Page 34 of When We Had Forever
But no. Every single envelope bears his name. With a quiet laugh at my own folly, I abandon the pile and venture into the living room to peruse the photographs on the walls. At first, the myriad photos of skyscrapers catch me off guard, considering how uninterested Michael was in talking about his work. But he probably gets enough of it here, living in this gallery. Or maybe he just realizes most people don’t share the passion he clearly feels for buildings.
I’m busy pondering the possibilities when one photograph snags my attention, making me forget all the others. I sidestep the angular couch to get a closer look.
The picture shows a wide-open stretch of farmland in some place like Kansas or North Dakota. Ripened rows of wheat stretch away while overhead, the sky gathers like an angry bruise. From the raging purple clouds, a funnel descends, a chaotic finger reaching down to touch the orderly gold perfection of the fields.
I stare, glued there somehow. The picture radiates energy the same way a fire throws heat. I can practically smell the sulfurous tang of the storm, the restless heave of the wind.
When I blink, Michael is standing beside me. “You like this one?” His voice tightens, as if my answer holds significance.
I hesitate, not knowing what he expects. “I love it. I’minlove with it.”
“Yeah? How come?”
“It’s like...I’m there, in the calm before the storm. Like something dangerous and unstoppable is about to come turn the world upside down, and I’m caught in that moment, in the breath before a fall.”
“I know that feeling.” When his eyes meet mine, warmth fills them. Clearly, he’s talking about something besides the photo. “I know it exactly.”
My breath catches. “Do you?”
“Like a tornado’s about to blast my life apart, and I’m probably going to love every second of it? Yeah.”
The air heats between us. But instead of kissing me, he turns away.
Goddamn it.
I try to cool off by returning my attention to the photo. Only then do I catch the name inked in the corner. Grayson Drake.
My heart stutters. Grayson.Drake. That can only be the brother who wishes Michael had never been born. I step back, breaking the picture’s gravitational pull. How badly have I screwed up?
Apparently, not much, because Michael makes a casual gesture toward the framed skyscrapers—spindly confections of glass and steel depicted in black and white. “What about these? Do they do it for you?”
Really, to me, the buildings are just that. Buildings. But I don’t want to insult him, so I manage a somewhat sincere-sounding “They’re great, too.”
He laughs. “Not a fan of architecture, then?”
I shrug. “I’m notnota fan. I guess I’ve just never thought about it before.”
He smiles, all forgiveness, and guides me to the couch by the windows, where two glasses of freshly poured red wine await.
I pounce on mine, realizing how ravenous and parched I am. On the way back from Canada, we stopped at a seaside oyster farm outside Bellingham, but for all that I love shellfish, it never satiates me for long.
“I was thinking about Italian for dinner.” He flops down on the sofa beside me. “How do you feel about fettucine Alfredo?”
“At the moment? Deeply passionate.” I sample the wine. It’s divine—a Malbec, my second-favorite vintage after Cabernet.
“Perfect.” Michael pulls out his phone, then delivers a practiced order to some restaurant whose menu he clearly knows by heart. He sets his cell on the table and slings a sculpted arm over the back of the couch, facing me with wine in hand. “So.”
“So.”
“We live together.”
I twirl my glass. “We do. Which is crazy.”
“It’s balls-to-the-wall insane,” he says. “And I like it.”
I go quiet. In the face of his scrutiny, I feel shy suddenly, my tongue tied in knots.
I’ve never met a man who combines such unbridled intelligence with a raw thirst for living. And to find it all behind a face likethat...it almost strikes me as unjust. Not only to every man who can’t possibly live up to the standard Michael Drake has single-handedly set, but to me.
