Playing With Her Heart (30 page)

I loop my arms around
him. “I feel the same, but I still don’t want you to go.”

“Would you rather I
stay here and do the film?”

I sneer. “No.”

“Maybe I’ll just do
nothing then for a few months. Take some time off. Sit in the park
and feed breadcrumbs to the pigeons.”

I laugh. “As if you
could do nothing.” He buttons the second-to-last button on his
white shirt. He has one-day stubble on his jawline, and it’s so
sexy. I’ve never seen him in the morning after he’s gone without
shaving.

Then I remember
something I read in the trades about
Twelfth Night
. “Hey,
isn’t that actress Joyelle Kristy supposed to be interested in
doing the play? I saw her at the gala the other night.”

“I’ll find out in
my meetings today. When will I see you tonight? I believe we have
unfinished business,” he says, then kisses my neck and I shiver.

“We do. Can I come
over after I see my brother?”

“Yes.”

I run a hand through
his hair. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“This is kind of
awkward, but I figured we should just get it out of the way.”

“Why yes. I do
require the extra large condoms,” he says.

I swat his arm
playfully. “Hey! How did you know what I was going to ask?”

“Lucky guess.”

“But it’s on that
subject,” I say tentatively at first, but then I just rip off the
Band-Aid. “Here’s the deal. I haven’t been with anyone in
years, as you know. And I’m clean. And I’m also on the pill. So
what I’m asking is—”

He answers quickly.
“Yes. I’m clean. So are you saying?” He lets his voice trail
off.

I nod. “I don’t
want any barriers.”

He presses me against
his body. “God, how am I going to get through these meetings
today?”

* * *

I fling a hand over my
eyes dramatically when I walk into Wendy’s Diner and see Chris.

“Don’t even tell
me. No. Don’t even tell me you are actually playing Qbert on your
phone.”

My brother gives me a
sheepish grin, tosses his phone onto the table and stands up to wrap
me in a huge hug. “What can I say? I like Qbert. And I have to keep
up my skills so I can always stay ahead of McKenna.”

“As if anyone can
ever beat you in a game,” I say, and then hug him back harder. “I
miss you, you knucklehead. Why do you have to live so freaking far
away?”

We pull apart, and I
sit down across from him. Chris flashes me his signature smile, all
gleaming white teeth and twinkling green eyes. He shrugs. “I hate
the cold. Speaking of, what the hell? How do you survive in this
weather? It’s like thirty degrees out.”

“That’s nothing.
Some days, it gets as cold as—gasp—five degrees.”

He pretends to shiver.
“Brutal. Can’t believe I ever lived here.”

“Want pancakes?”

“Always.”

We order, and spend the
next thirty minutes catching up. I learn that things are going so
fabulously with McKenna that he’s even taught her dog to surf and
he shows me a picture of the blond lab-husky mix riding a wave on a
banana yellow surfboard.

“Damn. And I thought
it was impressive when you built that tree house when we were twelve.
But a surfing dog?”

“I know,” he jokes.
“Some days I amaze myself.”

“So how’s your
woman?”

He blushes for a second
or two, and I point a finger at him. “You still haven’t gotten
over that blushing thing you do?”

“You do it too!”

“Yeah, but I’m a
girl.”

“Don’t make me put
you in a choke hold.”

“Ha. I learned how to
get out of them like a ninja.”

“Yeah, you learned
from the best. Me. Anyway, she’s great. I’m crazy about her.”

“I’m so glad you
found her.”

When we finish with
breakfast, I take a deep breath. I can’t just tell Davis all my
secrets. I have to be open with my family. With my brother. Because I
want to have the kind of relationship with him where I’m not
harboring lies and secrets.

“There’s something
I want to tell you.”

Then I tell him all the
things I never said to him when I was seventeen. His eyes widen with
shock when he learns of the letter I received, then he drops his head
into his hands when he hears that I kept it with me for years, in its
own secret little chamber by my bed. He wraps an arm around me as I
share how I felt about myself for all that time. He shakes his head
over and over.

“I wish I’d known,
Jill. I wish you’d let me help you get through all that.”

“I know. Me too.”

“But I’m here now.
For whatever you need.”

“Thank you.”

“And I want to help
you. I wasn’t able to be there when you went through it, but I
think there’s one more thing you need to do. To finally put
everything behind you.”

“What is it?”

“Sort of like a
memorial. A ceremony. A last goodbye.”

“What do you mean?”

He tosses some cash on
the table and hands me my coat. “You need to get rid of that
letter. You need to stop holding on to it and set yourself free from
the past. Set him free too,” he says, softening his tone on the
last words.

I balk at the idea
initially, as I stand up and slide my arms into my jacket. The letter
is like a part of me; it’s been my weight, my debt. “I don’t
know, Chris.”

But he nods, resolute
with this plan. “Look, I know it seems scary. But it sounds like
it’s been haunting you. You carried that letter, slept with it next
to you. We need to say goodbye to Aaron and to all the guilt you
carried around, okay?”

Haunting me.

He’s right. It has
haunted me, and I know that this is how I can finally forgive myself.

* * *

Forty-five minutes
later we are in our hometown, the borough of Brooklyn, and Chris is
holding my hand as we walk across the cold grass in the cemetery
where Aaron was buried. As the wind snaps cold air, I wrap my scarf
tighter around my neck. Gravestones stretch far across the hills, row
after row of markers, of memories. We find Aaron’s headstone, and I
kneel down and trace the numbers of the year he died. My chest
tightens, and my throat hitches, remembering the good times. I’m
glad to see a bouquet of lilies on the ground that must have been
left here a few days ago. From someone who still thinks of him. Still
cares for him. I add another bouquet, this time leaving
forget-me-nots. Because I don’t want to forget him, and I don’t
want him to be forgotten, despite everything that went wrong.

“Goodbye, Aaron,” I
say, my heart heavy, but this time for the right reasons. This time
because I’m not hiding how I’m feeling.

Rising, I reach into my
purse, find the letter and hand it to my brother. It feels like a
strange part of me that I’m giving up, but I know I need to let go
of those words that I carried around for years like a chain. Just
like I had to say goodbye to my ideal of Patrick.

Chris opens a matchbox
we picked up at a nearby deli. He flicks a match across the strip on
the front, lighting it. Then he brings the small flame to the corner
of the paper, and I watch, solemnly, as the paper curls into the
orange light, turning black and becoming ash in my brother’s hand.
When the flame reaches the final slip of white, Chris flicks his
wrist, putting out the match. Then he dusts off the tiny bit of ash
in his hands.

And I say a last
goodbye to all that I held onto. To all that I don’t need anymore.

* * *

Later that day, we’re
in Bryant Park watching some young guys scooter around the library
steps when Chris turns to me. “So I have a favor to ask you now,”
he begins.

“Sure.”

“McKenna’s joining
me here later this week, so we can see your show on opening night.
And this might be totally crazy and you can absolutely say no, but I
have this idea of how I kinda want to ask her a big question.”

He shares his plan and
my eyes go wide, and I punch him. But it’s a happy punch.

“Well, I happen to
have an in with the director,” I say. “Let me see what I can do
for you.”

Before we part, I reach
into my purse and hand him a book. “I thought you might like this.”

“Yes! The new Carl
Hiassen. Awesome!”

I smile, knowing the
book has found its proper home.

Jill

As the industrial
elevator chugs upward, I watch the numbers on the dial trudge closer
to his floor. With a loud groan, the elevator settles onto the fifth
floor, and I am so jumpy inside that I think my internal organs are
conducting an impromptu musical chairs. I’m a mix of nerves and
excitement as the doors open and I step into a brightly lit hallway
with four doors. Each loft must have its own corner view.

I knock on his door and
ten seconds later he opens it, and I catch my breath. The ends of his
hair are wet, as if he just stepped out of the shower, and he’s
wearing a gray t-shirt that shows off his strong arms, and jeans that
hang so delectably on his hips. His feet are bare. I’ve never seen
him dressed so casually before, and it’s yet another look I want to
add to the portfolio in my mind of my beautiful man.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” It’s only
one word, only one syllable from him, but it is charged. We are both
combustible right now.

I quickly scan his loft
with its hardwood floors, wide, open spaces, exposed brick walls and
windows everywhere. I want to explore every nook and cranny of his
home, see what’s on the coffee table, and inside the fridge, but
that can all wait, because he is all I want right now. “I’m dying
to see where you live, but I can’t get past how hot you look right
now,” I say.

Like I’m operating
only on instinct, my hands hone in on his midsection, and I inhale
sharply when I feel the outlines of his abs beneath his tee-shirt. I
slide my hands under the cotton fabric, luxuriating in the feel of
his firm stomach. He cups my face in his hands, and gives me a quick
kiss. Then he pulls back. “So, the master bath has two vanities,”
he says, as if he’s a realtor showing me around, then trails off,
shutting the door behind us. “Fuck tours. I’ll show you around
later.”

“I missed you today,”
I whisper.

“You did?”

I nod. “I had a great
time with Chris, but I really wanted to see you.”

“What am I going to
do with this new you? This you who actually says what she feels?”

I freeze up for a
moment. “Don’t tell me it was all about the chase?”

He shakes his head,
then corrects me. “It was all about the prize. It was all about
you. I wanted you from the second you stepped onto my stage. But I
should be a gentleman and offer you a drink.”

“I don’t want a
drink,” I say, and I tip my forehead to the open doorway that leads
to his bedroom.

“As you wish,” he
says, hungrily, as he takes my hand and leads me into his bedroom.

Though I’ve barely
taken a minute to notice any other surroundings, I sure as hell
notice the king-size bed, white comforter and chrome frame, and the
huge window that runs floor to ceiling. I wish I could say I hope no
one notices us, but I honestly don’t care who sees.

An iPod plays on the
nightstand and I grin when I hear the music. “Madness” by Muse.

“Did you time that
song to be playing for the moment you got me in your bedroom?”

“Maybe I did,” he
says with a wink, and then stands back to rake his eyes over me,
taking in my jeans and black sweater. I know they won’t be on me
for long. His eyes are darker as he drinks me in, and I watch him as
he reacts to me, his breathing intensifying and I haven’t even
taken a thing off. I don’t think I’ll ever stop enjoying the way
he looks at me, the way his eyes sear into me and he memorizes me
with his heated gaze.

I want that from him. I
want him to know every part of me by heart, and yet still want to
discover me again and again. And I know he wants that too.

“I’m kind of
nervous,” I admit in a soft voice, unsure where it’s coming from.

“Don’t be. You’re
with me. I’ll always take care of you.” He steps forward,
threading his fingers into my hair. I close my eyes and lean into his
hands, as he laces them through my long hair. Then he gives a quick
gentle tug. I open my eyes, and there’s that mischievous expression
on his face.

“You’re going to
have those hands in my hair all night, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to have
my hands everywhere on you.”

“You already have. I
think it’s my turn to get my hands on you.”

I grab the hem of his
t-shirt and pull up. He raises his arms, letting me take his shirt
off. Sharp, hot tingles race through me as I run my palms over his
toned shoulders, cut biceps, and his fabulous forearms that are
strong from the workouts he does in his boxing gym. He’s such a
fascinating man to me—he works in the arts, and he works out with a
punching bag. I love the incongruities in him, how he can fit
seamlessly in at an elegant reception and how he can hold his own in
a rough and tumble world, too.

He draws in a deep
breath and sighs as I traverse his muscles with my hands, learning
how they feel, uncovering the ridges and hard planes of his body.
Then my fingertips reach the waistband of his jeans, dancing around
the edge, tapping out a fast rhythm of desire.

His breath quickens, he
opens his eyes, grabs my hips hard, and slams me against him. “That’s
enough playing around, Jill. I need to have you now. I’ve been a
very patient man and have been waiting for you long enough.”

His eyes flash feral
and wild, alive with a masculine power that makes me want to be
overtaken. My body aches to be under him, to be filled by him.

He swivels me around,
backs me up to the bed. My knees hit the edge and I sink down. He
grabs the bottom of my sweater and yanks it off, then reaches around
to unhook my bra in seconds flat. He stares hungrily at my breasts
and my nipples harden from how he looks at my body like he wants to
taste and lick and touch every inch of me. Then his hands are on my
breasts, kneading them, squeezing them. He feathers his hands down my
stomach, unzipping my jeans quickly and tugging them off as I kick
off my short boots.