Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
KAITLIN
I’m tweaking a painting with a minuscule tilt in a last-minute effort to attain perfection when a warm, rich baritone “Hello?” sends a frisson of energy down my spine. Like his voice, only deeper.
“Pardon me?”
I turn, and wow. Mr. Coffee is on fire tonight.
His charcoal overcoat fits his broad shoulders perfectly over a navy suit and green tie.
I’ve never been within fifteen feet of him before.
He smells faintly of lemons and coffee. The hit of lemon makes me want to run out the door in fight-or-flight mode, while the lower half of my body wants to know if he has strong feelings about pinning a woman down and slamming his cock into her.
Oh Lord Jesus, it’s a fire.
It’s in my panties.
His eyes are brimming with intelligence, an almost translucent light green with a hint of Sennelier #714 Steel Blue around the edges. Why do men always get the lashes so long they curl?
New me, new rules. I’m officially changing my tea time to 7:45.
I’ll be in that line with him every damn day until we start up witty little casual conversations.
He’ll volunteer that he’s single. I’ll accidentally-on-purpose bump into him, he spills coffee on me, puts his hands all over me trying to help, and it is goooooood.
Of course, he’s a gentleman, and I’m charming about his blunder (that I caused), and naturally, he requests my phone number.
Eventually, we practice making babies all the time.
His smile is warm, but it doesn’t reach his stunning eyes. I smile back. I’m pleased to get closer after months of basking in his discomfort.
“Hello, I, uh, I was hoping to speak to Eóghann MacGregor.” He doesn’t say E-O Gann or Egon, Egg-ann or Eeyore-Gahan, or any of the bizarre variations I’ve heard. He says Ewan McGregor. “Are you with the artist?”
I nod and start to extend my hand to shake, but before I can introduce myself, he starts with wordus vomitus. He should never play poker; he telegraphs everything: eager, sad, hopeful, a whiff of desperation.
Oh, and he’s freaking gorgeous on normal days, but in a suit, wooo doggy. The combination of light green eyes against black hair is striking, but damn, this man has been gifted by whoever gives out good looks.
“I would like to talk to Eóghann. Will he be here tonight?” He speaks softly, each word perfectly formed, as though it’s an effort.
Before I can answer, he starts talking again, gesturing even though he’s holding a steaming cup of coffee. I won’t have to accidentally-on-purpose make him spill coffee on me for our meet-cute; he’s going to do it all by himself.
His eyes give off the strangest combination of heartbreak and hope. “Eóghann is my last chance. Everyone says it’s time to move on, but I can’t seem to get there. I thought maybe…”
A long, deep inhale fills me with the lemon verbena I’ve banished from my apartment. He’s familiar, like a soft blanket from childhood, but it’s not the scent, it’s not the mannerisms, it’s the voice. I rub away the goose bumps.
Mr. Coffee sounds a lot like him. No, that’s not entirely accurate. I’m the problem here. A guy smells a little lemony, and my imagination goes crazy. Sigh. Scratch that plan to stealth my way into his mornings; I can’t be hanging out with a guy who smells like him.
He runs his hand through his hair, the set of his shoulders tight with stress and just rambling along.
I tune out, bummed that he’s off the potential list, until he says, “I did not realize she was…” He pauses. “The most important thing in my life.”
Got it. Hotty McHotsALot is all bent about some chick. Of fucking course he’s emotionally unavailable. He keeps rambling, a veritable tide of words about which I really don’t care. Blah blah blah.
He reminds me of him, so he’s definitely a no-go zone. Bummer.
“She bought me one of these paintings, the print you have there, on the left? I have the original. I’d like the next four as well, the originals? That completes the series, does it not?”
Now, that I catch. He finally stops talking and waits for an answer, but I’m too stunned to speak. Mr. Coffee has my painting? Rage rises in me. Motherfucker. He ditched my painting? Why does that hurt so much?
Deep breath. Another one, slower, longer. Fuck, I hate lemon verbena.
I. Have. Healed.
Dear Universe, please send more healing, stat. M’kay, thanks.
I take in another deeper, longer cleansing breath and release it even slower. I repeat it again, then tune back in and listen to the onslaught of babbled words.
More lemon.
Eyes more gorgeous than those of a supermodel. Saoirse said his were like that.
“Maybe Eóghann will help me find her, or he could send a message? My friend is extremely frugal, so maybe this is all a huge mistake on my part. I cannot imagine her spending the money for one of these paintings.” I listen, really listen to what he’s saying.
There’s a huge difference between hearing and listening.
Now that I truly process what he’s saying, my knees threaten to buckle.
This isn’t some guy with his painting.
It’s him. He’s here. How?
“He?” It comes out a pitchy squeak. He means Eóghann, like there’s a he and a me and we’re different, Eóghann and I.
When I was barely keeping my head above the surface, this man kept me breathing.
The weird names on his coffee order? That reeks of Julian.
“He, uh, Eóghann,” he says, unsure. “I was hoping that he could help. I am desperate to find the woman who bought my painting. I would also like to acquire the other four. They’ve not sold?”
No. No. I’m closing the goddamn door and opening a big fucking window tonight. I have healed. I have therapized.
I don’t even think his name.
I’ve had months to practice not saying his name, to forget. His name doesn’t cross my mind without permission, which I do not grant, ever.
“It is you here in the mornings drinking tea, isn’t it?”
I nod again. I can’t make speech work. I was warned about his luminous peridot eyes, but I’m transfixed.
“Could you help me or introduce me to Eóghann?”
“No.” It’s more a headshake. My lips move, but I’m not sure if I actually make a sound. I don’t elaborate, but my word has an impact. He’s… deflated. It’s a kindness, really. I’ve given him what he asked for, an absence of hope. The sadness in his eyes is not my problem.
“I am… I am deeply sorry. I should not have bothered you,” he says.
Is he wearing one of the quartet of ties I bought him? Fuck. It’s like a gut punch. “Please excuse me.”
It’s him. It’s fucking him. I missed his coffee cup. It says “Henry” in Sharpie because he ordered it himself. My heart is chattering away, and I want to run into the cold night air and curl up on the ground until I’m too cold to feel and nothing matters.
He moves away, and I will the banshee wail of “fuckkkkk” in my brain to stay inside.
There’s a tightness around his mouth and eyes, and his shoulders are rigid as he walks away.
The loss of his smile hurts, even though it wasn’t real.
It wasn’t in his eyes. He’s beautiful, almost breathtaking, but his eyes have no light, no sparkle.
I shove the urge to comfort him down hard as he moves to stand in front of the first heart, then studies each in turn.
He’s calm and studious, despite the way his jaw pulses, like he’s gritting his teeth.
He pays particular attention to the information cards next to each work.
He turns to Duncan, who’s been standing nearby and watching our interaction with great interest.
“Irish, what’s up?” They know each other well enough to bro hug. Fuck me.
“I would like to buy these four paintings?” I never answered his question about buying them.
I don’t have anxiety, but I’m having trouble moving air, my heart hammering a staccato beat. I once thought it would take months to learn his expressions. I was wrong. His eyes say everything, speaking my language. I can read him like he’s mine.
Jessica sees me nearing total meltdown and walks over to the wall holding me up. “Mr. Coffee can be my ‘the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else’ guy any day.”
“There will be no getting under. Getting over is bad enough.” I say it with a grimace and swipe at my eyes, making sure there are no tears.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s him… he’s him, him, he’s him, and he’s here.” The words tumble out.
“Yes, Kaitlin, he’s hot enough to make speaking English as a first language challenging.” She rolls her eyes.
“He’s here.”
“Yes. Obviously.”
“Him. Him.”
“I saw him walk in.” She looks at him and makes a lip-smacking noise. “He’s having a particularly fine Friday night. I’m a sucker for a man in an overcoat. That might be Burberry. Jesus, that man is hot, and he’s got that shy thing you like happening.”
“It’s Dior. Saoirse picked it out.” I sniffle.
“Who the fuck is Saoirse?” She looks at me, expectant. “Hey, are you okay?”
“He is him,” I say, tilting my head toward him. “The guy I used to talk to every day. From Chicago. Mr. Coffee is him.”
She squints a bit, looking at his face. “Henry Go Fuck Yourself Sterling? No. The headshot on that website was tasty, but not change-my-ten-year-life-plan hot.”
I nod, miserable.
“You’re saying that H.F.S, the Henry Fucking Sterling, is Mr. Coffee? One and the same?” I nod vigorously. “And you’re over here? Why aren’t you over there, with him?”
I shrug.
“Seriously?” Jess asks, incredulous. “What exactly did he say to you?”
“He said he needed Eóghann to help him because he needed to get a message to the woman who bought his painting, and it was his last hope.”
“What?” she says, confused. I get that the whole thing is a little weird. “He wants you to send you a message?”
“Yes,” I mumble, misery churning in my stomach. “He wants to send me a message.”
“For clarity, Henry Fucking Sterling thinks that Kait bought the painting from Eóghann, and he wants Eóghann to put him in touch with Kait?”
I nod.
“What was the message?”
“He said he didn’t realize the painting-buying woman was the most important thing in his life,” I whisper. “He has to find her because tonight is his last hope of finding her.”
“Kaitlin, did Henry tell you he has to find you or give up hope?”
“Not exactly. Sort of.”
“What are you doing over here?” she asks, practically giddy. “What did he say when you told him? Did he tell you he loves you or that he was wrong? Did he start with how much he misses you or go right into declaring undying love?”
I flinch and wonder how to make myself invisible.
“Oh, honey, you didn’t tell him, did you?” she asks, her enthusiasm wilting. “He’d be right here if he knew. He doesn’t know?”
I say nothing, just shake my head.
“Kaitlin, I will support you in any way I can. Every way I can, but I think you should take a look at him before you make a final decision.”
I look. His expression is neutral. His stern posture tries to disguise it, but I know him, and his eyes speak of suffering and sadness, and it’s a thousand times worse to witness now that I know who he is.
“That is not a man thrilled with his life choices,” she whispers, leaning close so no one can hear us. “You owe him not a goddamn thing. That is fact. But what do you owe yourself? Is he the path to your happiness? Will you beat yourself up if you leave it like this?”
She looks around to make sure no one is hearing us before continuing. “I have to admire his persistence. He made a mistake, and he can’t fix it, but he’s still trying.”
I nod but say nothing.
“You could consider letting him prove he’s better than a stupid mistake made after watching one lousy TV show.
That kind, sweet, thoughtful man loves you, I know he does.
But it’s up to you if you let him, at the absolute minimum, kiss your ass and apologize for what he’s done. You deserve at least that.”
I wipe the tears off my face. She’s right, but I’m terrified.
I’m a moldering chum bucket of cowardice.
I know the pain he can unleash. I’m filled to overflowing with fear of another helping of it.
I can’t take my eyes off him, and of course, he catches me and gives me a tiny, hesitant smile.
Kind, even though I refused to help him.
“When he was just a voice, he brought me to my knees,” I whisper. “What do you think a version I can see and feel could do?”
“Love you forever?” She says it as though I’m too stupid to breathe without guidance.
“It isn’t that simple.”
“It could be, or maybe you get some closure. You are the strongest person I’ve ever met. Don’t let your fear decide your fate.”
I’ve kept my promise; I haven’t reached out to him. I have friends. Sometimes I sleep at night instead of painting. I leave my apartment on a daily basis without coercion.
Hells bells, I leave my apartment to spy on him. Integrity, how I hate thee. Let me count the ways.