She wanted him just as much as he wanted her and the thought made him feel as weak as a newborn and as strong as an ox. She was both his salvation and his destruction, his pleasure and his pain.
And he wanted her with all the ferocity of a winter's storm.
But that didn't mean that they should tumble into bed. They had a mountain to climb, a million words that they needed to exchange, issues to iron out. Their earlier fight was behind them and, now that he understood what fueled her anger, he found her humble and sincere apology easy to accept.
But he still had something to say. Tyce pulled back and stepped away from her, knowing that there was no way he'd get this out if he was touching her.
"Look, we're going to be in each other's lives for a long time-" he wanted to think forever and in every way possible but that wasn't likely "-and we need to be each other's best friends. That means being honest, about everything. If you feel sick or pissed off or overwhelmed, I want to know about it. And I'll be as open as I can..." Tyce took a deep breath. "That being said, there is something I should tell you."
"Okay. What?"
"This warehouse, it's all I have. I don't have that much money in the bank."
Sage, genuinely, didn't look like she cared. "Can I ask why?" she eventually asked. "You're, like, the highest paid artist in the world."
"Those Ballantyne shares are expensive, Sage. I haven't had much cash for the last couple of years. I've been living a lie. The Chelsea apartment? It's owned by one of my biggest clients who allowed me to crash there."
"That explains the lack of art, the lack of anything personal," Sage stated, looking remarkably sanguine. "I never liked that place. It wasn't you."
Tyce almost smiled at that; she'd hit the nail on the head. It really wasn't him. The real him was this place, redbrick and steel, a punch bag and a mat in the corner, welding machines and chain saws. It was comfortable couches and worn rugs. It was industrial Brooklyn, hard, masculine, gritty.
Tyce thought of Sage's girly loft. She was expensive gems and delicate designs. She was cream couches and soft beds, the wrought iron frame surrounding the bed dotted with tulle and fairy lights. She was expensive; he was functional.
"I'm working on a couple of pieces that I'll be able to sell in a month or two. I want to pay for the baby, your medical expenses to have the baby, for whatever you or the baby needs." He held up his hand. Tyce knew that he could never compete with her wealth. It was stupid to try but he wanted to be able to, at the very least, provide the best for her and his baby. "I know that you can pay for it without my help but...I just want to, okay?"
Sage nodded, her expression inscrutable. "Okay, we'll work it out." Sage sent him an uncertain smile. "So...are we good?"
They were, very good indeed. In fact, he was starting to feel more than good, he felt fan-friggin-tastic. Tyce felt like they'd ripped down a couple of barriers between them, that their fights had flattened some obstacles between them. Or he could be feeling light-headed because he couldn't stop looking at her, drinking her in. Demanding, a little crazy, warm, generous, funny, she was everything he'd ever wanted.
Tyce battled to get his brain to function properly. He knew that he should say something. She was trying, very earnestly, to make amends but all he wanted to do was to blurt out that he thought that they'd turned a corner, they might, maybe, have a shot at...something. Something bigger and brighter than this, whatever this was.
Tyce felt the burn below his rib cage as that thought lodged in his brain. Terror, his childhood companion, drifted into his head, accompanied by doubt, another old ally.
Would he ever be able to fight off both long enough to be with her, to be the man she needed? Deepening his relationship with Sage meant losing his freedom but, at the same time, he couldn't imagine a life without her in it.
He felt dizzy, confused, utterly at sea.
Too much, too soon, Tyce told himself. You're tired and played out. Think about commitment and monogamy and forever and what you want from her when you aren't punch-drunk with tiredness and overwhelmed by emotion. In the morning you might decide otherwise. This might be an overreaction, a figment of your imagination.
Take a breath and calm the hell down.
Tyce pushed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and found his voice. "Want some coffee? I have decaf."
Sage nodded and followed him to the small galley kitchen that ran along the back wall of the apartment. There was also a sitting and dining area and two en suite bedrooms tucked into this corner of the warehouse. A steel-and-wood gangway running above his workshop and home gym linked the apartment to his painting studio. Tyce knew that Sage, who was intensely interested in art, would ask for a tour but his studio, with all the sketches and portraits of her, would be firmly off-limits.
If she saw the many sketches of her she'd definitely think he was a psycho and go running for the hills.
Sage looked up at the pipes running across the ceiling and the massive wooden beams that contrasted with the redbrick walls. Her eyes focused on a massive wooden propeller he'd hung on the far wall and her lips quirked. "I love this... This is you. This is your space. Masculine and minimalistic."
And so very different from her light-filled, pink-tinged, feminine space. If they ever ended up living together, how would they...
Whoa there, cowboy, cool your jets. You decided not to go there, remember? You were going to wait until your brain was functioning properly before you made any life-changing, crazy-ass decisions.
Take a breath, dude. And another...
He focused on making coffee, decaf, of course, then realized he needed something a lot stronger than coffee. He poured a mug for Sage, then reached for a bottle of whiskey and dropped a healthy amount into a glass. Sipping, he felt the burn in his throat, the warmth in his stomach, and his heart slowed down, his lungs opening to allow more air to flow inside. Yeah, that was more like it.
Sage looked around, her eyebrows raised. "So, where's your studio? Where do you paint?"
He'd known she'd ask and instead of blowing her off, as he'd intended to do, he gestured to the door in the corner of the loft. "It's on the other side of the building. Through that door is a catwalk that takes you there."
Sage's eyes lit up. "Can I see it?"
He wanted to say no but he'd just told her that they needed to be honest with each other. Nodding, he walked across the room to open the door onto the gangway. Taking Sage's mug from her, he held her coffee and his whiskey and gestured for her to step out. Sage stepped onto the narrow walkway and looked down at his workbenches and equipment below. He'd just started a new sculpture and pieces of half-bent steel and wood lay scattered across the concrete floor. "What's that going to be?"
Tyce shrugged. "Not sure yet. I'm still waiting for it to make sense."
Sage nodded. Because she was an artist herself, he didn't need to explain the creative process to her, that he was following his instincts, trusting that it would all work out in the end.
"God, it's cold up here," Sage said, wrapping her arms around herself.
"The warehouse is a bitch to heat but I'm normally doing some sort of physical activity down there, either working on a sculpture or working out, so I don't notice it much. The studio is heated."
They'd reached the door that led to his most private space and Tyce took a deep breath as Sage opened the door. "The light switch is on the left."
Sage flipped the switch and light filled the messy room. Tyce handed Sage her mug, took a sip of his whiskey and wondered what she-the first person to step into this space-thought. He looked around, trying to see the familiar setting through new eyes. The windows were incredible, leaded panes letting in every bit of light and shelves held paints and brushes and trowels. Blank canvases were stacked against one wall and there was a half-finished, shades-of-blue abstract taking up the space opposite. Sage looked at the oil for a long time, sipping her coffee before glancing down at the stack of canvases facing the wall. Ah, crap. Well, what had he thought would happen?
"May I?"
Tyce nodded and she immediately sank to the floor, placing the mug by her knee and flipping the first canvas around. He squinted at the charcoal-and-ink sketch and let out a sigh of relief; it was a portrait of Lachlyn, her nose buried in a book. Sage said nothing and turned another canvas around and Tyce sucked in his breath. His mother was lying on the floor next to her bed, her knees pulled up, her eyes vacant.
"She looks a little like Lachlyn... Is this your mom?" Sage asked, glancing up.
Tyce nodded. "Yeah, as I mentioned, she suffered from chronic depression. She'd stay like that for days."
Sage thankfully didn't comment. She just flipped through the portraits, wrinkling her nose when she came across the one of her working at her bench. She looked at the date and lifted her eyes to his, her eyebrows raised. Tyce felt his cheeks warm. "I saw a photo of you in a magazine. I decided to copy it."