Liar (18 page)

It was a strange place to be.

I had to wonder if maybe my mistake during my first stint in New York City was moving too quickly. The city did function at a blistering pace, and perhaps I hadn’t been ready for it. I should’ve been patient last time, weighing my interests and options, taking the time to do some research before wasting daylight and energy by walking in, often unannounced, with a resume in hand, to cold call people for jobs. With one of my legs encased in plaster, I was forced to slow down, to consider each of my steps. It made me analytical, realistic, and successful all at once.

And when the second-month mark finally rolled around, I had something more to celebrate than just getting my cast off. I could celebrate a job in a skyscraper at an office that I’d gotten on my own merits — working for an online fashion retailer as part of their social media and marketing team.

When the knock came on the penthouse door, I threw it open, beaming.

“Well, I’m chuffed to get the cast off today, too, but you seem extra excited,” Peter observed, dressed casually in jeans and an overcoat that barely fit over his plastered arm. Beads of water on his coat told me that it had finally started snowing. The gray clouds had been threatening it all day.

“I have a new job,” I informed him. “I’m starting on Monday.”

“Well, bully for you,” he said. “You’d better have a coat in here. It’s freezing outside.”

I would’ve been hurt that he was being so dismissive of my excitement, but I was too thrilled to care. I hopped to the closet and borrowed one of the winter coats hanging in there.

I prattled on and on during the car ride to the hospital, regaling Peter with all of the specifics of my job, of the company, of what I’d be doing exactly.

“I’ve heard of them,” he said carefully when I asked what he thought. “They seem to be legitimate.”

“Of course they’re legitimate,” I said. “I’ve done my research. It’s all I’ve been able to do while being cooped up with this stupid cast. Ugh. I’m convinced that I could’ve gotten it off a week ago — two weeks, even.”

“The doctor knows what he’s talking about.” Peter stared out the window.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked. “What’ve you been up to these past two months?”

“Just thinking a lot, and working,” he said. “And trying to scratch my blasted arm underneath this plaster. It itches fiercely.”

“Same here. I got a letter opener down part of it once…” I trailed off, my face flushing heavily. Peter and I had utilized a letter opener in his office one afternoon, the sharpness and inherent danger in our play heightening our senses, making it that much sexier. I’d been a fool to forget that, a fool to bring it up, and I tried to cover my tracks. “So, what’s new at work? Anything exciting?”

He looked at me, his blue eyes clear and bright. “Nothing’s been exciting at work since you left.”

I sighed. “You could hire someone else, you know.”

“I don’t want anyone else.”

“You could go out on dates,” I said impatiently. “We’re not together anymore. You deserve to be happy, to look for someone who can make you happy.”

“I don’t want anyone else,” he repeated, and then he kissed me.

It was wholly unexpected. I’d been so focused on getting hired over the last few weeks that it had banished all longing for Peter. But with a simple touch of our lips, everything was reignited. I realized just how badly I’d missed him.

I pulled away and touched my mouth. “Let’s focus on getting these casts off.”

“Gemma.” His voice was low and hoarse, and it sent a shiver through me.

“Don’t you want your right arm back?”

“Not as badly as I want you right now.”

“You’re going to have to wait.”

“How much longer? Eight more weeks? The rest of our lives?”

But I only smiled at him and accepted the driver’s help in getting out of the car. It was a strange thing to realize how much I wanted him physically, the depth of my caring for him, and, yes, the love. I’d loved him all this time. Loved him now, even more, even as he pouted and followed me into the hospital.

My feelings for him were just as strong, and just as magnetic as they had been before. But I’d gained valuable perspective while being forced to focus on myself, tucked away in Frank’s penthouse, a cast on my leg effectively disabling me and keeping me from running away from myself. I loved Peter, and I craved him, but it didn’t rob me of my reason. I knew that I could pursue my own dreams even if he was in them as well.

The cast coming off of my leg made me feel like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. I felt renewed, as if I had undergone some important transformation, and now I was going to be able to have everything that I’d ever dreamed of.

“You look cheerful,” Peter observed as I hobbled out, still using a crutch for support.

“I am,” I said. “I’m a butterfly.” I laughed as Peter shook my head at me. “Why are you so glum? You got your best friend back. How does it feel?”

Peter gripped his hand and swung his arm around. “Like it doesn’t quite belong to me anymore. I don’t know. I guess I just have to get used to it again.”

“Ooh, romantic,” I teased. “It’ll be like a stranger in your bed.”

“Very funny.”

“What are you doing right now?” I asked him. “Any plans?”

“The world is my oyster,” he said drily. “I’m sure you’d like to get back to preparing for your job on Monday.”

“Oh, I’m ready,” I said easily. “What I’d like to do now is celebrate. We have our health, you know, and we’re both gainfully employed.”

“Joy.”

“And we have each other,” I added, raising an eyebrow. “Unless you’d like to leave that behind. We could still be good friends, Peter. We’re step siblings now, after all.”

“I’d rather you not call us step siblings,” he said, grinning. “Not with the things I have in mind for us right now. There is much celebrating to be done.”

We barely made it into a hotel room with our clothes on, kissing and hobbling forward until we were safely out of sight with the door closed and locked behind us.

“You’re going to have to be gentle,” I gasped out as we fell onto the bed. “I don’t trust my leg yet.”

“We’ll be fine.”

It was almost as if it was our first time again — in a normal hotel room, no wealth or status or hang-ups on display yet. I was happy to remember it clearly this time. Our real first time had been after a night of very heavy drinking brought on by the stress of my mother coming to the city to visit me. This time, we explored each other. I kissed and caressed his newly revealed arm, paler than his other one, more delicate but more precious because of it. He massaged every inch of me, examining my matching pale leg, not caring that my leg hair spiked out of my skin after two months without a shave, interested only in getting reacquainted with my body, relearning all of its sensitive places.

It was like riding a bike. You never really forget what your lover likes.

Peter was like an extension of my own body. That’s how well I knew him. I’d always enjoyed sex with him — in the myriad ways it came — but right now was different. It was completely apart from the role playing we’d enjoyed in his office, different from the times we’d sought physical comfort outside of his office, in my penthouse. I slowly realized, as we ran our hands over each other’s bodies, both of us painfully aroused, that this was the result of two people loving each other inescapably, neither of us interested in fighting what was right anymore. We’d both tried to get out of this at different times, but it was inevitable. We were meant to be together. I didn’t have to guess at it, or analyze it any further. Our bodies had brought us together, but our hearts had just learned how to be together.

We touched each other for the longest time, both of us delighting in how equally we were able to make each other shudder. When he finally did enter me, we had to hold onto each other for dear life, the two of us almost swept away by sensation.

We moved in tandem. We didn’t have to say a single word, our eyes locked on each other the entire time. My body felt as if it had been reunited with its beloved, and my heart felt the same way. What we had was special and undeniable. What we had was forever.

We finished almost simultaneously, a testament to just how in sync we were with each other, and we might’ve slept for a while, exhausted and relieved and in love.

“Why don’t you come back to work for me?” Peter asked, hours later, tracing circles on my back.

“I already told you. I have another job.”

“But what about Paris? We were going to go there to buy up those hotels you lied about.”

I snorted at the memory. “Well, you don’t have to buy them.”

“Too late for that. They’re bought. I wanted them.”

“Then there’s no need for me to go to Paris with you on business,” I said, turning my head to face him. “But maybe when I find out what my benefits are going to be and what kind of vacation time I’m going to be getting, we can go for vacation.”

His face lit up. “Do you mean it? Do you really want to go to Paris with me?”

“Of course I do. I’ve been imagining it since you mentioned it.”

“Then let’s go. Let’s go right away. Right now.”

“Peter, I start my job on Monday. I want to do Paris justice.”

I disappointed him, but I would’ve disappointed myself if I’d not pursued my dreams.

“You know,” he said slyly, “most people would jump at the chance to live their lives without having to report to an office every single day. If you told them they could live the way they wanted to, doing whatever they wanted to do, with all the money they’d ever need, most of them would be grateful to have the opportunity to do so.”

“I’m not most people.”

“I know you’re not. I think I would be gutted if you were. I want you to say yes, to spend all my money and come be my plaything again, but I think part of me would be saddened if you did, if you gave up on what you truly wanted.”

“I mean, there’s nothing wrong with us continuing to play around.” I smiled suggestively, and Peter threw his head back, guffawing at me.

“Gemma Ryan, will you do me the honor of being my girlfriend once more?” he asked. “I’d get down on my knee, but I wouldn’t want you to think I was proposing and run away.”

“I don’t know how much running I’m going to be doing with this leg,” I said. “It still doesn’t feel like it belongs to me quite yet. But I think I’m ready to try again.”

“That’s excellent news,” he said, beaming.

“I think I never stopped loving you, not even when I was certain that I hated you.”

Peter’s face softened, and he kissed me, his stubble scraping my cheek. “I love you, Gemma. I ache for you, now and always. You have my heart. You are my heart.”

I was finally certain that this was my year when I kissed him again. I couldn’t ask for anything more.

###

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The Metropolitan Museum of Art is my favorite place in the world, hands down. I love everything about it, from the steps at the entrance to the crowds of people vying to see the art.

I visit at least once a month without fail and never cease to be spellbound by everything all over again, nevermind how many times I’ve been. My favorite painting is Monet’s
Sunflowers
.

It’s the happiest painting I’ve ever seen, or at least, it makes me happy every time I see it.

My college professor despaired of my one-dimensional view of art the whole time he’d been cursed with me and my uninspired ass. He said my interpretation of art is skewed, flat, and altogether too happy when faced with a world of possibilities.

All I know is that I love creating something that is happy and colorful, something that brings joy to those who see it. And I love flowers.

Sue me.

It’s as I’m leaving that I make the quick decision to pop into the gift store, even though I know I won’t find the print I’ve been looking for. Every time I come here I’m disappointed. I never get my print of the
Sunflowers
.

Last year Mom had bought me a tote of the
Water Lilies
for Christmas. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s not what I wanted, so I’d aaahhhed and held it aloft and then gone home and hung it from a hook to store extra brush rags.

“It’s a beauty, this one,” I hear from somewhere to my left.

I look back over my shoulder to see a man and what looks like Heidi Klum’s twin sister cooing about a dark blob that’s masquerading as art but is actually a one-way trip to depression. The guy is…hotter than hell, with black hair and a set of lips that make me wish I’d brought my sketchpad and pencils.

I no longer do that after the last time I’d lost track of time and been asked to leave at closing time. But, and I hate to say this, with the super love I have for landscapes, I want to do something with this man that will dominate the canvas.

Something about him is just so…

“Oh, Vincent, I just love all this angst. To see and feel what the artist must have been feeling is so inspiring.”

I hear the overwrought tittering and grind my teeth against the need to tell the airhead that no matter what people think, they can never know what the artist was thinking.

I ignore the gushing and go back to my monthly fix, going over every minute detail, every brushstroke, every shadow and shade until I can go home and try my hand at it again. Here’s the print I’ve been searching for, and yet, it’s so pale in comparison.

“This one is my favorite, but I like
The Artist’s Garden at Giverny
too,” says a crisply accented voice.

British. How delicious.

I know who is standing behind me, and I freeze, feeling my breath stall as shivers and goose bumps break out all over my skin. He’s standing so close I smell his citrusy cologne and feel the heat of his breath at my nape.

“I…I prefer these stronger colors, but that one’s excellent too. It’s beautiful.”

It comes out a choked whisper, and I feel myself blush and tense when he leans to my left and peers down at me.

“You’ve been staring at it for over an hour before coming into the gift store. See something the rest of us don’t?”

His breath whispers over my ear and cheek, and it’s all I can do not to lean back into him and experience the tightly muscled chest visible beneath his suit jacket and shirt.

“I-I keep trying to paint it just so…but I can never commit it to memory enough to… The colors are never right.”

“That’s the problem with true art. One of a kind originals can never be faked exactly. Nor true beauty.”

His husky whisper has me turning against my will, and I gasp when a set of mint green eyes captures mine. I can say I have seen true beauty in every art form, but I have honestly never seen a man this intensely handsome before.

I won’t be obsessively painting the
Sunflowers
when I go home. Oh, no, it’s this perfect creature that will consume me until the wee hours of the morning, and I know exactly how I’ll capture him on my canvas.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Or so they say.”

His lips curve, and I spy a single dimple gracing his right cheek.

“Then let me say how truly honored I am to behold you.”

“Oh God, does that work on every woman you try to pick up, or am I just lucky?” I ask, laughing at the cheesiness of the line.

His answering chuckle makes me smile harder before the art lover wannabe sidles up and latches onto him like poison ivy.

“Vincent, you said you’d help me pick out a good souvenir for Mummy.”

I pull myself back from the brink of flirtation and open staring when I realize they truly are together—and, unbelievably, I’d forgotten that fact—and make an ass of myself when a postcard rack behind me gives way and I’m dumped to the floor in an inglorious heap of flailing arms and flying cards.

I am possibly the biggest klutz on earth, and now I’ve managed to make a tool of myself in front of the first man to ring my bell. Great.

“Good gracious! I can see your pants.”

As I’m not wearing pants and am in fact clothed in a really nice cherry red gypsy skirt, I know exactly what they’re all seeing, and I groan through a blush that fits my attire.

The only upside to this day?

I’ll never have to see Vincent, my new obsession, ever again.