“Gwendolyn!” I shout, ripping the cushions from the leather couch. “Have you seen my notecards? I can’t find them anywhere!”
“For the last time, I didn’t touch your notecards,” she shrieks from her room. “Look in the trash!”
I rub my ears at her high-pitched voice. Gwen’s mood has been darker than a gothic architecture painting for the past month, and she won’t talk to me about why, not that I’ve been trying all that hard since I found out about the kiss.
Isaac hasn’t been around the apartment, so I’m guessing her foul temper has something to do with him. My stormy mood has everything to do with missing Rhode, but I’m doing my best not to think about him.
Unfortunately, my best is atrocious.
I’ve scoured every article online to see how his rehab is progressing and picked up the phone, letting my thumb hover over his name more times than I can count. I’m getting closer and closer to calling him because I already regret ending things.
Seeing him looking broken at the restaurant was torture. I never should’ve tried to protect myself. I’m this close to saying go ahead and break my heart, Rhode Tremblay. It’s different this time. Before, my heart felt vacant, unoccupied, but now, it’s empty with the loss of him.
“I wrote my entire speech on those,” I shout back. “If you threw my notecards away, I’m going to kill you!”
“Please, you don’t even wipe the bugs off your windshield!”
Grumbling, I yank off another couch cushion. I haven’t told her what happened with Rhode, but I miss talking to her in the way only sisters can—no minced words, no second thoughts, just brutal honesty, sometimes, to a fault. Except my stubbornness is stronger than my desperation.
The rational part of me realizes the kiss was before I met Rhode. I’m not even mad at him. It wasn’t deliberate, and Gwen didn’t do it maliciously, but it goes back to the petty jealousy that stems from living in her eternal shadow.
All I want is someone who belongs completely to me, but now, she’ll have a piece of Rhode.
Gwen drags herself into the living room with pieces of blonde hair falling out of her bun. “This is why I told you to write the speech on your phone.”
“That’s a really unhelpful comment, Gwendolyn.”
“Can you stop calling me that?”
“Only when you start acting like my sister and not my nemesis.”
I scan her grungy attire. It’s like we’ve gone through a complete role reversal because she’s the one wearing a hoodie like a second skin while I’m in a calf-length floral sundress. The attire for the event said smart casual, which is the most unhelpful description, but I figured this sundress Gwen lent me would work.
She snatches her car keys from the kitchen counter. “Come on, let’s go, or you’re going to be late for your speech.”
I bite my thumbnail at the reminder. “You really haven’t seen my notecards? Are you sure? Think hard.”
Her spring green eyes bloom with warmth. “No. I’m sorry. I haven’t, but I really don’t think you need them. You’ve been practicing all month. You’ll be fine. Have you asked Rhode? Maybe he has them?”
I flinch at the sound of his name like I do anytime she asks about him. “No, I haven’t. Let’s just go. I’ll rewrite it on my phone on the way there.”
We hop into Gwen’s car, and she presses the start button. As we drive, I gaze out at the blurring skyline. A mesmerizing palette of roses, corals, and aquamarines streak across nature’s largest canvas.
I could see this sunset every day and never grow tired of watching the colors change, just like how I never got tired of memorizing the variations of Rhode’s smile, noting when that dimple would appear and when it wouldn’t. I wish he could be here with me tonight.
Fifteen minutes later, Gwen pulls up to a brick building with ivy climbing up the walls and pink bougainvilleas dangling from the archway.
The studio’s name, Pierre’s Hideaway, is etched in elegant gold lettering above the entrance. “Okay, we’re here.”
She reaches for my hand, gently prying the thumbnail I’ve been gnawing at from my lips. “You’re going to be fine, Nina. You’ve been working on this speech for months. You don’t need the notecards. All you have to do is talk about why you like art, which you can talk about for days.”
“You’re right.” I nod to convince myself. “Thanks for driving me. I’ll see you at home.”
“Wow? A thank you?” she teases, pressing a hand to her chest. “Does that mean I’m forgiven?”
“Absolutely not,” I quip, though I’m tempted to say yes because I miss her.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in?”
“No, I’ll be fine. I got this. They didn’t have any extra tickets, anyway.”
Smoothing my dress, I step out of the car and peer closer at the gallery’s mosaic archway, where intricate patterns of glass capture my attention.
Beautiful.
The artist must’ve used a marvering technique to shape the sculpture in those bubbles.
I stride into the gallery beneath a banner that reads The Peaceful Mind Project. The charity auction’s in full swing, and a bead of sweat forms on my upper lip, but I give my head a hard shake.
If I can attend hockey games and go to sponsor events with Rhode, I can handle one three-minute introduction speech. Pushing open the glass door, I accidentally bump into a man in a fedora. “Excuse me.”
“Not a problem.”
The crowd in the art studio is more eclectic than the paintings on the wall. There’s everyone from wealthy benefactors donning tuxedos to artists huddled around pottery wheels, lost in their work. I spot a few familiar faces from class, but it’s one person who causes me to freeze in my tracks.
Rhode.
My heart starts beating. At least, that’s what it feels like.
He’s wearing a perfectly tailored navy suit that hugs every muscle, completely oblivious to everyone staring at him rather than the artwork. The sling’s gone. He’s done a complete transformation from the broken boy at the restaurant. I try to see what patterned tie he’s wearing, but I can’t. Heads turn, captured by his smile.
He’s by the bar, talking closely to a brunette in a green dress as she murmurs something in his ear. Pain shoots like lightning to my heart.
Rhode responds with a carefree laugh that ripples through the room. I think I’d rather watch them kiss than listen to his laughter that’s slicing through me.
“Hey, Nina. How’s it going?”
I jump at the sound of Noah’s voice. My classmate stands beside me, his leather apron splattered with clay, so he’s clearly been working at one of the studio’s kilns. “You ready for your speech? I can’t believe how many people showed up. Everyone likes all the pottery demonstrations, so that was a great idea on your part.”
His compliment is sweet, but it doesn’t make my toes curl like Rhode’s. “Thanks. Yeah, I’m ready. Nervous, but I’ll be fine. It’s just the introduction speech.”
My gaze fixates on Rhode, who’s still immersed in a discussion with the woman across the room. They look like the epitome of a sophisticated couple, laughing together. My teeth grind. Noah launches into a conversation about pottery slip casting techniques, but I barely register his words.
All my senses are tuned into Rhode.
His eyes roam the art gallery, scanning everyone’s face before moving on to the next. He pauses when he sees a blonde woman, but when she turns her face, he moves on to the next person. I glare at his rigid back when suddenly, he straightens and spins around.
Our eyes meet like they’re connected by steel cables, unbreakable.
The murmurs and laughter fade as we stare, the weight of unspoken words bridging the gap between us. I glance at his tie. Clovers. His tie has little four-leaf clovers all over the fabric, and I wonder if he chose it because of my tattoo.
His gaze dips to the hem of my dress and climbs up the curves of my silhouette like ivy. I silently thank Gwen for letting me borrow this floral sundress that clings to every inch. Rhode’s gaze shifts to Noah, and his jaw snaps shut.
A look of intense fury flares across his face, and a second later, he’s strutting through the crowd, parting it like everyone’s a mere ripple in his wake. He stops in front of me, and without sparing a glance at Noah, he wraps an arm around my waist in a move that has my heart short-circuiting.
His lips meet my cheek, soft, light. Crushing. “Hello, beautiful.”
He barely spares Noah a glance, so I gesture to him, slightly flustered. “Rhode, you remember Noah from my art class.”
“There are other people here?” he asks, gaze searing mine. “All I see is you.”
Noah mutters a goodbye and leaves, but I wouldn’t notice if a runaway truck were to crash into this studio. Rhode’s presence is a vacuum, sucking every thought from my mind.
“What are you doing here?” My eyes flick to the woman gazing at Rhode’s back. “Shouldn’t you be with your date?”
The venom seeping into my voice only makes that lonely dimple glint in Rhode’s cheek. “She’s not my date. She’s a fan. We were just talking, but you sound a little jealous, Nina. Are you?”
“No,” I snap. “It’s fine. You can talk to whoever you want.”
The dimple in his cheek deepens. “You’re such a bad liar.”
“I’m not lying,” I lie.
His hot tongue brushes the shell of my ear, murmuring like we’ve spent every morning for the past few weeks waking up together and not apart. “You forget that I know what it looks like when you lie because I know you, but go ahead and keep lying through those pretty red lips. All it does is make me want to shove my cock in your mouth to stop you. You already know I won’t fuck you like a gentleman.”
Lifting my hand, he presses his lips to my knuckles. The gesture’s completely at odds with his filthy words. Heat ripples over my skin, blazing right through my good intentions.
I try to step out of his smothering aura, but his hands tighten around the curve of my waist. “You shouldn’t be saying things like that to me, Rhode. Not anymore.”
A lazy smirk curls his mouth that I want to kiss off his lips. “Why not? Because it turns you on? Hate to break it to you, but that’s the point.”
“You and that dirty mouth.”
“You like it.” He shrugs, seemingly unfazed, but the noticeable bulge in his pants that he’s trying to cover with a pamphlet shows he’s as affected me. “But enough dirty talk. Tonight, I’m being a gentleman because this is your night. Here. I have something for you.”
Flipping the switch from sexy to sweet, he delves into his suit pocket, retrieving a stack of notecards—the very ones I spent the entire day scouring our apartment for.
“Where’d you find those?” With a gasp, I try to snatch them, but he holds the cards behind his back.
“You left them at my place, so I figured I’d bring them here. Now, admit you miss me, and I’ll give them back.”
“I don’t miss you,” I lie to protect myself.
“You’re such a pretty liar that I want to believe it’s the truth, but I bet if I dipped my fingers beneath that dress that I can’t stop staring at, I’d find your panties wet for me, and only me.”
“Or you’d find me drier than the Sahara in July, but I guess you’ll never know.”
“Now, that’s a bet I’d take.” He kisses my cheek. “You already know how much I like burying my head between your thighs.”
“That’s not happening,” I say to put distance between us, but his words already have that familiar need building.
“But it is,” he counters.
“You’re too cocky.”
“No. Just hopeful.” He waves the notecards. “Do you want these or not?”
Heat sinks into my body, so I squeeze my legs together, arching a brow. “We both know you’re going to give me the notecards, anyway. You forget that I know you too, and you’d never sabotage my speech.”
His teasing expression fades faster than a shooting star. “You’re right. I wouldn’t because this is important to you. So, why don’t you admit that you miss me as much as I miss you? Because I’m trying here, but this has been hell for me. I know we want different things, Nina, but I just want you. We can figure this out together.”
I draw in a sharp breath. His charming, genuine words make irritation scratch down my spine. Why does he have to make it so difficult for me not to fall for him?
I’m already imagining myself making sacrifices. Leaving my fellowship. Starting a family in my early twenties. Convincing myself that I can be the girlfriend of a pro hockey player even though I hate crowds. I’d have to give up everything to love him.
I throw out a hand. “What do you want me to do, Rhode? Quit my fellowship to be the partner of a hockey player?”
A frown mars his face. “No, I’d never ask you for that, but I’ve been thinking a lot about my contract, and—”
“You’re not giving up hockey for me, either. I won’t let you.”
His brows rise. “You won’t let me? It’s my life.”
“I know, and I care about your life.” I snatch the notecards from his grasp, using them as a shield. “I can’t do this right now. I have a speech to prepare for, but…” I soften. “Thank you. I’m really glad you came.”
He moves closer, his hand gliding down my spine, caressing the curve of my lower back before lingering above my ass. “I was always going to come for you, Nina. This is important to you, but we’re talking about this later because I’m not giving you up.” His eyes drop to the cards shaking in my hands. “You nervous?”
“No,” I say too quickly because all I feel are his words burning into my heart.
Rhode has flaws, I know he does, but the worst part is that I like his flaws. Like the way he pronounces espresso as expresso, or how he’s a little overprotective because he cares, or that he sometimes eats a jar of pickles in bed.
I perk up.
Actually, that’s disgusting. I latch onto that flaw. It’s exactly the visual I need to stop this desire from rising in my body.
He reaches out to hold my sweaty palm. “You’re going to do amazing, Nina. You’ve been working on this for months, and I’ve heard you practicing in the shower. You’ll be great.”
The shower visual brings back memories of Rhode’s body. The way it felt as he pushed into me, fucked me against a door, filled me up with something I didn’t know I needed. He’s the only man who could make me breathless from both moaning and laughing. Rhode’s gaze drifts down, lingering on the curve of my lips with a smoldering intensity.
Pickles. Think pickles, Nina.
“Hello, everyone!”
I jump, ripping my gaze to my pottery professor in his burgundy corduroy jacket, standing in front of the crowd.
He taps the mic. “I’m Pierre Michaels, the owner of this gallery and your humble host for the evening. Thank you for coming out to support this wonderful association of artists for The Peaceful Mind Project.”
He claps, and everyone joins in the applause. Pierre says a few more words about his talented students while I mentally replay my speech. Rhode’s hand moves in soothing circles on my lower back, steadying me like he was handcrafted for my personality.
“Now, I’d like to welcome one of our radiant ambassadors to talk about The Peaceful Mind Project in our welcome speech,” Pierre says. “Without further ado, please put your hands together for Philomena Alstyne!”
The sound of applause crackles through the air, mingling with the earthy scent of clay. Rhode squeezes my shoulder. “You got this, Nina. I’ll be out in the audience cheering you on. Now go blow them away.”
And with that, he saunters through the crowd while I approach the microphone. The audience gathers, clutching their drinks. My thoughts are jumbled, but I lock eyes with Rhode and take a deep, calming breath.
I can handle this.
You’re not jumping out of a plane or getting chased by a bear, Nina. You’re fine. You’re always going to be fine.
I adjust the mic. “Hi, everyone. I’m Nina.”
I look down at my notecards, but glance back up to find Rhode. His dirty whispers were distracting enough to melt my nerves over the speech, and I’m not sure if that was intentional on his part, but either way, I’m grateful. “Thank you for coming out and supporting The Peaceful Mind Project. You have no idea how much it means to have everyone here. Art therapy is something that has helped me over the years, and…”
I hold Rhode’s shining blue gaze and continue speaking in a steady voice, watching him watch me. There’s a peacefulness in him that the chaos in my soul craves. Maybe it’s because he’s a little older, a little wiser, and I hope that whoever created his soul also made mine.
“So, thank you all for being here,” I finish into the mic. “Your support means the world to me and The Peaceful Mind Project.”
The room erupts in applause, and I can’t help but bask in the moment. I did it without fainting.
No anxiety. No panic attack. Everything turned out fine.
My smile stretches like a sunrise across my face. Anxiety might be unpredictable, but it doesn’t rule over me anymore. I used to think of it as this thing that lived inside me, but it always passes, never stays. Maybe it was never really a part of me at all.
Rhode claps the loudest of anyone, blue eyes fixed on me. They never once drifted throughout my entire speech. I step away from the mic, and people pull me in different directions, expressing their gratitude.
All night, Rhode watches from a quiet corner, letting me have my moment, but pride fills the small grin playing across his lips.
By the end of the evening, my throat is parched from all the conversations, so I make my way to the two bartenders in leather aprons. “A virgin mojito, please?”
“You got it.” The other bartender whispers something in his ear that makes him laugh, and he nods.
Rhode struts through the dwindling crowd, hands in pockets, a tilt to his lips. He stops in front of me, resting an elbow on the sleek metal counter. “You barely looked at the notecards during your speech.”
I glance down at the stack, still on the first one, and my lips twitch in a grin. “I guess you were right. I didn’t need them, but it was just an introduction speech.”
“So what?” Rhode counters. “It was important to you, which makes it important to me, and you captivated the entire room.”
I brush off the compliment because it means too much to me. “Captivated? That’s a strong word choice.”
“It’s the truth.”
Rhode’s eyes drop to my lips and stay there. His throat bobs, which reminds me of the way he stared at me in the office. My mouth goes drier, if that’s possible. When the bartender slides the mojito over, I take a huge swig.
Rhode watches me swallow, and his knuckles whiten as he grips the bar. I drink and drink and drink, but as soon as I finish, I notice it—the burn of alcohol.
I whip my head around to the bartender. “Was there alcohol in this?”
He nods. “Mojito, right?”
“No, I said a virgin mojito.”
“What the hell?” Rhode snaps in my defense. “She doesn’t drink. That’s a big mistake to make, man.”
His eyes bulge. “Oh shit, sorry. You pregnant?”
I glare at the bartender. “No, I’m not. I’ll be fine, but I just need to leave before the room starts spinning because this is going to hit me hard.”
My breathing quickens. I can’t afford a repeat of the disaster from my freshman year. I blacked out after one drink, thanks to my medication. It was a strong one, but still. I refuse to end up passed out in the bushes like that again, especially in front of Rhode.
I grab a bottle of water and chug it like that’ll counteract the effects of the alcohol. “I have to go. I’ll see you later.”
“No, you won’t,” Rhode counters, wrapping an arm around my waist. “I’m not going anywhere.”
All of a sudden, dizziness hits, and the world tilts off-balance. Rhode’s face blurs into a fuzzy blob. I feel myself swaying, the room spinning faster, but then his arms are around me. “Come on, I’ve got you. I’m taking you home.”
“You’re going to stay with me?” My words come out in a slur, feeling thick in my mouth. There’s no telling what’s going to fly past my lips tonight. From that feeling alone, I know I’m going to wake up covered in regrets.
Rhode’s voice sounds distant like he’s calling from the end of a tunnel. “I’d stay forever for you.”
