I swallowed my bite of toast. “I didn’t realize we were coming back to your place.”

“I wanted to keep you with me.” His eyes were steady on me, watching me like I might bolt at his words. “Can you blame me? After last night?” Suddenly I had an image of him watching me while I slept. I tucked a tangled lock of hair behind my ear and winced at the grimy texture. I must look a mess. My cheek was still sore. I felt achy and gross all over.

“I need a shower,” I mumbled, my hand reaching around to feel the dried paint crusting my hair while my other hand lifted another slice of bacon to my mouth. Chewing, I gestured to my overflowing plate. “Is it wrong that I want to finish this first? It’s really good.”

“No. Eat. Then you can shower.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I’ll help.”

I smiled slightly at the wicked way he was looking at me. “You’ll help me shower? That’s awfully sweet of you. So selfless.”

“I’m just a sweet guy like that. And I’m kind of into you. A lot.” He ran his thumb down the curve of my cheek. The wicked glint faded from his eyes . . . leaving something that made my chest squeeze. “Get used to it.”

My smile slipped and the air suddenly shifted, grew strained and uncomfortable. His hand dropped away. I wet my lips, knowing that things needed to be said. “I’m sorry I walked away from you at the rehearsal dinner—”

“No, I’m sorry. I had no right to show up like that. You didn’t want me there. I should have respected that.”

I studied my plate, my fork stabbing at a bit of egg. “Maybe. But you were right though, you know. Everything you ever said about me. I was scared. I’ve always been scared. Of getting close to anyone. Of letting anyone in. Especially you. Oh. God. You . . .” I lifted my gaze to his face and said hoarsely, “You terrified me.”

An emotion like agony flickered across his face. He moved forward as though he would grab hold of me, but then he stopped, restraining himself. His hands opened and closed into tight white-knuckled fists at his sides.

“The reason you terrified me,” I explained, forcing the words out, “is because I cared about you. I knew that I could love you and that scared me. Honestly, it still does.” And I knew now that it always would.

Like Georgia said. Loving someone is scary. That was part of it. Always. Knowing that at any moment for any reason it could be lost. But I wanted that. I wanted love. Even if I couldn’t control it. I wanted it. I wanted him.

Some of the agony faded from his face at my admission, but it wasn’t gone entirely. He averted his gaze, staring down at his clenched hands. “I push too hard. I’ve always been guilty of that. I should have learned from Adam. I led the charge, convinced him that he should sign up with me. I just took over for both our lives, made all our choices. I don’t want to do that with you.”

I covered his fists with my hand and squeezed them. “You didn’t force Adam into doing anything he didn’t want to do. And trust me, no one makes choices for me either. I’m stubborn.”

He sighed long and hard, his chest lifting and dipping. “I’ve pushed you and bossed you around simply because I thought I knew what was right for you.” He dragged a hand through his hair, sending dark strands in every direction again. “And then I went after Justin right in the middle of that party because I wanted to tear him apart. It was about my anger in that moment. I didn’t care what you wanted.” He shook his head, looking so sorry that I wanted to grab him close and comfort him. “I just lost it. I didn’t care if my actions made you uncomfortable—”

I kissed him hard, delving my fingers in that hair I had been dying to touch. I slanted my lips over his and opened my mouth, thrusting my tongue inside his. His hands came around my back and hauled me closer with a groan.

“Just love me,” I breathed into him.

He froze against me, the air crashing from his mouth into mine. His broad chest rose and fell against me with each of those ragged breaths.

I pulled back, holding his face in my hands, letting my words hover between us. I waited with my heart rising to my throat, drowning in his brown eyes.

He stared at me, saying nothing. Doing nothing.

Time hung, suspended, and I began to wonder if he had even heard me.

“Say something,” I whispered.

He spoke haltingly, his hands tightening on my back. “Again. Say that again. So I know it’s real and not a dream.”

“Love me. Please.” I inhaled, then shook my head fiercely. I hadn’t come this far, to this moment, to utter only half of it. “Like I love you, Shaw. Because I do.” I kissed him. “I do love you.” Another kiss. “I love you.” I kissed him several more times, breaking up each kiss with a choked I love you.

He moved then. Heedless of our plates and the food he sent sliding across the bed and floor, he came over me, folding me into his arms. His lips smothered mine, kissing me until I couldn’t breathe. I kissed him back, deciding that air was overrated. Who needed it when there was this?

“I love you,” I whispered brokenly against his lips. Tears leaked out at the corners of my eyes. He pushed the hair off my face, clearing me for his view. Our noses touched, we were so close. His fingers trailed over my face, drying the tears from my cheeks as quickly as they fell.

“Don’t cry, baby. I love you. I love you, Emerson.” He pronounced the words slowly, like he was savoring them. Or maybe he just wanted me to absorb them. Maybe he wanted them to sink in so that I would feel them as clearly and completely as I felt his hands on my face, his lips against mine . . . his heartbeat vibrating from his chest into my body.

So that I would believe in them. Believe in him.

And I did. I felt them. I believed in them.

I believed in us.

Chapter 22

Three months later . . .

I SHIFTED ANXIOUSLY ON my high heels, standing in front of A Winter’s Morning in the packed room. Voices congested the air, mingling with the clink of glasses and laughter. I’d been invited to show two pieces in the exhibit at the posh Boston gallery and had taken position in front of my favorite one—naturally the one that most reminded me of Shaw.

Smiling, I exchanged pleasantries with a pair of ladies who admired A Winter’s Morning, and answered their questions.

When they moved on, my gaze strayed several feet away where my father chatted with the gallery owner. When I invited him, I hadn’t expected him to attend. Even more shocking than his presence tonight was that he seemed impressed . . . even proud of me. While it loosened something inside my chest and made me feel lighter, I didn’t need it. I was glad he was here, but I didn’t need his approval. I’d found my own sense of self-worth without him. Without my mother.