I lied when I said wasn’t in the mood, because I wanted to protect him. I asked him to take a break from boxing, because I wanted to protect him. But what’s the good in protecting him if I’m just hurting him in other ways?
“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching for his arm.
He looks at me and then slows the car to a stop on the side of the road.
“I shouldn’t have asked you to stop boxing. I did it because I’m scared, and I knew that you’d take a break if I asked you to. But it was selfish and I’m sorry. I want you to do what you think is right. And I’ll support your decision, no matter what it is, because I love you.”
“I know you do.” He reaches for my face, tucking my long hair behind my ear. “You don’t have to be sorry.”
“And I lied.”
He pulls his chin back and looks at me curiously.
“When I said I wasn’t in the mood before. I lied.”
He laughs softly.
“I just don’t want you to hurt yourself again.”
“Lucy, making love to you is not going to reinjure my ribs.”
“What about last time? In Exuma.”
“I wasn’t careful in Exuma, because I was so freaking happy to finally have you all to myself.”
I smile softly, recalling how he could barely wait to undress me in the Bahamas.
“We’ll just be more careful for now, okay?”
I unbuckle my seat belt and lean across the middle console, until I’m practically in his lap. “Okay.” I shove my hands in his caramel hair and kiss his full lips, finding his tongue with mine. He groans against my mouth and rocks his hips up, then slowly pushes me back by my shoulders, until our lips are no longer touching. “Maybe we should wait until we get home. I’d probably injure more than my ribs trying to do it in this car.”
I laugh and fall back into my seat. “Good point.”
I buckle back up and the engine purrs as he pulls back out onto the road. “I have a surprise for you,” he says casually, watching the road, but the smile he’s trying to hide bubbles excitement inside me.
My eyes light up with intrigue. “What kind of surprise?” I ask, like a child, and he smiles openly.
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
* * *
Sam blocks the door to our apartment when I try to open it.
“What are you doing?” I ask, looking up at his excited face.
“Close your eyes,” he says, watching me until I do. He takes my hand and asks, “Are you ready?”
“For what?”
He opens the door and pulls me several feet into the apartment. “Okay, open your eyes.”
I open my eyes and gasp when I see a beautiful Christmas tree glowing in the middle of the living room adorned with sparkling white lights and shiny glass bulbs. There’s a fire crackling in the fireplace beyond it and more white lights twinkling on the balcony outside.
“Sam…how did you do all this?”
He follows me into the living room. “Sebastian, as it turns out, is very good at this sort of thing.”
Of course. It looks like he hired a professional.
“He and I worked all afternoon while you were at the studio.”
I turn around and carefully wrap my arms around him. “I love it. I love you. It’s beautiful.”
“I wasn’t sure about the tree—it’s not real—but Sebastian insisted. Is it like you wanted?”
“It’s more than I wanted. It’s perfect.”
He smiles and kisses the top of my head. “I saved a few boxes of ornaments so we can finish decorating it together.”
I look up at his one-of-a-kind eyes, silently scolding myself for being so selfish back at the studio. “I don’t deserve you.”
He pulls my face to his and kisses me softly. “I think you’ve got that backward.”
We spend the next half hour hanging the rest of the ornaments on the tree, and it fills me with a since of normalcy that erases all of the worry and stress from earlier in the day.
I reach for Sam’s hand and pull him into a hug in front of our beautiful Christmas tree, but his phone starts buzzing in his pocket, vibrating against my hip, before I can tell him how happy I am.
He pulls it out of his pocket and grumbles, “This better be important, Miles.” He listens for a few seconds and then his face grows serious. “Okay, I’m on my way. Tell Joe I’m on my way.”
He hangs up and my heart races inside my chest. “Sam, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Tristan. He’s in the hospital.”
“Is he okay?” I ask, knowing he must not be if he’s in the hospital.
He shakes his head, but doesn’t answer. “I’ve got to go.”
I follow him across the apartment to our bedroom, but he turns down the hall and goes into the gym instead.
“Sam, what are you doing?”
He goes straight for a punching bag that’s suspended from the ceiling and punches it hard.
“Sam! Stop!” I shout, and he freezes. “You can’t do that.”
He puts his hand on the bag and stops it from swinging, and then drops his head against it.
I stand behind him and put my hand on his back. “It’s okay.”
He turns around wraps his arms around me.
“Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay,” I say to him.
“He’s not okay,” he says against my shoulder.
“I know.” I lift his head and look in his worried eyes. “Come on, I’ll go with you.”
Chapter 10
Lucy
One latte macchiato,” Sebastian says, handing me a cup from the coffee shop across the street.
“Thank you.”
“It’s the least I could do after that pompous curator in Dallas dropped you from his hoity-toity exhibit. That you didn’t want to be a part of anyway,” he says, rolling his eyes behind his clear-framed glasses.
“I never said I didn’t want to be a part of it.” I sigh and put my coffee down on my desk.
“I added that part in, but let’s just go with it, okay? Besides, would you really want to work with a gallery that considers artists based on where they grew up, instead of their extraordinary, unmatched talent?”
“I just hope it’s not an indication of what’s to come.”
“Lucy, it doesn’t matter where you grew up.”
“Well, it obviously does to some people,” I say, swiveling my chair from side to side.
Sebastian sits on the corner of my desk and says, “Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.”
“What?”
“You still have six other invites from galleries that think your work is amazing, including Aurelia Snow. That’s what matters.”
“I know. You’re right.” I sip my coffee. “Hey, can you mail this for me today?” I hand him a sealed envelope that contains a lengthy letter I wrote to Drew.
He takes it from me and eyes Drew’s name scrawled on the front. “What’s this?”
“A letter for Drew.”
“Okay, is this nineteen eighty? Who sends a letter?”