not.”
I let out a short laugh, my hand rising to rest on his chest, fingers brushing the golden tan and the firm heat of him. His hand finds my waist. His thumb slips under the hem of his shirt I’m wearing. The heat of his skin on mine makes something inside me clench.
He looks around once, checks the breeze, and the way the curtains sway. His smirk returns, slow and unmistakable.
“You know, I’d love to show you how grateful I am that you’re in a class all your own.” He backs me toward the padded lounger, double the size of the ones arranged in the sun. “But first, I need to do something for both of us.”