"That's nice," she said softly. "It even sounds like fun. But I can't be the one who does it. I told you. My job. And it's-"
"Not you. Yeah. I know. But that's the beauty of it." He leaned forward and boldly took her hand, letting her warmth fuel his passion for this project. For having her be part of it. "Kelsey, it doesn't have to be you."
Slowly, she pulled her fingers away from his. "What are you talking about?"
"You could be anonymous."
"But-but all the pictures you have so far. Almost all their faces are lit. And they're looking at the camera, and they're bold and sensual and unashamed and it's wonderful."
"I'm glad you think so," he said sincerely.
"I told you I love the work, Wyatt. I just can't be part of it."
"Kelsey Draper can't. But maybe an anonymous woman can."
"But-"
"You're going to say that's not the point of my exhibit, but maybe it is. Maybe the idea of the show is all those specific women in the gallery leading up to one ideal of a woman. An anonymous woman who represents all those things you were just talking about."
"I don't think that's me."
"And I think that's for me to decide."
"Anonymous," she said, and Wyatt tried hard not to cling to the hope that one word fueled in him.
"Completely anonymous."
She bit her lip and nodded slowly as he held his breath and forced himself to stay silent. Finally, she spoke. "Will you let me think about it?"
Disappointment curdled in his gut. "Of course."
"Okay." She pushed back from the table and stood. "Well, um, I should go."
He leaned over, his hand landing on her purse. "Wait."
"Wyatt, please. I just need to think."
"I know. I get that. But I also think you owe me an explanation."
She eyed him warily. "For what?"
"Kelsey," he said gently. "What happened to Griffin?"
For a moment, she just stood there. Then she sat down again. "Please," he pressed. "Don't you think it's time to tell me what happened the night of the party?"
21
I freeze a little at his words, and I want to disagree. No, I'd say. No, it's not time. I don't want to talk about it. I don't even want to think about it.
But I can't say that. Because even though I'd rather run out the coffee shop door, I know he's right. It is time. And he deserves to know what happened.
"How long have you known?" I ask. "About the night of the party, I mean."
"Technically, no time at all. I'm just making guesses here. But after I met him-after I learned how old he was when he got burned-I put it together. There was an accident that night, wasn't there?"
Frowning, I hug myself. "Accident," I say, the word bitter on my tongue. "That's just too clean a word for what happened."
"Hey, hey." His voice has dropped to the gentlest of whispers, and I don't realize why until he leans across the table with his napkin and gently brushes the soft skin under my eyes.
I manage a watery smile in thanks, and then try to clear my head enough so that I can tell the story. But I'm not having much luck.
"Let's walk," he says, rising and coming around the table to pull out my chair.
I grab my purse and stand, tilting my head up as I do. "Are you taking care of me, Mr. Segel? Or should I call you Mr. Royce?"
"Call me Wyatt, and yes." He takes my hand, and leads me out the door. I expect him to release me once we're outside, but he doesn't. I realize that I'm glad, and it's not because I crave his touch-though it's true that the memory of his fingers on me during the photo shoot keeps teasing me.
No, what I crave is his support. His strength. And even though I know I'm playing with fire, right now I will eagerly cling to him.
As we walk across the parking lot, I expect him to ask me again about what happened to Griffin. But he doesn't. He's silent, his hand firm in mine, as if he's giving me both strength and time.
In that moment, I remember the thing that I loved most about him. The way he'd take care of me and support me. He treated me like I was special. Like my wants and dreams mattered.
All these years, I've thought of him as dangerous. But maybe he wasn't the danger at all. Maybe the danger was all inside me.
We reach Blue, and as we walk beside her, I run my fingers over her waxed surface, then stop and lean against the hood. Wyatt releases my hand and stands in front of me, his hands sliding into his pockets.
"He gave her to me," I say without preamble.