Page 98 of You Make Me Feel
That makes something low in my belly tighten. He’s too good at this. At toeing the line between playful and intense.At looking at me like he’s memorizing the curve of my lips or the shape of my thoughts. Like he wants to unwrap them, one at a time.
“And how does Larry fit into this?” I ask. “You said you do investigative work?”
“I’m mentoring him among other things,” he says. “He started out working in the gallery part time, when he was in college. Then he had an accident. He was pretty messed up for months. And although he came back to work eventually, it was clear he wasn’t the same.”
“What kind of accident?” I frown.
“He was run off the road at night. Drove through a barrier into a storm drain. Nobody found him until the next morning. According to the doctors, it was a miracle he survived,” Zach says, his voice lower. “Broken ribs, fractured skull, concussion, collapsed lung. But the worst part was the effect it had on him long term. After he healed.”
He takes a breath and I stay quiet, watching him as he swirls the amber liquid in his glass.
“He barely leaves the gallery or the apartment above it,” Zach continues. “Crowds make him panic. Loud noises. Being in cars. Some days are better than others, but he hasn’t left the building in over a year.”
My breath catches. “God.”
“And since I’m away so much, he’s the one who keeps everything running day to day. I send pieces in, he catalogs and sells them. We have a couple of assistants who help with outside appointments. But Larry’s got the eye.” There’s a strange expression on his face.
“So you’re training him so he can do more?”
Zach doesn’t answer right away. His jaw shifts like he’s grinding something between his teeth. “Something likethat. I want him to feel capable. So he knows he’s more than what happened to him.”
I study his face, the quiet set of his features. The way he hides how much he cares under all that sharp-edged calm.
“You’re a good man,” I whisper.
For some reason that makes him wince.
“No,” he says. “I’m really not.” He pulls his gaze away from me, like he’s afraid for me to see what’s there. But all I can think about is the way he takes care of the people who work for him.
And me.
“Yes, you are,” I say.
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t look at me. Not yet. Instead, he tastes his drink in one slow swallow, his throat working as the whiskey disappears.
“People like to paint me a certain way,” he says when he puts his glass down. “But they don’t know the full picture.”
I reach for his hand across the table, my fingertips brushing his. “Maybe not. But I know what I see.”
His eyes meet mine then, darker than before, but softer too. And this time, he doesn’t look away.
“Then maybe you’re the one who’s not seeing clearly,” he says, his voice rough. He slides his fingers into mine, his thumb curling until he’s holding my hand.
“Or maybe,” I murmur, sliding my fingers into his, “I see you better than you do.”
He doesn’t answer. He only looks at me like he’s memorizing something, some part of me I can’t see. Then he sets our hands gently back on the table.
“Did I ever tell you about the first time I saw you?” he asks.
The shift catches me off guard. “At the resort?” I say. “When you called me mediocre?”
He shakes his head. “I called the art mediocre. Not you. And I was in a bad mood. I’d been traveling for days, I’d gotten some news I wasn’t happy with. I’m sorry you bore the brunt of it.”
“Maybe I like bearing the brunt of you,” I murmur. His gaze darkens on mine, like he knows what I’m talking about.
The waitress arrives, balancing two steaming plates on her arm. She murmurs something polite as she sets them down, but I don’t catch a word of it. Zach leans back in his chair, offering her a nod of thanks, and when she leaves, the spell between us shifts but doesn’t break.
The scent hits me first. Truffle, butter, and pasta, rich and warm. My mouth waters. I look down and blink. “You ordered this for me?”
