When I don’t respond, he walks over with the two cups of coffee and places mine in front of me on the counter. As he sets it down, my gaze snags on his right hand and wrist. More specifically, on a web of heavy scars that slash across the back of his hand and up his forearm.
I hadn’t noticed them last night. I’d been too nervous at the gallery to focus that closely. Later, here at his penthouse, it had been too dark and I’d been too blinded by pleasure and desire. Now that I have seen them, I can hardly tear my eyes away from them.
Horror swamps me instantly . . . followed by sadness.
He must have suffered a terrible accident of some sort. A long time ago, by the look of it. The scars are so severe, I have to guess the injury had nearly severed his hand and fingers.
When I look up, he’s staring at me in unreadable silence. I’m sure my own gaze is not so hard to decipher. I feel my expression sag in shock, in sympathy and anguish for whatever happened to him. He doesn’t invite my compassion, though. Certainly not my questions. His darkened, unblinking eyes seem to forbid it, in fact.
But he doesn’t pull away. He lets me take my fill, even while his grim face refuses to let me in.
I glance down, sipping the sweetened coffee to give me an excuse to break the tension. I’m also thankful to have something to do with my hands while I weather the weight of his inscrutable stare.
Finally, he speaks. “Tell me if that’s not how you like it.”
I manage a faint shake of my head. “No, it’s good. It’s perfect.”
He lifts his mug and his eyes hold me over the rim. “Creamy and sweet. My favorite combination as well.”
It’s a flirtatious statement since he’s drinking his coffee black. Although his voice is casual and calm, I know there’s something ugly behind his detached, unaffected exterior. Something much uglier than any physical scar I’ve just seen.
He’s damaged. When I recognize that in him, I feel something shift and soften inside me. I want to know what other scars he’s carrying, but I understand it’s not my place to ask. He wouldn’t tell me even if I did. I know this with the same certainty that I know I wouldn’t tell him about any of mine.
Maybe in time he might trust me enough.
An odd, pointless, thought when I know nothing lasting can come of what happened between us last night. I’m no more part of his orbit today than I was yesterday or that first night I arrived at this building. For the next four months, I’m only borrowing this life, this world. After Claire returns, I’ll go back to my own reality.
And back there, I can’t ever be part of Nick’s world—nor anyone else’s. Not so long as I hide my own scars. My secrets are too many and they can’t be shared.
Looking at him now, I wonder how many secrets he’s hiding too.
Almost in challenge I feel, he holds my gaze as he leans his hip against the counter. “I have business later today in London. My driver will be picking me up within the hour. I’ll be gone for two weeks.”
“Oh, okay.” His abrupt announcement seems to be ample cue for me to leave, so I place my mug on the counter and start to slide off the stool. “In that case, I definitely should go and let you do what you need to do.”
What I really need to do is forget about Nick Baine and the amazing one-night stand we just shared, because that’s all it’s going to be. If I wasn’t smart enough to realize before now that he would be trouble for me, seeing him in this new light this morning is more than enough to convince me. Having sex with him is one thing. Allowing myself to get close to him—to care—is a risk I can’t afford. I won’t risk that.
When I step away from the barstool to retrieve my purse from the nearby sofa, his quiet command halts me.
“Stop, Avery.” He’s frowning as he places his mug on the counter, but there’s a trace of dark humor in his voice. He cocks his head, eyes narrowed on me. “Why is it that when you’re not running into me, you’re running away from me?”
“I’m not running away.”
He grunts. “Aren’t you?”
I go still as he rounds the counter and comes up close to me. He reaches out with his left hand—his good hand—and smoothes some of my disarrayed hair off my face. His expression is grimly sober. Intense in a different way than I’ve seen him so far.
“I want to see you again.”
I swallow. “Sure, okay. That would be great.” The lie sounds almost convincing to me. “Why don’t you let me know when you get back? We can try to make plans to get together for lunch sometime, or a drink maybe . . .”