The doorbell rang.
My hair was swept to the side, his lips pressed to my nape. “Must be breakfast. I’ll go grab it.”
I locked my knees against the physical onslaught of his touch, holding back my shudder until I heard his feet pad out of the bathroom, heard the soft brush of fabric against skin that indicated him putting on his clothes, then more footfalls trailing down the hall.
Only then did I slump against the counter, resting my head in my hands.
I’d messed up.
Oh, how I’d messed up.
Three
Damon
I’d known Eden for a long time.
I’d known I’d wanted to sleep with Eden for a long time.
I just hadn’t expected her to let down the walls enough to make the first move. But she’d done that last night, and after only two drinks. We’d hung out enough that I knew two drinks weren’t enough to get her drunk or to make it so she wasn’t lucid enough to make a decision about whom she was going to sleep with.
We’d hung out a lot.
I’d watched her pick up many male hands and lead them from the bar.
Just not me. Eden had never chosen me.
There was a line between us, one I’d made clear I was willing to cross, one she’d made clear she wasn’t going to cross.
Except, last night she’d done just that.
And now I had a bag of food in my hand, Eden was all but locked in the bathroom, and I had been given a sliver of a chance to finally get what I’d been pining after for years.
Eden.
Not just a one and done spectacular night, but Eden.
Forever.
I knew I had an uphill climb, knew that Eden was gun shy, that she didn’t date or form meaningful relationships with men. Though, that wasn’t an entirely fair statement. She did have friends—I’d been strictly in that category until last night—and she had lovers.
It was the lovers that weren’t around for long.
The friends. They were allowed to hang.
Now I was firmly in No Man’s Land.
Sighing, I debated between leaving, like Eden clearly wanted me to do, and staying, which would risk me being put back in the friends category, but would also ensure that I stayed out of the lover’s section.
I didn’t want to be just friends with Eden, but I liked the idea of being relegated to the periphery of her life even less.
There was a reason I’d maintained contact with her over the years, even though our connection was less important now that she’d transitioned over to films and I’d remained firmly in photography.
I didn’t have any desire to enter Hollywood or to direct films or TV, like some of my colleagues. I was happy to shoot a portrait of a star or fashion or bikini shots (Eden’s, in particular, had shifted my focus, that was for damn sure). But what all of those had in common was good money and exposure. And yet . . . they didn’t feed my soul, and for the most part, they weren’t particularly interesting. I couldn’t say that as a be-all-end-all because there were often undertones and interesting personalities beneath the veneer of celebrities, but it was typically a struggle to have the time and patience to reveal them.
Still, those shoots were important because they padded my bank account, kept me busy and in the right circles, and gave me freedom.
The freedom to pursue the subjects that did feed my soul.
Some might call those subjects nobodies, but those so-called nobodies were so much more open than a PR-represented, agented celebrity. Or if they weren’t open, they usually had more time in front of the lens to peel back the layers.
Eden hadn’t fit into either of those categories when I’d first met her.
She’d been a successful model, not world-renowned like after the photographs had hit, but those photos had also catapulted me onto a whole other tier along with her. Still, while she’d been in the industry and knew how shoots worked and what was expected, she’d also been . . . open.
Her pain, her vulnerability, her insecurities had shown through her eyes, had bled right over into the photographs.
And it had transformed that silver bikini and honey photo—as we’d been ordered to undertake by the male magazine, neither of us having the clout or funds to turn down such a big job—from just sexy and superficial into something more.
More because it wasn’t just teenage boys who’d love it (though they definitely had). More because it was also appreciated by housewives and feminists.
Because it wasn’t just sex.
It was more.
Just like she was.
Sighing, I set the bag on Eden’s kitchen table and began unpacking the contents. She might not think she was worth more than just sex, but I knew differently. She deserved to be seen for all those things that were present in the photo—vulnerable, but strong; insecure, but pushing through; sexy, but because she was finding it for herself.
Eden was all of those things.
So, I wasn’t giving up on her.
Nope. She’d opened the door. Perhaps it was just barely ajar, but I was going to shove my foot into that gap, and I was going to keep nudging it open, until that sliver was pushed wide.
I was in.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
Soft footsteps down the hall told me that she was approaching, but I pretended not to hear, just continued unpacking the food, opening the containers, setting the silverware on napkins next to them.
Only then did I turn and smile at her. “Hey, sweetheart.”
Green eyes went wide, lush pink lips parted. “I— You . . . sh-should—”
I plunked my ass into the seat and started eating the omelet I’d ordered.
Silence.
“Come and eat,” I said around a mouthful of eggs, bacon, and cheese. “Before it gets cold.”
My gaze flicked up, saw she hadn’t moved.
Stubborn.
I forced my lips not to curve up then reached for her food. “Oh? Not hungry? I’ll just have to eat this French toast—”
She crossed the room quickly, tugging the takeout box from my hands and glaring at me. “Mine,” she muttered
