The room comes into focus in a flash, and I almost drop to my knees. Holy shit. Gray and orange.
I’ve heard him sing of the colors and wondered if he was referring to me. There’s no way he wouldn’t remember the fiery locks I had as a child. So bright, the color of carrot, I stood out wherever I went. God, could his color choice in his home have something to do with me?
Suddenly dizzy, I move to a black club chair and drop onto its firm cushions.
“Mac?” He’s suddenly in front of me, kneeling down and looking at me with concern.
“Oh, God.” I rub my temples and try to clear the maelstrom of shit whirling through my thoughts. “Rex, I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.” He sits on the matching ottoman by my knees. “Go ahead.”
Bile bubbles in my throat. What will he say when he finds out who I am? In all my fantasies I pictured him wrapping me in his arms, welcoming me back into his life like a cherished friend. But now, I can’t help but wonder if my presence will only remind him of the life he despised. I finally have him here, opening up to me, sharing himself with me. Revealing who I am could rip him from my loose grip.
But he deserves the truth. And I deserve the consequences, no matter what they are.
I groan and lift my gaze to his. He’s watching me, waiting and . . . he looks terrified. “Rex, I . . .” Just say it, Gia. Spit it out.
He drops his chin and runs a hand through his hair. “You’re freaking out. I understand.”
Freaking out? “No. I mean, yes but—”
A humorless laugh rumbles in his chest. “Bet a guy never asked you to take your shoes off before you walked into his place, huh?” He stands up so quickly and with such force that it knocks the small ottoman a few feet back. “Shit. I knew this was a bad idea.” He moves to the kitchen like a caged animal, all coiled muscles and radiating tension.
“No, please.” I jump up and follow him. “That’s not what I meant.”
I’m no more than a couple feet behind him when he whirls on me and steps into my space. “You think I’m fucking stupid? You think I don’t know how crazy I must look to you right now?” He takes another step toward me and I back up at the war that’s raging behind his eyes. My back hits the kitchen counter, but he keeps advancing. Tendons flare in his neck, making the dragon tattooed there look poised and ready to attack. “Say it, Mac. I want to hear you say it. You think I’m crazy.”
I blink and shake my head. “No. I don’t.”
“Say it. I know you’re thinkin’ it, so out with it.” The heat of his body presses against mine; his arms confine me to one spot. His eyes move from my hair to my lips. “Fuck.”
I throw back an elbow to hold myself up as my upper body is bent back over the counter.
“Look at you. You’re scared of me.”
“No, not scared,” I whisper.
He rolls his lower lip into his mouth, biting down on it. I can’t help my hips reaction and grind into his thigh.
He releases his lip with a hiss of pleasure or pain, I can’t tell. Eyebrows dropped low, he studies my face. “You like crazy.”
“Mm-hm. I like you however you come.”
He’s slipping away. I can feel it. I won’t lose him again. I grasp for anything, a lucid thought, a plan, something that I can say that will get him back. “Paint me something?”
The tension in his arms relaxes, but he stays, locking me to the counter. “Not a painter.”
I tilt my head, motioning to the orange painting. “I think it’s pretty obvious that you are.”
His eyebrows pinch together, and his gaze doesn’t waver from my face. It feels as though he’s trying to read my expression, looking for the fear he thinks he sees or the panic he expects. But he’ll find neither. Locked together from thigh to chest, no better or happier place exists.
As much as I’d like to unload everything, I’m glad I didn’t. Letting me in has taken its toll on his nerves, and bringing up the past is bound to be upsetting. It’ll have to wait one more day.
Decision made, I smile and hope to see him return it. He doesn’t, but instead leans his forehead against mine and practically slumps against me with a deep sigh. Remembering how my aggression affected him in the truck earlier, I force back the desire to throw my arms around his shoulders and bury my face in his neck, opting instead to place my hands on his hips. He doesn’t pull away.
Good. It’s a step.
I close my eyes, our foreheads still touching. “What’s it called?”
“Hm?” His hands slide from the counter to my waist. The heat of his palms separated by the thin fabric of my tank top sends goose bumps up my arms.
“The painting. Does it have a name?”
He shrugs then pushes back, only enough to look over my shoulder at the artwork. “I call it Gia.”