A vise squeezed his chest so hard, so tight, his ribs screamed for relief. Just talking about that part of him he’d willingly—but without choice—amputated brought ghostly echoes of the joy, the freedom he’d once experienced every time he took a picture, picked up a piece of metal, lifted a paintbrush...
He shook them off, shoving them in the vault of his past and locking the door. If he were going to discuss that part of him, of his life, he had to separate himself from the emotion behind it. Besides, that was who he’d been. That man had ceased to exist the moment his father had gone on the lam, leaving his family and ten others broke and broken.
“But to answer your question, there wasn’t any strife. More so because I believe Dad thought I would indulge in art, get it out of my system and then come work for Black Crescent. Even when I scored my first gallery show the summer after I graduated from college, Dad was pleased for me, but he also told me I had a choice to make and he hoped I chose wisely. ‘Wisely’ being coming into the business with him.”
Had his father known even then that he would be going on the run? Had he already planned his escape plan? Because only two months after that conversation, he’d disappeared.
“While researching the article, I always thought that was amazing. Do you know how many artists are capable of getting their own gallery shows so soon in their careers? But then again, I saw pictures of your work. God, you were phenomenal,” she breathed.
The unadulterated awe in her voice snagged on something inside him, jerking and tugging as if trying to bring that ephemeral and elusive “thing” to the surface to be acknowledged and analyzed. He shrank from it. Not in the least bit ready to do that.
He never would be.
“Can I ask you something? And disclaimer—it’s going to be intrusive,” she said, dumping her cone into a nearby trash can before slipping a sidelong glance at him. When he dipped his chin in agreement, she murmured, “How could you step away from it? I’m just thinking of how I would feel if I suddenly lost my career. Or if I couldn’t do it anymore. And not just reporting, but my purpose. Empty. And lost. How could you give it up so easily?”
“Easily?” His harsh burst of laughter scraped his throat raw. “There was nothing easy about it, Sophie. I had a choice to make. Family or a career in art.” Leave, move to New York to escape the judgment and condemnation and pursue his passion, or stay and save his family and the business. Try to repair what his father had torn apart. Even when Jake had done just that, Josh had stayed. And there’d been nothing simple or easy about that decision. “In the end my father had been right. I would have to choose, and I did. Not that it’d been much of one. I couldn’t abandon my family.”
Not like him remained unspoken but deafening in the silence that followed his words.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He slipped his tightly curled fists into the pockets of his slacks. “For what?” he rasped.
“For assuming it’d been an easy decision. That you had to make it in the first place.”
He drew to an abrupt halt, absently thankful they’d made it to the parking lot at the far end of Main where his car waited. Thankful no one loitered in the area, and that for once, they were away from prying eyes.
No one—no fucking one—had ever said that to him. Had ever thought to consider the cost of his sacrifice, the effect of it on him. And no one had ever thanked him or sympathized that he’d given up the best part of him to take care of family. A family in which two of its members resented him for making that choice.
Alone. Here, in this parking lot, partially insulated from the public that had judged him so harshly, the remnants of the past clinging to him like skeletal fingers, he could admit that for fifteen years, he’d been so damn alone.
That choice had cost him the closeness he’d once shared with his brothers. It’d stolen the plugged-in mother from his youth. The so-called friends he’d believed he had. Most of all, it’d left him bereft of his dreams and—how had she described it?—empty.
Yes. Empty.
But in this space, in this fleeting moment, he didn’t. With this woman, with her silken skin, molten eyes and temptress mouth, he felt...seen. And it sent heat rushing through him like air caught in a wind tunnel—loud, powerful and threatening to rip him apart. He edged his feet apart, slightly widening his stance as if bracing himself against the overwhelming longing to touch, to hold, to connect.
He lifted his hand to brush his fingertips over her delicate jaw, waiting, no, expecting, her to wrench away from him to avoid his caress.
She didn’t. Sophie stood still, her headed tilted back, gaze centered on him. She didn’t flinch from him. Didn’t question what the hell he was doing. No, those sweet lips parted on a soft gasp that went straight to his dick, grazing it.
Locking down a groan behind clenched teeth,
