Chapter 35
“Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby” - Cigarettes After Sex
Pierce
Some of my favorite things in this world are the ones that require extra care, special handling, and white-glove service—rare pieces of art, historical documents and artifacts, and Maeve Wilson.
Pulling up outside her house, I put the car in park and let it idle, watching a well-dressed couple make their way down the sidewalk, him pushing a stroller, her holding the leash of a tiny white dog. I’m several minutes early, and I don’t want Maeve to flip out on me.
I know we’re on thin ice. I felt it cracking beneath us last week when I insisted on staying over several nights. The toothbrush thing nearly gave her an aneurysm. I thought I was moving slowly, but goddamn it, the woman is so skittish she acts like I’m trying to put a ring on her finger.
Am I? I don’t fucking know. I don’t think so. It’s not like I have a lot of spare time to think about getting married and having kids. God, I’m only twenty-six.
My eyes focus on the couple again. They’ve stopped at a park bench, and she’s bending over the stroller doing something with the kid while he holds the dog. They don’t look any older than me, maybe even a little younger.
I’m lucky enough not to have parents who breathe down my neck about shit like that. They’d rather see me build another billion-dollar empire than father a bunch of grandchildren for them.
Obviously I’ve thought about it before, but only in that vague sense of “that’s at least five or ten years down the road.” It’s been the cause of most of my breakups. They all wanted something long-term, to lock me into something permanent, and I just couldn’t do it.
Maybe I wasn’t ready yet, or maybe I’ve just never been with the right person.
And I’m not saying Maeve is the right person, but she’s sure as hell the only person I want to spend any time with at the moment.
Rhett texted me about golfing yesterday, and I found myself first asking Maeve if she was free.
It wasn’t until after she said she was stuck in a meeting that I responded to him.
Tell me why there’s a physical ache in my chest when she’s not with me, and sometimes even when she is.
We can be laughing and having the best time together, and all of a sudden, I see the blinds close over her eyes.
She shuts herself off from me after that, and I’m left wondering how I fucked up this time.
I’m not stupid enough to fall in love. Not with her, not with anyone. My parents didn’t do much to raise me—that’s what they paid the best nannies in the country for—but there are a few lessons they managed to instill in me. One of them being that love makes you weak.
So before you go thinking that I’m head over heels for Maeve or some stupid shit like that, just know that that’s not what this is.
I think it’s that I’ve finally met my match.
We’re both competitive enough to keep each other at our best. I like that.
Do you know how hard it is to find someone who is your equal in every way?
I may have caught feelings, but who the fuck can define those anyway? There are plenty of feelings besides love. All I know is that I need that woman more than I need anything else on this earth, and I’ll fight anyone who tries to get in my way.
I climb out of the car and approach Maeve’s front door, my heart pounding in my chest like a fucking jackhammer.
Tonight is essentially a date, whether she wants to admit it or not.
It’s probably a stupid idea that will backfire, but after she said she felt safer with that fuckwit Preston than she did with me, I knew something needed to change.
I may not be able to help her fully relax, but I sure as fuck can make her feel safe.
Knocking on the door, I listen for the click of her heels on the other side. I could go on in—I have a key after all—but that would only rile her up more than necessary. While I enjoy playing with my food before I eat it, I know better than to tease a cobra.
My hands in my pockets like a teenager on his first date, I prop an elbow against the door frame as I wait for Maeve to show up. Maybe if I act nonchalant, my stupid galloping heart will take heed and follow suit.
She opens the door seconds later in a short flared black dress with an off-the-shoulder neckline that leaves her shoulders and collarbones exposed. I swallow loudly and straighten.
“Hey,” I say, fighting the urge to take her back inside and do all of the dirty things currently parading through my imagination. “You look incredible.”
The look she shoots me is both guarded and apprehensive. “Thanks.” She locks the door behind her, then follows me to the car.
Silence surrounds us as we drive, but I know she won’t be able to handle it for long. Sure enough, we’re still on Twenty-Fifth when she turns from the window to face me. “Where are we going?”
I smile and keep my eyes on the road, something I need to do all night if I want us to arrive in one piece, even if exploring what’s beneath her dress sounds more appealing. “It’s a surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“I know,” I say. “You’ll survive.”
Folding her arms over her chest, she lets out an annoyed huff. “That’s assuming the surprise isn’t you killing me in a back alley somewhere.”
“Babe, please.” I give her a horrified look. “I have way more class than that. At the very least, I’d do it in the Allerton penthouse suite.”
I’m rewarded with a tiny smile that she immediately hides by turning her attention back to the window. We ride in silence for a few more minutes, then she says, “Just tell me, Pierce.”
I don’t say anything for a few beats, waiting. When she finally looks at me, I hold her gaze. “Why can’t you trust me?”
Her hands twist together in her lap, the only indication that she’s experiencing anything emotionally, because her face remains stony. “I don’t trust anyone but myself.”
“I know.” Nodding to show her I get it, I merge onto the freeway leading out of the city. “But I want you to be able to trust me, too.”
Maeve sighs deeply. “It’s nothing against you. I just—”
I reach over and grab her hands, which are still knotting together. “Hey, listen to me. I’m not going to hurt you.” Lifting them to my lips, I press a kiss against her skin, which smells of vanilla.
She stops twisting her fingers, but she refuses to meet my eyes. “You can’t know that,” she says softly.
“And you can’t know that I will.” Glancing back at the road every other second, I drop her hands and tilt her chin up. I need to see her eyes when I say what I’m going to say next. “You don’t have to do everything alone. Let me help you.”
Her long lashes brush against her cheeks as she blinks at me. Finally, she says, “Okay.”
That single word makes my chest surge with emotion. I desperately want to pull the car over and kiss her madly, because this feels like a breakthrough. But I don’t. Baby steps, remember? I can’t afford to send her running again.
Instead, I tuck her hand in my own and raise it to my lips once more, needing her scent in my nostrils and her porcelain skin against mine. She gives me a shy smile in return, and I feel as high as a fucking kite.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, I pull up outside a small gallery. Maeve’s fingers are still entwined with my own, a miracle in itself, and she never questioned me about our destination again—miracle number two.
I circle the car and open her door, offering my hand as she climbs out. She takes it without hesitation and doesn’t even pull away as we walk to the door. Is this what progress looks like?
We step inside the swanky gallery. Soft jazz music greets us, and black-and-white photographs hang on the exposed brick walls.
Tonight’s featured artist, Finnegan Sinclair, is someone I’ve never heard of before—probably because he’s still a university student—but I needed a place that was far enough out of the city no one would spot Maeve and me together.
Not because I don’t want to be seen with her—god, I’d shout it from the rooftops—but because I know she’s weird about stuff like that.
A server brings us flutes of champagne on a tray, and Maeve and I clink our glasses together.
She keeps her eyes locked on mine as she takes a sip, and I want nothing more than to sink my teeth into her red lips.
As if she can read my mind, she gives her left brow a slight cock, her mouth tugging up on the same side.
Pulling her arm through mine, I lead her around the room as we study the photographs.
They’re exceptional—the kid clearly has talent—but if I’m being honest, only about 10 percent of my attention is on the artwork.
The rest is absorbed by the woman at my side, who smells like a dream and looks like a goddess.
I can’t get her out of my head no matter how hard I try.
And before you call me out on it—no, I’m not exactly trying. I’m not a bloody idiot.
“I love this one,” Maeve breathes out as she stops in front of a photo of a pier at sunset.
It’s black-and-white like all the others, but you can make out the fading sunlight hitting the wooden planks and the water surrounding it.
At the end sits a solitary figure, long hair blowing in the breeze.
Her face is slightly angled toward the camera, as if she’s just said something to the photographer.
“It’s beautiful.” I brace myself as Maeve pulls away, afraid our perfect night is already drawing to a close, but she’s only leaning in for a better look, her hand staying perched in the crook of my elbow. “What do you feel when you look at it?” I ask.
“I feel . . .” She stops, eyes still glued to the picture. “I feel . . . peaceful.”
I study her, and then I see it—the softness, the lightness in her face and eyes. “Yeah,” I murmur, mesmerized by the change in her features. “Me too.”