Coming home after all that time was odd. When I opened my apartment door, I only walked in far enough to let the door close behind me again. It had been my home for three years, and I loved the place, but at that moment it felt about as warm and personal as a hotel room.

Shaking my head at my own silliness, I stepped into the living room, dragging my suitcase after me. And promptly stopped again, half-convinced I was dreaming. I had to be dreaming. How else could I explain the oversized painting now hanging on the wall over my sofa?

I approached slowly, almost reverently, as though the whole scene would dissolve if I made a sudden move. It was the painting of Central Park I loved so much, the one that had been in the same room as the Monet in the mansion. The one Irene had demanded Morgan get rid of.

It wouldn’t have been out of place in a museum, but there it was, taking up almost the entire wall, with only a couple inches of clearance above the sofa and even less than that with the ceiling.

The fleeting question of ‘how’ brushed my mind, but not for long. Hadn’t Morgan said that very morning that he knew everything that went on in his home? He had to know how much I liked the painting. After taking in my fill, I looked around. Surely Morgan had to have left a note. He wouldn’t just put this in my apartment and…

And of course he would. That was his MO all over again. Offer incredible gifts, and not bother with a word of explanation. Whispering his name, I shook my head and smiled. He was ready to let me go, but not to let me forget him, it seemed. That was all right. I had no intention of forgetting him.

When I finished unpacking, it was time for lunch. It occurred to me that, after two weeks, my fridge had to be a disaster zone. I peeked in, already holding my breath. And was taken by surprise for the second time since entering my apartment.

The fridge was filled with fresh groceries. I recognized the same brands and types of food I’d seen Stephen buy. My eyes prickled a little, and I had to sit down at the kitchen table before my knees wavered too much. Without thinking, I pulled out my phone. I wasn’t going to call him, I told myself forcefully. I’d left the mansion not an hour earlier, I wasn’t going to call him so soon. But a text message would be okay. Just to say thank you, nothing more. It’d only be polite.

There was a slight problem with that plan: I didn’t have his phone number.

As soon as I realized that, I wanted to call myself an idiot. It was something so basic… How could I have not thought of it? How was I to contact him now? What if he wanted to call me? Did he have my number? What if we wanted to chat, or check up on each other, or just say hi, really? What if I missed hearing his voice, or the way he said my name?

Yes, that is about how long it took me to regret leaving. Almost an hour.

Honestly, I’m surprised it took that long. I knew it was the right thing to do, but that didn’t mean I had to like it.

I set my phone down on the table and tried to push the thought of talking to him as far away as I could. I tried to distract myself by throwing together a plate of food, but I can’t say it worked very well, especially when I realized I did have a way to get Morgan’s number.

As soon as I thought of it, I told myself no. I wasn’t going to lower myself to that level. I refused to ask her for any favors.

I resisted for a half hour, then gave up. Picking my phone up again, I gritted my teeth and dialed. This number, I knew quite well; usually Miss Delilah had been the one calling me, but the reverse had been true, too.

I didn’t want to talk to her, so I sent a text message. It was as terse as I could make it, and very much on purpose.

What is Morgan’s phone #?

As soon as I pressed send, I started to wonder what kind of reply I was going to get. Would she refuse to give it to me? Would she mock me for not getting it from him? Would she ask for something in exchange? I could only imagine the worst.

What I did not imagine, however, was that she’d reply within two minutes and with no more than the number I had asked for. Nothing else. It was almost too good to be true, and for a moment I caught myself thinking that it had to be a trick. What if she’d sent me a completely random number?

What if she hadn’t?

I wouldn’t know until I tried.

My fingers a little unsteady on the small keys, I typed the number she’d sent and the message, You are IMPOSSIBLE. Holding my breath, I pressed send. I stared at the screen until a response popped up. It took even less time than Miss Delilah’s answer.

I’m going to assume this is about the painting. You’re welcome, Angelina.

How crazy was it that, when I read my name, I could hear Morgan’s voice in my mind?

It really was his number. I really could contact him whenever I wanted to.

And he could contact me if he wanted it, too.

Which brought up two questions. Should I, and would he?

As much as I wanted to keep texting him, talking to him right then, I decided it would be a bad idea. After all, I’d left the mansion to give him space. That wouldn’t be effective if I texted him every five minutes.

Even if I really wanted to.

I thought I’d distract myself by getting in contact with my friends. I’d emailed and texted them while I was at the mansion, but I hadn’t actually called any of them. I’ve mentioned before I don’t like lying, and that’s in part because I’m not very good at it. If they’d asked me over the phone where I was and why I couldn’t join them for a drink or dinner, I’d have been hard pressed to find an answer. Now it wouldn’t be so difficult. Or so I thought until I called my friend Carol and agreed to meet her at our favorite restaurant that evening.

Being outside was wonderful, and even though it was chilly and I was wearing heels—one of my new pairs of shoes, midnight blue to match my coat—I walked to the restaurant. Carol was already seated, and it was obvious as I approached the table that she was scrutinizing me. She hadn’t been able to talk much over the phone, but I had a feeling I was in for a full interrogation now.

“Do you want a drink before we do this?” she asked with a wicked smile as soon as I sat down.

I shook my head and sighed. The last thing I needed was to be tipsy and say things I wasn’t supposed to. No one had warned me against talking about vampires, but I was sure that revealing Morgan’s, Miss Delilah’s, and Irene’s secret wouldn’t earn me any good will from them. And of course, who would believe me?

“So a while ago, Paula sent me this,” she said, setting her phone on the table and pushing it toward me. “And ever since, you’ve been incommunicado. Do you care to explain or should I make up my own story?”

I had a small idea, even before I laid eyes on the screen, what I would see there, and I was right. It was a picture from the night that had started it all. It showed Miss Delilah and I, both of us clad in extravagant red gowns, walking up to the mansion’s front door.

I peered at my own face on the tiny screen and almost wanted to laugh. I looked like the proverbial deer, waiting for the impact and maybe not quite believing what was happening to me. It felt like such a long time ago… Not even one month, when all was said and done, but I’d changed during those few weeks. I had learned of the existence of a world I hadn’t imagined. I’d been more scared, more upset than ever before in my life. And I had fallen in love.

“That’s me,” I confirmed, pushing the phone back to Carol. My fingers shook a little, and I was beginning to reconsider my stance on drinks and clear-headedness.

“I know that’s you!” She laughed quietly. “Come on, tell me what happened. You’re not going to force me to play twenty questions, are you?”

My throat felt parched so I took a sip of water. Just then, the waitress came to get our orders. Carol looked frustrated, as though I’d timed the interruption to rob her of the answers she craved. Despite the situation, I couldn’t help but grin.

Once the waitress had left again, I asked in my most innocent voice, “So, what’s your first question, then?”

Carol looked outraged for a second, but soon she laughed and leaned closer over the table. Her eyes sparkled when she asked, “What is he like in bed?”

If I’d nurtured delusions about denying anything of an adult nature had happened between me and Morgan, the fierce blush that made me feel like I was on fire put an end to that. Carol’s grin widened a little more.

I thought about refusing to answer, but that notion quickly flew out the window, too. I wanted to talk about Morgan with someone, and who better than one of my closest friends? From the moment I’d been trapped at the mansion, I’d been on my own, and an outside perspective would be welcome. It’s true that my parents had been there, but I could never have confided in them. As for Stephen, our discussions had grown more relaxed in time, but there had always been an unacknowledged reality: he was on Morgan’s side, not mine.

So, I told her… well, not everything, but a close approximation of what had happened.

I told her Miss Delilah had taken me to her brother’s party because she suspected we might hit it off—and we had. I told her it’d been a whirlwind and I’d forgotten about everything, including my friends and my parents, until my parents showed up for Christmas. I told her about the sunroom. I told her about Irene, and how she was the dragon-like mother-in-law from hell every woman feared being stuck with. And of course I told her about Morgan.

I never answered her question about what he was like in bed, but told her how attentive and romantic he could be at times, and how he could drive me up the walls without even trying. I told her he was the most amazing man I’d ever met. And I told her I wasn’t sure he’d ever be mine.

She’d listened with few interruptions up to that point, but that last bit startled her: she sat back suddenly, blinking as though awakening from a doze.

“Why would you say that? He sounds like the perfect guy, and the way you talk about him…” She leaned forward again, patting my hand on the table. “You haven’t said so, but you’re in love. If he doesn’t know, then he must be blind.”

“Oh, he knows,” I assured her with a bitter smile. “Or at least, he’s heard me say it. I’m still not sure whether he believes me. Things didn’t end well in his last two relationships, and he blames himself. He thinks if we were together, he’d end up hurting me, so he’s been holding back.” I had to clear my throat before I could finish. “That’s why I left.”

Carol looked absolutely crestfallen. I felt like I’d just told her a fairytale, only to disappoint her with ‘and they didn’t live happily ever after.’

“You left?” she repeated, pushing away her coffee so she could fold her arms on the table and lean a little closer still. “Why on Earth would you do that?”

“To give him time.” It had seemed like such a good, logical idea at the time… Why did I feel so defensive when I explained it to her? “He needs to get over what happened before, and I figured I’d be standing in the way if I stayed.”

She shook her head slowly, her hair bouncing on her shoulders. Her brow furrowed, but still her voice was ever so gentle when she said, “But if you’re not there with him, how is he going to remember why he should put the past behind him and enjoy what he has now?”

The waitress brought us the check at that point so I didn’t answer, and afterward I made a point of redirecting the conversation. We’d talked about me all evening, it was time for her to tell me what was going on in her life, and she obliged by telling me about her new job. For the rest of the evening, however, and even after we’d said goodnight, the question remained at the back of my mind.

What if she was right?

What if I’d made a mistake?

What if, now that my presence in Morgan’s life was no more than a spattering of text messages, he went back to his routine and forgot what it’d been like to care for someone again?

 

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