I vigorously nod. “Does it have particular significance?” I ask, whipping my head back around to the painting. “All the faces within must mean something,” I murmur. I’m no art expert, but Vander puts thought into everything he does.
“I wanted to capture how we all wear different faces and have different sides to our personalities. How so many different parts go into making a person whole.”
He comes up beside me, and I stare at him with emotion blistering in my eyes. There is so much sentiment behind those words and that drawing. He’s magnificent. A god among gods. He has never stood taller or appeared more luminous than he does to me right now.
Curtis never unraveled the essence of who I am inside, showing no interest in the things that make me the person I am or the part of me that challenges my drive for understanding and enlightenment. He couldn’t understand why I like to question and analyze the things we can’t explain in our world.
But Vander gets it.
He shares the same passion for knowledge about the things we can’t easily explain or see. I’ve always seen that in him. I know why he’s questioned it too, but he has the ability to look beyond his personal quest, and that makes him light years ahead of Curtis in maturity. I hoped giving him a copy of Meditations for his birthday would coax him to probe deeper within himself for the answers he sought, but I never expected this.
In this moment, I believe every word Dee told me. I believe our souls are harmoniously aligned, existing in perfect synchronization, and dancing to the same beat.
Vander’s emerald-green eyes peer into my face with so much intensity it almost knocks me off my feet. I should look away, because it’s wholly intimate, but I can’t. I’m enraptured by him. Everything about him speaks to me on an innate level, and I wonder why I’m denying this bond we share when it feels like I will die if I don’t feel his lips on my lips, his hands on my body, his naked skin against mine.
Right now, I don’t care about his age or the other obstacles blocking our path. All that exists is us and this profound connection drawing us closer and closer until it feels like my soul is bursting, my heart is swollen, and my body is on fire.
My heart skids around my chest, thumping wildly, as I step closer to him.
I want nothing more, in this moment, than to kiss him. From the hungry look in his eyes, and the way his gaze drops to my mouth, I know I’m not in this alone.
18
KENDALL
“That’s so profound. I love it,” I murmur, still staring into his eyes. Internally, the angel on one of my shoulders is screaming at the devil on the other, and I’m conflicted. I know what I want. I want his mouth on mine, and it feels like I will die if I don’t get to taste his lips. But a sliver of doubt slides into my mind, and the angel’s voice grows louder, attempting to drown out the demonic voice urging me to do it.
Vander opens and closes his mouth in quick succession, and I know what he was about to say. His emerald eyes lower to my mouth, and I barely remember to breathe. We stare at one another, suspended in time, and electricity crackles in the space around us. His gaze darkens as his eyes remain glued to my lips, and I can’t stop looking at his mouth either. I’m twisted into knots. Tempted to grab his shirt and pull him to me, but I’m equally terrified of propelling fate into motion. Indecision comingles with anticipation in the air. We both know we’re hanging on the edge of a precipice, and if we fall, there can be no undoing it.
That thought drags me back to reality. I step away from him and avert my gaze, sucking long breaths deep into my lungs. I stride toward the kitchenette to put some physical distance between us. “The whipped cream needs to go into the refrigerator,” I say, hoping he can’t hear the tremble in my voice or see the shaking in my hands as I remove the container from the bag.
He clears his throat as I open the small refrigerator door and pop the whipped cream inside. “Dinner is almost ready. Go sit down, and I’ll get you a glass of wine,” he says.
My heart accelerates as he draws near, and I slam the refrigerator door shut and spin around, clinging to it as he purposely slides sideways to avoid brushing against me. Everything is suddenly awkward, and I can’t stand the forlorn look on his face. “Maybe I should go,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “Don’t go.” He drags a hand through his messy damp hair as air spills from his mouth. “We had a moment, but it doesn’t need to ruin our night.” Pleading eyes pin me in place. “Please, Kendall. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all week.”
I can’t refuse him when he looks at me like this. “Okay.”
His shoulders visibly relax. “Good.”
I take a seat on the new leather sectional as music filters through the speakers on low. Thankfully, it’s not rap or that loud heavy metal West listens to sometimes. “Is this Halsey?” I inquire as Vander looms over me.
He hands me a wineglass while nodding. “It’s her new album. It’s awesome. I think you’ll like it. Listen to the lyrics.”
“Okay.” I smile up at him as I lift the glass to my lips.
“Do you want to eat at the counter or eat here?” He points at the coffee table, looking adorably uncertain.
“I’m good with here. Viola and I have coffee-table eating nailed at this point.” Slipping my shoes off, I grab two cushions, placing them on the rug on the floor. “There. Perfect.”
Leaning down, he presses his lips to my hair, and my heart almost jumps out of my chest it’s beating so fast. “Like you,” he whispers before leaving me to return to the kitchen. Gulping over the messy ball of emotion nestling in my throat, I grab my wine and sit down on one of the cushions.
Vander approaches a couple minutes later with two plates. “Do you have placemats?” I ask before he sets the plate down in front of me. He shakes his head, so I grab two magazines from the shelf under the table to use instead. No point in risking damage to his new table. Putting the food down, he walks off to grab water and silverware. He drops down on the cushion beside me and hands me a knife and fork. “I hope you like it.”
I lean over the heaping bowl of chicken and chorizo pasta, and my belly rumbles appreciatively. “It smells delicious.” I wrap the spaghetti around my fork and take a bite, groaning as the garlicky-tomato flavor hits my tongue. “Tastes delicious too,” I say after I have swallowed. He visibly melts under my praise, and I’m instantly reminded of how much that’s been lacking in his life. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
He finishes a mouthful of pasta before answering. “We used to have full-time housekeepers who cooked for us, but they all kept leaving. Dad either hit on them or they saw how he treated his wife and kid, got scared, and left. Then Dad stopped hiring staff when Mom got really bad. Mom can’t cook for shit, and she’s only interested in a liquid diet. I lived on takeout for a while. When I got into boxing, I didn’t want to eat crap anymore, so I taught myself to cook from videos. Keaton Kennedy has a great online cooking show. He focuses on healthy meals with a specific emphasis on athletes, so it’s perfect for me.”
I bob my head. “I’ve watched a few episodes. He’s good. Austen Hayes—the wide receiver for the Baltimore Ravens—is his husband and he’s from Golden. Colorado has pretty much claimed Keaton as one of their own. They are a beautiful couple, and Keaton is a great chef. I have a couple of his cookbooks at home. I’ll loan them to you, if you like?”