Work of Art ~ the Collection (99 page)

Chapter Eighteen / Our Undeniable Destiny

Dream as if you’ll live forever, live as if you’ll die today.

~James Dean

I’
m giddy, throw-your-arms-in-the-air-and-twirl happy. And Max is so happy that I hold onto him so he won’t float away. We stroll arm and arm through paths of the Tuileries without any agenda, just enjoying the feeling of being in love in Paris.

When we pass one of the outdoor cafes in the middle of the park, we stop for some wine, bread and cheese, and they sit us at a little table under a tree. Dappled light falls over us, rendering the scene like a Seurat pointillist painting we could name,
Monday Afternoon at the Tuileries
.

We hold hands and lean into each other as the world moves around us. I can’t wipe the ridiculously euphoric grin off my face, so I don’t even try. Max laughs and scoots his chair around the table until we are side-by-side. We lift our glasses and toast our future because it looks bright.

An hour later, a million excited plans have been discussed, our wine bottle is empty, and our check is paid.

“Shall we go back to our room?” he whispers in my ear, while his fingertips skim up and down the inside of my forearm and make me squirm.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

As we float into the lobby, the manager at the front desk smiles broadly.

“Très bon.
You found her, sir,” he says happily.

“Yes, thank you. Isn’t life grand!” Max exclaims, as he slides his arm around my waist and pulls me closer.

“Oui, quand on est amoureux, le monde semble parfait,”
he responds smiling.

“What did he just say?” I whisper to Max as we approach the elevators.

“When you’re in love, the world seems perfect.”

“So true,” I agree.

Several feet before we get to our suite door, Max sweeps me off my feet and into his arms.

“No, no, you’ve lost your mind!” I laugh.

“Be quiet, woman; I’m carrying you over the threshold.”

Wine, combined with jet lag and the romance of Paris have reduced us to silliness.

“But this isn’t our honeymoon.”

“It might as well be.”

He carries me gallantly inside and kicks the door shut. My shoes fall and I drop my purse and guidebook on the way to the bedroom. I glance up just as the remnants of daylight shine through the big picture window framing the view of Paris.

“Look, Max. The sun is setting over the Eiffel Tower. Isn’t it spectacular?”

He pauses for a brief moment to follow my gaze, but then looks at me, his eyes full of fire. “I have the best view of Paris right here in my arms.”

I skim my fingers across his cheek. “You know, being here with you makes me feel like my life is a storybook.”

He sits on the edge of the bed next to me, kisses the top of my head, and brings me closer. “And what a story it is. I know you love a good romance with a happy ending, and I’m going to work really hard to give you that . . . I’ll be your romantic hero.”

I smile at him. “And know that while we’re in New York, I’m not going to let this job steal away the time we have together. I’ll fiercely protect that.”

“I like hearing that,” he says as he grins and nods. “That reminds me . . . Wait right here.”

He steps inside the dressing area and unzips a bag. When he comes back, he’s holding a velvet pouch.

“What’s that?” I ask, as a tremor of excitement swirls through me.

“Remember our conversation that day we walked around Lake Hollywood?”

“Yes,” I whisper, my heart pounding.

“Look, I know we aren’t getting engaged until we make it through the year, but will you indulge me here?”

“Indulge away.” I grin.

“I had these made, and now is the perfect time to share them with you.” He pulls the tassels of the pouch, gently opens it, and takes out two gold bands—our promise rings. What’s interesting is that instead of the smooth flawless finish of most gold bands, these are hand formed and hammered. In the rough satin finish are irregular tiny bumps and ridges in the gold. They’re beautifully imperfect, just like us.

There’s writing on the inside of my ring. I look up.

“
My Ava forever
,” he says quietly, and gently slides it onto my finger.

I slowly turn my hand in the light, admiring how completely right it looks and feels. A moment later, I reach for his ring. “What does yours say?”

“It’s not engraved yet. I figured I’d let my wonderful writer decide on the words.”

“Thank you, Max . . . for the ring, for New York . . . for loving me in your big, brilliant way.”

He eases me down across the bed, leans over and studies me, his eyes dark with desire. The following kiss is everything as I melt into the sheets.

“Ava,” he whispers, as he slowly pushes up the skirt of my sundress to stroke my thighs. “Oh, look what you’re wearing.” He takes in the garter, silk stockings and tiny lace panties. “Did you wear that for me?” he asks, a boyish charm in his twinkling eyes.

“Just for you, handsome.”

As he watches, I run my fingers along his hard length as it presses against the confines of his jeans.

He swallows and nods toward the dress. “Let’s take this off.”

I quickly sit up and unzip my dress, and he helps me pull it over my head. All that’s left is
moi
in my extremely sexy lingerie.

“You like?” I run my hands over my hips and then down my thighs. His eyes roam over me, lingering on the tiny sheer push-up bra that barely contains me. It’s a miraculous meeting of fashion and engineering. My breasts have taken on a life of their own, and they hold him captive.

“I love,” he growls, as he undoes his belt and slides it off. He steps closer, cups my breasts and kisses me just above the spot where they meet before softly biting my nipples through the sheer fabric.

“Oh, Max,” I moan, as I fist his hair and pull him closer.

I feel an overwhelming desire as he quickly takes off his shirt. It could be the wine or the hot Parisian accent everyone has. But I’ve no doubt it’s because my man is following me to New York to be by my side, and I’ll do anything to show him how happy that makes me. His decision has set my heart free.

I slide off my panties, but the bra and garter remain. My legs are luminescent from the sheer silk stockings. “I’m going to make you so glad you’re coming to New York with me,” I say, as I fall back on the bed, my hair fanning across the silk pillows.

His eyes widen.

“How many days has it been?”

He sighs. “Since I’ve had you in my bed? An eternity.”

“Have you missed me?”

“In every way. Let’s make up for lost time.”

I run my impatient hands between my thighs and over my breasts as he removes the last of his clothing. He intently watches every move I make.

“What are you thinking about?”

“You, always you.”

“Oh, baby,” he says in a low, thick voice. “I need you . . . I need to be inside of you.”

I reach for him as he settles over me and takes me into his arms.

Everything is different now that our future is certain. This is new, a beginning I once feared could be an end.

“I need you too,” I whisper, as I wrap my legs around him and he eases inside of me. We start slow, whispers and lingering kisses, skin to skin, heart to heart, as he fills me again and again. But, like everything between us, the intensity builds and builds until it can’t be contained. The resulting passion is poetry, a cadence full of raw emotion as we tumble and shimmer over the sheets.

I kiss him with my whole heart as my approaching climax takes control. Words and sensations of every shape and color flutter around me.

He’s making love to me with everything he has. “So close,” he whispers.

“Oh, God, please,” I moan, as he pushes deeper, intently watching me with fire around his edges.

“Ava . . .”

I breathe him in. “Always love me like this.”

He pulls me closer. “Always.”

I’m unfolding—the most intricate origami coming undone.

In my bliss, his heart beats furiously just for me. His thrusts get harder, and I cry out for him. Just before I close my eyes with pleasure, I see an overwhelming love in his eyes. We finish passionately, a mix of tears, smiles, and lusty moans as we float away on our cloud of flawed perfection. Beautiful.

In the soft light, we slowly uncurl across the bed. As he holds me in his arms, I slowly turn my promise ring around my finger and admire it. I smile and glance up. Max studies me intently, his eyes wide and his expression soft.

He takes my hand and runs his finger over the ring nestled on my finger. His smile melts me. “You’re really mine, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.”

As I watch him, I reflect on the reality of our future. We’re both flawed and most likely always will be. He’s my possessive moody boy, and I’m his obsessive insecure girl. Knowing that, we must accept there will be some hard moments stirred into our beautiful life, but I’m no longer afraid. We have a big love that will get us through. This level of intensity and passion may not be for everyone, but it’s who we are and it’s worth fighting for.

As we gently kiss, I already feel married, bound to him in a way that transcends a legal document or big wedding ceremony. Whether in New York or Malibu, Paris or a small town, as long as we’re together, we’ll make it work. We may wait a year to make it official, but we have promised each other our futures, and that future starts right now.

We have embraced our undeniable destiny. Here in Paris, with the world at our feet, we are steady and sure. It’s me and my Max . . . forever.

Epilogue

~ Seven Years Later~

What would it be like if you lived each day, each breath as a work of art in progress? Imagine that you are a Masterpiece unfolding, every second of every day, a work of art taking form with every breath.

~ Thomas Crum

E
ven though I hear the waves crashing and feel the sun warm on my skin, it still takes a moment to realize where I am. The sounds draw me further out of my nap, the gentle breeze gliding over me, the softest sable brush painting me across the sand.

His voice, the one that makes my heart beat faster, sparks my attention.

“Elizabeth! Stop right there, what did I tell you about going up to dogs you don’t know?”

I open my eyes in time to see her head of auburn curls turn back toward him, her wide blue eyes guilty. The frisky terrier takes off to chase a bird near the water.

“But, Daddy, he’s such a nice doggy.”

He scoops her up in his arms and carries her back to where our towels are spread on the sand.

“He may be a very nice dog, baby girl, but he doesn’t know you, so he could bite you just because he’s scared or nervous. You have to promise me not to go up to doggies you don’t know.”

She leans her cheek against his. “Okay, Daddy. I promise.”

The love radiating off the two of them is brilliantly blinding. He plants a kiss on her forehead, turns toward me, and notices I’m awake. His smile is warmer than the sun.

“Look, Lizzie, Mommy’s awake.”

She comes over to me and pats my head with her sticky little hand. Her tender touch makes my heart flutter.

“Hi, Mommy. Did you have a good nap?”

I yawn and stretch. “Sure did, Sweet pea. What have you been up to?” I reach out and pull her closer, her legs and arms folding until she settles into my arms.

“Daddy took me in the water, and guess what? Daddy promised he would take me surfing soon. I’m going to ride on his surfboard with him like in
Lilo and Stitch
!”

I give him a look, raising my eyebrows.

He gives me a big smile back and shrugs his shoulders.

“Anything for my girl.”

She gazes at him with adoration, because he may be her daddy, but he
is
Max. After eight years of watching what just his presence does to females, I should know.

“Well, we’ll see about that,” I kick back, knowing he likes it when I keep him in line. I’ll try to act like the adult in this equation, but the two of them can wind around my heart and easily throw me off course.

Back at the house, brushed off and washed up, Lizzie swings her legs while she pulls lettuce out of the salad spinner. She carefully picks up one piece at a time and drops it in the bowl. I know I shouldn’t let her sit on the counter, but she likes to be up high where she can help and watch us cook.

“Are you making chickypikadah, Mommy?”

“No, Sweet pea, not chicken piccata. Just some simple pasta with our salad.”

Whatever happened to kids eating chicken nuggets and Kraft Mac n’ Cheese?

I swear, Max has done a number on our girl. She’ll be a culinary social outcast in kindergarten. He packed a bento box of sushi for the pre-school picnic, and she heard about it for days.

“
Don’t worry about following the crowds, Lizzie,”
he told her.
”You’ll set the trends, and before you know it, they’ll all want sushi for lunch.”

Of course, Dad was proud the teacher couldn’t get over our four year-old’s dexterity with chopsticks. Just another one of Max’s traits she’s inherited.

I smile when I think about what a great dad Max has turned out to be. I have to admit, I was nervous at first, knowing what a dramatic change our life would take being parents, and Max never handled change well. He needs lots of quiet time and attention from me. How would he handle the unpredictable noise and demands of a baby and my focus being devoted to another?

But from the moment in the delivery room when he tearfully cradled her in his arms, I knew my fears were for naught. If anything, I’d have flashes of jealousy at sharing him sometimes, to see him gaze at her with his all-consuming love and devotion. Still, the mothering side of me would always win to know our baby had a daddy who loved her more than life itself.

“Hey, girls, how’s lunch coming?” he asks, as he bounds into the kitchen, freshly showered and wonderfully distracting.

“Almost ready. Will you cut the tomatoes for our helper?”

He cuts the wedges and hands them one at a time to her, and she carefully drops them into the bowl. “You’re such a good salad maker, Lizzie.” He winks at her, and then turns to me.