CHAPTER 52

"You're not going back to New York for your ex," Timothy states from behind me as I throw my makeup and toiletries into the tiny suitcase on my bed. "It's work," I insist. "I've been here a week, and even though I told my collaborators what's going on, they need assurances. Especially Ian, because he's central to the funding of this entire venture." The past two days, we've been hanging out around the house and the studio. I think he's worried about me since Sophia fell into the pool, waiting for me to fall apart. I won't, but I like having an excuse to spend time with him. Once I've got my essentials into my bag, I zip the thing closed and drop onto the bed. Timothy crosses to the edge of the bed, leaning over to stare down at me with broody eyes. "I don't trust him. He's an asshole." "Ian?" I laugh. "How do you know?" "Jacob—" "Jacob told you?" I shift up on my elbows. "When did you talk to Jacob about me?" I think he's going to deny it, but he only tugs on his hair. "In LA. I hate that someone hurt you." My chest twinges. "You're a grown man now. You going to beat him up for me?" "If you want." The earnestness in his voice makes me ache. I shut my eyes, not against him, but against the feelings. I can't have them. Not because I don't think he feels something too, but because giving into them is dangerous. I nearly lost myself when I had to let Timothy go the last time. It would break me if I had to do it again. I feel him shift over me, the bed denting under his weight. I blink my eyes open to see him hovering inches away, studying me from under his thick, dark lashes. Every nerve in me tingles with anticipation. Not only between my thighs, but everywhere. "I need to get to the airport," I say, my voice breathy. Neither of us moves. The past few days with him, the familiarity creeps in everywhere—the inside jokes, the teasing. He'll smile or say something so classic deadpan Timothy that I have to remind myself we're not dating. Sometimes, I'm not sure I want to remind myself we're not dating. He always made me feel things no other guy could, but now he's making me feel things I didn't know I was capable of. Physically. Emotionally. And that's the problem. I care about Timothy more than I should, more than it's safe to care. But I shove that aside because even if he feels it too, I can't give in. We're ships passing, him and me. Even if we can find common ground, how long can it last—a day? A week? The only thing we have in common is that neither of us belongs here, and neither of us can stay. Even if we could, we've never been able to stay together for an extended period of time without spinning out. Timothy won't let me in—truly, deeply let me in—to see his hurt. I can't be with someone who'd choose to bear his wounds alone. "You can leave after you kiss me," he says. My fingers find his forearms, digging in. His firm lips are inches away. I want them on me. "No," I whisper. "Because if I kiss you, I can't pretend we're friends right now." "As opposed to what?" We stare each other down. That I never stopped loving you. That I'm falling for you again. Timothy shifts back, his face unreadable. I get out from beneath him before I change my mind. "When'd you get the ink on your hand?" I ask over my shoulder as I grab the hair dryer I nearly forgot from my bathroom. "In between shows on tour. I wanted to cover up something ugly with something beautiful." When I return from the bathroom, he's reclined on the bed. I tuck the dryer in the front pocket of my bag before straightening. "You're beautiful, Timothy. You will always be beautiful." I reach for his scarred hand and lift it to my lips. His skin is rough and warm, and I want more of him—all of him. "Whatever's between us now…" I take a long breath. "It can't stop me from going to New York. And neither can you." He pulls his hand back and rises from the bed, his clothes tugging across the strong, deliberate lines of his body. "I know. I'll take your bag down to the car." After my flight arrives at La Guardia, I stop by my apartment to drop my things and change. It feels strange to be back after only a week away. It's my space, filled with things Andie and I love, but suddenly I'm noticing what isn't here—big, bright windows everywhere letting in natural light, the sound of Sophia's feet thudding on the carpet as she tears into a room or out of it. Andie texted to say she's working all weekend, hustling out some gigs with a new agent, and might not be back tonight. In my tiny room, I change into a fitted red dress that ends partway down my thighs. The neck is a V, and I open my jewelry box to search for a chain to wear with it. My gaze lands on one in particular, and my stomach knots. It's still there, curled into one of the compartments, the rings preserved in time like the rose. My fingers itch, and I think how easy it would be to slip it over my head. In the end, I can't decide on another necklace, so I go without one. Ian wanted to meet at my apartment, but I told him we'd meet at a restaurant. I should've known something was up when he gave me the location. It's the hottest place in town, inside a shiny, recently reopened Midtown hotel. It's glass and minimalist elegance. The sky-high ceilings and white space scream money, as they're meant to. Ian's waiting at a prime table when I arrive. My ex is the opposite of Timothy, though I never realized it until now. He's quick with a smile, the life of a party, grew up with everything handed to him. His father's in real estate; his mother in the arts. He did a combination of things, running galleries, but his real interest is in performance arts. Ian wears a suit like a skin, as if he fell out of bed and slid effortlessly into the tailored wool. "Emily. You look gorgeous," Ian says easily as I cross to him. I smooth a hand down my dress. The nude open-toe heels were the perfect addition for a business dinner somewhere fancy. I put the outfit on feeling as if I was going into a negotiation, but the way he's looking at me, he's not thinking of fighting. Ian steps close, hands resting on my bare arms. I turn my cheek so his kiss lands there, and I step out of his arms smoothly as the waiter holds my chair. "Thank you for booking the restaurant. I'm glad we have an opportunity to talk business." "Thank you for coming. Let's order first." He gets steak, and I order salmon. Once the waiter disappears, Ian grins. "Tell me what you've been up to with your family in Dallas. I hope I didn't drag you away." A glass of wine appears without my ordering it, and I take a sip, grateful. "My family is fine, thank you. I hope yours is too." "You know my mom. It's the middle of fundraising season, so she's in her element." I smile tightly. "The show's nearly completed. As you know, I'm working on the lyrics for the last couple of songs. Honestly, I hoped it'd come faster. But they're the most important." Ian's smile doesn't waver. "Emily, I know we planned to more formally discuss my involvement in funding after the reading next month." The event is a tradition, taking place at Ian's apartment, involving half a dozen actors plus the writing team and a host of prospective funders from Manhattan's elite circles. "But I think we can move sooner." My heart kicks in my chest. "Really? You never sign on to a project until all the pieces are in place and you have a chance to discuss it with people you trust." "But this is your project." He lifts his glass in a toast. "If I commit first, getting the rest of the funders lined up will be simple. We can get this where it needs to be. Together." Suspicion crawls up my spine. "What exactly does that mean?" "It means we'll meet every few days while you're finishing the book. In New York, obviously. I'd like to be on top of my investment." "With Miranda." Ian hesitates. "I don't see the need to use her unnecessarily." There it is. I shift in my seat as he continues. "I know how shows are developed. I'm experienced, and you're talented. Together, we make a good team." I shiver as I feel his leg brush mine under the table. Our meals come, and he digs in immediately, but I can't. "We're not getting back together, Ian." He stops chewing halfway through a bite, brows lifting on his handsome face. After he swallows, he plasters on a smile I've seen a thousand times. "You're getting emotional. Reading something into this that isn't there." "I didn't read into the part where I walked in on you fucking an eighteen-year-old actress on your couch." When I rise, he's out of his seat too, reaching for me. "Hey. Come on." His hand grips my arm. I stare at that hand until he releases me. "This isn't about me," he bites out. "It's about him." "I'm not seeing anyone." Except as I say the words, they don't feel entirely true. "Maybe you never touched another man while we were together. But you held back. It's my job to see the beauty in things. That's what attracted me to you. On stage, you're this wild thing. Full of emotion and passion, unrestrained. But you were never that woman with me." I'm shaking my head, but he continues. "At first I thought I wasn't doing the right things to bring it out of you." He cocks his head, studying me in a way I can't deny him. "But that was a lie. Which meant you were saving it for something else. Someone else." His words trip me because he's never said them before, not while we were together or after we broke up. "There's always a silver lining to these situations," he continues. "I believe in your voice, and I have all the connections in the Manhattan arts community. I can make it easy for you to get this show produced. Or"—he adjusts the cuffs on his jacket—"I can make it difficult." Cold washes over me at his barely veiled threat. I know I could work with him, turn away his advances. I trust myself, and I know he has the money and connections to make my dream a reality. I fold my napkin and set it on the table next to my plate. "You're right, Ian. There is a silver lining." His eyes soften, as if he knows I'm seeing reason. "What is this wine?" I ask him. Ian balks a moment, surprised, but tells me. I nod. "It's great." I make a note to get Avery a bottle as I lift my glass to him before taking a long sip, letting the flavors play over my tongue. "But dinner was a mistake." He glances around, as if suddenly unsure of what's happening. "You can take your funding and your contacts and your threats and go fuck yourself. Yourself and every other person in Manhattan if you like. But you won't be fucking me, in bed or out of it." I drain the last sip of wine before setting the glass back on the table. "Enjoy the rest of your evening." I turn on my heel and head out toward the front of the restaurant. I'm pissed—pissed at his nerve, even if I shouldn't be surprised by it. I don't regret what I did, but I can't shake the feeling that it could cost me. Ian's not bluffing. He has the contacts to make my life easier or harder. I'll deal with it. I've dealt with everything else that's come my way. This project is too important to go down because of him. I pass the separate bar area of the hotel flanked by floor-to-ceiling glass windows and chrome chandeliers. My gaze catches on a man in a black sport coat and jeans at the bar. My steps slow and I change directions, cutting a straight path for him. "What are you doing here?" I ask as I pull up next to him. Timothy turns at the sound of my voice. His gaze drops down my body, eyes warming with appreciation. "I couldn't stop you from coming. But I could come with you." He turns a crystal lowball glass filled with ice and clear liquid in one hand, eyes crinkling with satisfaction and something like amusement. A moment ago, all I wanted was to get out of this restaurant, but his presence is like an escape valve, a life preserver. "How's dinner?" he goes on as if this is a completely normal situation. "Well." I shift in next to him at the bar and drum my fingers on the surface. "I found an amazing red wine." I tell him the name, and he nods to the bartender for two glasses. "And the company?" Timothy presses as he turns back to me, his gaze more serious. "It's rapidly improving." I lift the wine and hold it out to him in a toast. He grins as he clinks his glass lightly with mine, and my heart kicks in my chest. The wine tastes delicious on my tongue, comfort down my throat. "I'm guessing the fact that you're here instead of with him doesn't bode well for your show." "It does not," I concede. "But I will figure it out. I always do." "Yes, you do. And I have a gift for you." I'm intrigued even before he pushes a paper bag down the bar. "Is it millions of dollars?" I quip. "Better." I open it and peer inside, the scent of potatoes and oil making my stomach growl. "Oh my God. Cheese fries." "From the diner near that comedy club we used to like. I watched you through the glass for the last ten minutes," he admits. "Didn't see you pick up your fork once." Timothy's not trying to touch me, to grab me, to make me do anything or be anything. He's just here, bringing me five-dollar French fries in a five-star hotel. God, I missed my friend. I know my heart was broken when we parted ways, when I chose both our dreams over our future together, but I downplayed how much it hurt not to have this—the calm, dryly funny, quietly charming guy I've adored since before I knew what charm was. We eat every last fry and talk about everything. Timothy and Jacob's life in LA. Andie's new show and whether she and her agent have something going on. How I'm stuck on the last few verses of the most important song for this musical. The fact that he got Shane into the studio before coming to New York and was rewarded by something better than he could've imagined. "I told your dad I wanted to swap his dumb ass kid for Shane." I grin. "How'd that go over?" "Not great." It's kind of nice to know I'm not the only person who argues with him. I gaze past Timothy at the sparkling people and tables. A couple of tables still cut looks at us, one discreetly trying to take pictures. "We're going to be on the internet in thirty minutes, if we're not already," I murmur. Timothy reaches for the wine glass. "Do you care? Because I don't." I shake my head, smiling as he drinks. The way he fills out his unfussy jacket is a tailor's wet dream. The dark, messy hair makes me itch to run my hands through it. Ian's words come back. You're saving yourself for someone. I was. Maybe I still am. "For an unavailable guy, you're acting pretty available," I comment after we've finished the bottle of wine and I've won rock paper scissors for the last stub of a fry in the bottom of the greasy paper box. Timothy frowns, confused. "What do you mean?" "When I said Shane had a crush on you," I remind him, "you said she didn't have a shot because you're unavailable." Understanding dawns. The fact that he doesn't argue with me has my stomach sinking. "Please tell me you're not seeing someone. That there's not some woman who thinks she's yours." The idea is unbearable. Timothy pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. "No," he says at last. "I'm not seeing anyone." Relief washes over me, and I can breathe again. But the fear spiking through me a moment ago also reminds me how only a few days with him has me wanting things I have no business wanting with him. Timothy swipes the bill for the drinks before I can, but the laughter's faded from his eyes, replaced by something serious and maybe even sad. "Let me drive you home." "You got quiet," Timothy observes in the town car as we cruise through the city toward my apartment. The lights penetrate the back windows, creating strips of illumination that run over his body and mine. "There's not enough quiet in the world." I lean my head on his shoulder, and Timothy huffs out a breath. When we pull up in front of the building, I have to force my legs out of the car because I don't want it to end. "Walk me to my door?" I say on impulse. He shifts out of the car after me, a dark presence at my side. Like a dog who looks menacing or unapproachable to a stranger, he's the comfort no one will ever understand. They don't have to. In the hall outside my apartment, I fish my keys out of my bag. There's a note on the door from Andie. If you're coming home with NT, I'm going to kill you. Timothy lifts the note off the door, frowning. "Who's NT?" "She means Ian. It's an inside joke." I take the note, crumpling it into a ball. My stomach tightens as I think about what the nickname means. "Emily." Timothy steps between the door and me before I can slide the key into the lock. "Why did you date him?" I've asked myself the same question so many times these past few days. "I thought he was what I wanted. He didn't look at me like I was crazy when I told him about my dreams. Though I guess he liked it because he could take advantage." "I have always believed in you." I nod. "I know. That's the other reason I was drawn to him." "Why?" "Because he was safe. Because I didn't love him the way I loved you." Timothy's body relaxes, and I peer up into his face. There's urgency that wasn't there at the hotel, but he's holding back. "Say it," I demand. "Whatever it is that has you looking all broody after I thought we had a good time." He captures my wrist, and I suck in a startled little breath as he strokes his thumb across my skin. The electricity between us that was content to sit back over dinner and drinks springs to life once again. Timothy turns my hand and skims his thumb across the lines in my palm, so different from the lines on his. "The reason I'm unavailable isn't because I'm seeing someone else." When his gaze meets mine, the emotion in his eyes hits me square in the chest. "It's because my heart has always been yours."