Chapter Fifteen
Four days after she’d left in the wee hours of the morning, he was still unsure how he was meant to respond to the note.
Once again, his gut suggested he should be angry that she’d left with nothing more than a few words on a piece of paper when he’d been but a room away.
His heart though…
Fuck, it had been a long time since he had listened to his heart. The last time, he’d been barely a teenager. A teenager looking at his mother as she told him she and his father were going to make it work, going to try again, for him.
“We don’t like to see you getting hurt, Tommy,” she’d said, sitting on the edge of his bed, a folder in her hands he’d suspected contained divorce papers. “We’ll make it work. I promise.”
He’d believed her, because what kid didn’t when their mother told them everything was going to be okay?
He’d learned his lesson, though. The months and years of his parents destroying each other that followed had taught him his heart was stupid. His heart was stupid. Love—the romantic kind poets incessantly waffled on about—didn’t exist. There were no happy endings, just endings. No sequels, no follow-up narratives, no rewrites.
He’d learned another lesson along the way, thanks to M.E. Elderkin. One adjacent to the never-listen-to-your-heart rule. Staying emotionally detached from everyone made things easier.
So why was his heart telling him now, as he sat at his dining table, a mug of strong black coffee in his hand, that being emotionally attached to Mila was okay?
What the fuck was he doing?
He wasn’t angry she’d left without saying good-bye. She’d left without saying good-bye so she didn’t interrupt his writing. Not many people got the life, the mindset of a writer, but she did. And she respected it.
Taking a sip of coffee, he slid her note across the dining table and read it again.
A smile tugged at the corners of his lips on her last line.
She hadn’t yet, but she would. His gut and his heart told him so. And not just because he’d sent her a text earlier today informing her he’d written another twenty-thousand words.
She’d turn up because, despite what she desperately wanted him to believe, she enjoyed being with him. Not just for sex, but for company.
As he did her.
So was his heart deluded? And if it wasn’t, what did he do about it?
He sipped his coffee and read the note again.
Reaper clicked-clicked into the room, the distinct sound of plastic being squished between teeth accompanying him.
“Want to play, Reap?”
Reaper looked up at him, saliva-sodden severed Barbie head clamped in his jaws, and wagged his tail.
Thomas straightened from the table. “Okay, let’s go to the park.”
Two steps onto the sidewalk, Reaper pulling on the leash like a marlin fighting to be free, Thomas stopped.
Mila walked toward him, sunglasses on, ponytail in place.
His freaking heart skipped a goddamn beat.
She slowed to a halt directly in front of him. “Shouldn’t you be writing, St—”
He kissed her.
Unreservedly and without shame.
Horns beeping and someone wolf-whistling brought him up for air. He drew her closer, however, starved of the exquisite sensation of her body pressed to his. “I’ve fucking missed you, babe.”
The endearment slipped out before he could stop it. Damn it.
Black sunglasses regarded him for a heartbeat and then she slipped her palms up his chest. “I can’t believe I’m admitting to this but…I have missed you as well.”
He chuckled. No scolding him for using babe. Confessing to wanting to spend time with him… So his heart and gut hadn’t been deluded after all.
Threading his fingers through hers, he smiled down at her. “Want to come play with me and Reap in the park?”
“I like the sound of that.”
They walked hand-in-hand along the sidewalk, heading for the closest entryway into Central Park. He kept flicking her glances, trying not to grin.
“Are you checking I’m really here?” She arched an eyebrow. “Or do I have something on my face?”
“How was school today?”
A beautiful smile stretched her lips. “Busy. Challenging. But fun. We’ve been studying endangered animals, and today was class presentation time. Did you know the brown-throated three-toed sloth’s fur is rife with algae, fungi, and moths?”
“I did not.”
She nodded. He couldn’t miss the way her ponytail danced behind her head, or the way her hand fit so perfectly with his. “One of my students—a boy named Lane—brought in a glass jar full of moths he’d been collecting for the presentation. Visual aids, he called them. He opened the jar and shook it over his head. The moths flew everywhere.”
Thomas blinked. “Why did he do that?”
She let out a soft laugh. He loved how relaxed it was, how kind. “He wanted them to fall into his hair to show what it would be like for the sloth. Suffice to say, we spent the rest of the day with moths joining in our work.”
“Your face lit up when you were talking about your class.” He smiled as she dipped her head, her own smile shy. “Did you always want to be a teacher? It’s such a demanding, underappreciated job.”
She didn’t answer. Not for a long moment. Long enough for a knot to twist in his gut.
“It wasn’t my first choice, no.” He couldn’t miss the careful way she spoke, like she was considering each word she uttered. “Circumstances changed, however, and I think fate put me where I really was meant to be.” She paused, her concealed gaze turning up to him. “Maybe things happened the way they did for a reason. Perhaps the timing wasn’t right before.”
“Are we still talking about your job?”
Her chuckle was soft. Wry. “Sort of.”
They began walking again. Thomas wanted to smooth his arm around her and hold her closer to his body. If he did, would she stay there? Forever?
Forever? Is that what you want? For her to be with you forever?
“What kind of school do you teach at?” Okay, his voice was croakier than he’d intended. “A private one?”
“God, no. I teach fifth grade at an inner-city school. Inner inner-city. Most of the kids there are lucky to get to school, let alone come with food or books and pens. But that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve a good education.”
A frown pulled at her eyebrows, and she let out a sigh. “Sorry. I can get on my soapbox sometimes. Josie says I can’t let their lives affect mine, but it’s hard not to. If you could meet some of these kids, Thomas… I mean, I took in a set of markers for each student last week for an art project we were doing, and their faces…it was like I was giving them something beyond precious. But they’d never had a set of markers just for themselves before, to do artwork without needing to wait for someone to put theirs down. Those kinds of things most people take for granted.”
She sighed again. “Our school has a free breakfast program, so that helps. Hard to learn on an empty stomach. Now I’m trying to help get a laptop program started. If the school can raise enough funds that is… Every student deserves the opportunity to have technology integrated into their learning. Every student deserves the chance to use it, and the enrichment it can bring into their learning environment. I convinced Josie to donate a percentage of her box office takings from her next play to the fund, but it wasn’t going to be enough. Then you…”
A hot band wrapped his chest as she stopped talking. He squeezed her hand a little. “Then I offered you money to be my muse?”
He studied her profile, watched her catch her bottom lip with her teeth. She hadn’t wanted him to know. Why?
“Then you offered me money to be your muse. I didn’t think you’d accept the hourly figure I suggested, to be honest. But you did, and…” She shrugged. “And I went to school the next Monday and began planning lessons incorporating technology.”
Fuck, was it possible to fall in love with a person based on a single conversation?
A single conversation? No. But more than one conversation? Conversations during paintball matches and blindfolded dinners and car trips around Manhattan?
He dragged in a slow breath. No. Love wasn’t part of his life. But goddamn it, he really, really liked her. A lot.
“What did your students say when you told them?”
She shook her head. “The students don’t know. I won’t tell them.”
“Why not?”
A hesitant frown pulled at her eyebrows.
The band around his chest tightened. “In case I don’t deliver,” he said.
Once more, her shoulders rose and fell. “You’ve got a reputation for not…being the most reliable of adults.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “That is singularly the most cutting insult I think I’ve ever had directed my way. And probably the most truthful.”
Frowning, she tried to pull her hand from his, but he held firm, tugging her closer to his body as he stopped walking. “Mila, the one thing I like about you more than any other woman I’ve ever known, is that you don’t care about my ego. Never ever change that.”
Her frown deepened.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he whispered, releasing her hand to slide his arm around her waist. “Is that okay?”
A shaky breath left her and she licked her lips.
“O—”
He lowered his head to hers and kissed her.
Reaper barked his approval at their feet and then strained against his leash.
Tearing his lips from hers, Thomas reluctantly lifted his head. “C’mon. Let’s get the dog to the park otherwise he’ll never forgive us.”
…
They took up a spot on the lush grass, Thomas scribbling some notes in his ever-present notebook, Reaper taking the opportunity to roll around on his back, tongue out, doggy grin wide.
Mila sat silently, soaking in the moment, enjoying it more than she should.
More than once, she found her gaze wandering to Thomas, a contented warmth unfurling through her. When he put his notepad away and suggested he buy them hotdogs for dinner from a nearby stand, she found it impossible to say no.
She hadn’t intended to stay this long with him.
She hadn’t intended to come see him at all, truth be known. But when she’d finished school for the day and read his text telling her he’d hit the word count she’d given him…well, somehow her car had just brought her to him.
She also hadn’t intended to check out his ass as he wandered to the hotdog stand, but she did that as well.
Of course, he caught her.
Of course, he teased her about it.
The Mila he’d first opened the door to would have told him to grow up. Instead, she pressed her face into her palms, grinning, cheeks hot, and told him to hurry the hell up with the hotdogs.
It wasn’t until she noticed the photographer snapping shots of them later that she realized, once again, Thomas’s privacy was constantly at risk of being invaded whenever he was out in public.
And every time he was out in public lately, it was with her. No wonder Josie was constantly teasing her about being a hashtag these days.
“Even with your sunglasses and baseball cap on, people still recognize you.”
He hummed at her observation, his focus seemingly on her fingers as he held her other hand in his lap with both of his. “It’s Reaper. The paparazzi know what he looks like, so anytime they see me with him, they know it’s me.”
“And the other people?” She frowned as she scratched Reaper’s belly.
Thomas scanned those enjoying Cedar Hill around them. “Normally authors aren’t recognized. But then”—he threw her a wicked grin—“there’s nothing normal about me.”
She rolled her eyes and tried not to smile. It was an archetypal Thomas St. Clair flippant answer, one usually found in any of the rare interviews he gave, and yet it seemed like he’d uttered it out of habit.
The Thomas she’d come to know wasn’t flip and sardonic. He was almost self-effacing and relaxed in his humor.
“Nothing normal at all,” she agreed, turning her attention back to Reaper and his belly.
Silence stretched between them. Calm and warm and totally relaxing. She drew in a slow breath. When was the last time she sat in a park and just…existed? When was the last time she allowed herself to slow down? To live in the present?
“Most of it’s an act.”
She frowned at him. “Most of what?”
He traced the length of her fingers with the fingertips of his right hand. “Me being…well, me. A wiseass who doesn’t take anything seriously. There’s a lot in this world I do take serious. My work. My responsibilities as a dog owner. My charity contributions.”
“I didn’t know you contributed to charities.” A thick pressure prickled at her temples. She swallowed, suddenly all too aware of how wonderful her hand felt in his.
He let out a soft sound, part laugh, part grunt. “A few. I fund a homeless dog shelter in New Jersey, a percentage of my yearly royalties go to childhood leukemia research, and I support an organization that takes care of women and children who are the victims of domestic violence.”
The prickling pressure spread down Mila’s neck. She studied him, throat thick. “Why don’t you let people know?”
“If I did, I’d be accused of doing it to get attention.”
“And you’re not.”
He shook his head. “No. It’s easier for the world to think I’m a self-indulgent man-child with the maturity level of a frat boy and the sangfroid of one as well.”
“Why?”
Did she really need to ask? Did she?
“That New York Times article I’ve mentioned before? The one that came out just after I was published and first hit it big? It wasn’t that flattering. It was partly my own fault, though. I was young, completely enamored with my new fame and all the perks and money that came with it. I prioritized wrong, putting fun ahead of commitment and responsibility.”
He stopped. Mila didn’t move. Could he hear her heart? How could he not? It was bashing against her breastbone like a sledgehammer.
“I was a dick,” he went on. “Kept rescheduling arranged interviews with the journalist, sometimes not even bothering to do that, just not showing up at all. My agent wasn’t impressed with my behavior, but she kept assuring the journalist I’d do the interview. I never did. Eventually, Elderkin wrote the article without me.”
The warm sun beat down on Mila, making her skin itch. Or was that guilt making her burn? Making her want to squirm?
Perhaps if she kissed him, he’d stop talking?
“It did not paint me in a good light, but, honestly, with twenty-twenty hindsight, I think I had it coming. Although if you’d asked me about the article only a few weeks ago, I probably would have used some very…colorful metaphors.” He let out a shaky sigh and shook his head. “My agent was furious. Swore M.E. Elderkin would regret every word written, along with the editor who approved its publication. I buried myself in the next book and channeled all my rage into it. I’d like to say it helped…”
Her stomach rolled. She swallowed. If she threw up now… Sucking in a slow breath, her head buzzing, she rubbed Reaper’s belly again. She should say something, but what? Hey, St. Clair, I’m M.E. Elderkin. And while it’s good to know you regret treating me the way you did all those years ago, I still hurt when I think about it?
Or, Thomas, if I tell you I’m M.E. Elderkin, will you hate me?
Cold unease churned inside her.
“But,” he went on, his fingers exploring hers with tender strokes, his lips curled in an enigmatic smile, “once bitten, a million times shy as the saying goes. When all your dirty laundry has been aired, when all your family’s dirty laundry has been hung out for the world to see and then becomes the subject of every psychologist wanna-be in the country, regurgitated ad nauseam to sell magazines and increase click rates and get prime-time rating numbers…well, you do whatever you have to to ensure it doesn’t happen again. For me, that was to never let anyone know the real me. Better to close off who I really am, keep it guarded from the public. So instead of the Thomas St. Clair who is slightly introverted, slightly neurotic, slightly God-complexy but still a nice guy all the same, the world gets Thomas St. Clair, wiseass, jackass, sarcastic to the nth degree who never takes anything seriously.”
He stopped. Looked at her, his sunglasses hiding his eyes.
Her stomach rolled again. Guilt took hungry bites out of her. Both their lives had changed the day her article had been published. She’d always believed he’d walked away completely unscathed by it. She’d harbored such resentment that his life had continued to be a dream, while hers…
So not the case. They’d impacted each other in profound ways. Without speaking a word to each other.
All it had taken was wounded pride and indignant anger, an untethered and misguided ego on the rise, and eighteen hundred cutting words.
Oh God, she had to tell him. She had to. What happened next, she couldn’t even begin to guess, but she had to tell him.
“You know the thing that I find the most ironic about it all?”
His chuckled question scraped at her. She shook her head, incapable of speech.
“M.E. Elderkin was a fantastic writer. Every word written in that article served a purpose. Not many writers have that talent. It tore me apart as I read it, but the writer in me recognized it for an exemplary piece of journalism.”
Mila closed her eyes. It was that or begin crying. Damn him. How did she process his praise? What did she do with it?
And why did it feel like he’d given her the moon…even as he’d turned her inside out?
“So that’s the story of me.” He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the center of her palm. “Poorly plotted, some woeful character arcs, with a wobbly rising tension my editor would rip apart, I suspect, and a resolution still in the fog. But my story. One I’ve never shared with anyone else.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Feeling honored?”
She stared at him, mouth dry, pulse pounding. “Thomas…”
“The resolution is a bit foggy,” he said, touching his fingers to her lips, his voice low, “but I know I like you being in it. More than I can possibly articulate. Which has got to tell you something, because normally I’m brilliant with words.”
She lifted her hand, curled her fingers around his wrist and lowered his fingers from her mouth. “Thomas,” she said again.
He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers. Heat and longing and something far more profound unfurled through her. Something scary and undeniable.
Something so goddamn perfect…
God help her.
“Come back to my place, Mila,” he whispered. “And let me make love to you. Please?”
Heart pounding, she licked her lips. “Okay.”