EMBER - Part Three (The EMBER Series, #3) (6 page)

I smile at the faint grin on his face.  "I thought my mom was difficult."

"I don't live my life for anyone but myself, Bridget." He brings my hand to his lips. "I can't make my mother happy. She wants to move to New York and right now she wants to live with Maisy. That's her decision. It has nothing to do with me and you."

***

"Y
ou're not going to invite me up to your place to show me your drawings?" He winks as the question leaves his lips.

"My drawings?" I cock a brow. "Isn't that some old pick-up line men used to use years ago?"

"If I had drawings, and a place to live, I'd use it only on you."

I throw my head back in carefree laughter. "There is something I should show you but I can't today. I'm meeting a friend. He's showing some of his stuff at a museum in a few weeks and they've agreed to include a few of my drawings."

"You're talking about Brighton Beck, aren't you?"

"I am," I say bluntly. "Do you know who he is?"

"He was at the hospital the night you were hit by the car." He cradles my cheek in his palm. "I knew it was him right away but I was too torn up over you to say a word to him."

"You like art." It's a statement, not a question.

"I've always liked it," he confesses. "I used to take Cleo to some exhibits before..."

"Before the disagreement?" I offer, wanting to move the conversation along. "What exactly happened between you and her?"

He reaches up the scratch his ear. "It's too complicated to get into now. It seemed like a big issue at the time, but now I realize I was wrong."

I don't push. If he wanted me to know, he'd at least give me a generalized account of what happened, without all of the pointed details.  I can't ask for more than he's willing to give. "Disagreements have a way of fading away once time passes."

"I just wish I could talk to her again." He rakes his hand through his hair. "There's a lot I want to say to her."

I study his face. I only see compassion and goodness there. He may have fallen in love with someone who wasn't right for him and he may have to face the consequences of leaving her each and every time he speaks to his mother, but at his core, he's an honest man who has been nothing but loving and supportive to me.

"You can talk to her again." I tap his chest. "I know where to find her."

"W
hat is this?" He holds the small white card in his hands. "What is this number?"

I don't want to veil the truth of how I know where Cleo is behind any lie. I have to confess. "It's her room number at the hospital."

"Cleo is in the hospital?" His hands visibly start shaking. "Is she okay? What's wrong with her?"

For the briefest of moments before I pulled the card free from the pocket of my jeans, I wondered if his own mother had told him about Cleo since Vanessa saw the two of them together at the hospital. "She had her baby."

"She did?"

I don't know any details. I can't offer anything other than that card with the blue ink. "Vanessa told me that when she saw Cleo at the hospital with your mom last week that she wasn't pregnant. I asked about her at the reception desk and the woman working there told me Cleo was admitted. She actually called her Cleo Durand."

"Durand," he says the name softly. "She married David."

It's another name that holds no meaning to me. I feel the same emptiness that I did when he first mentioned Cleo a few days ago. These are people who are part of his past.

"David was one of Cleo's doctors." He taps the edge of the card against his palm. "He loves her so much."

"What happened to Cleo?"

His eyes dart up to my face as he shuffles nervously on his feet. "You mean why she can't walk?"

I nod, not wanting to give a voice to my curiosity. I've never known anyone in a wheelchair. I don't know the politically correct way to ask the obvious questions. I don't want to be insensitive but since I stood next to her in the museum that day, I've wondered how someone so bright and positive could find strength when her life is impacted in such a fundamental way. 

After I'd left the museum and had walked home, I'd relished each step. I knew then and I still know now, that I was virtually unscathed after the police car hit me. My life could have been very different now and I doubt that I'd have the same grace and acceptance that Cleo does.

"There was an accident when she was an infant." He folds the corner of the card. "Her mother was holding her in her arms in the car. It was a short trip to the store. I think Cleo was four or five months old then."

It's true what they say about life changing in an instant. I listen, not wanting to interrupt.

"Her dad was driving and when they got home, he told her mom to wait so he could help her get out of the car," he pauses to look back down at the card. "She was in a rush to get inside so she opened the door and stepped out."

"What happened?" I ask anxiously.

"Her mom tripped." He shakes his head as if to ward off an image that is crossing his mind. "She dropped the baby on the concrete. She dropped Cleo."

I don't need to hear more. The medical details of how she was injured or the impact that it had on her development, don’t matter. What does matter is that Dane is pulling me into his arms and right now, there's no place I'd rather be.

***

"I
'll go see her tomorrow after my shift." He tucks the card into the back pocket of his jeans. "I need time to think about what I'll say."

Even though I've wrapped my arms around him and I've nestled my cheek into the soft fabric of the t-shirt that is covering his broad chest, I still feel as though there's a barrier between us. I want to offer comfort, or at the very least, understanding, but I don't know where to start. "Can I help? We can talk about it if you want."

"I do want to talk about it." He tenderly kisses my forehead. "As soon as I clear the air with Cleo, I want us to talk, Bridget. I want to talk about our future."

Our future? It's what I want to talk about too because a future with him is the one thing I want more than anything.

"W
hat would you say if I told you to move to Paris?"

"Bonjour?"

He cracks a wide smile. "You'd need to learn more than that. I can teach you the language. I speak fluent French."

Of course he does. Beck lived in Paris before he met Zoe. I didn't gather that tidbit of Brighton Beck's past from his wife or from his very detailed Wikipedia page. I got that from an article I read in one of the trashy gossip magazines I used to read when I lived in Connecticut and worked at the local supermarket. He moved there with one woman and ended up having an affair with another woman. I've never actually discussed that with Zoe because I want to keep our friendship in one piece. Bringing up her husband's playboy past would only hurt her.

"Why would I move to Paris?" I ask in my best French accent.

He cocks a dark winged brow. "Don't use that accent there. You'll offend the entire population the minute you open your mouth."

I pull my hand up to my lips to mask the giggle I can't contain. "I won't be offending anyone. I'm not moving to Paris. I live in New York."

"I went to Paris and my career took off."

No. He went to Paris and his libido took off. "You were famous before you went to Paris."

He tilts his head to the left. "I'm not famous."

I roll my eyes as much to make him laugh as to accentuate how ridiculous that statement is. "There's a graduate class at Yale that only covers your art, Beck."

He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. "How do you know that?"

Zoe told me but not before I'd read about it myself. I've followed his career since well before I met him. He's one of the major players in the art world today. His water color paintings routinely sell at auction for six figures. He's gifted and humble enough to appreciate the talent of others. The fact that he runs a studio in the city that offers art classes to underprivileged youth is often noted in the press. He downplays it though and it's one of the reasons I strive to have a career just like his.

"I know a lot about you." I brush a piece of lint from my sweater. "I was a fan before you met Zoe."

"You were the only person in the pub the night I met her who knew who I was."

I had practically fawned over him. I'd rushed to get him a drink and when I brought it back I had hoped to launch into a rant about how much I admired him. My goal was to mention my own pencil drawings. I never had that chance because by the time I returned with his whiskey in hand, he was mesmerized by Zoe.

"Can I ask you something?" I approach a line of his paintings that are hung on the wall of his home office. "It's personal."

"You can ask me anything you want, Bridget." He moves so he's standing next to me.

"Zoe hasn't said a lot about your past relationships," I begin as I trace my finger over the edge of one of the canvases. "I read about some of them."

"There's a lot of information out there." He stares straight ahead. "Not all of it is accurate."

"Does Zoe know everything about your past?" I turn to look at his profile. "Have you told her all about it?"

I see a vein in his neck twitch. His brilliant blue eyes hone in on my face as he pivots his body to face me. "I've answered every question she's ever had. She knows that my life was empty before I met her. She knows that I love her more than anything."

"My boyfriend," I stop to consider the title. "Dane, the man I've been seeing, has a complicated relationship with his ex-girlfriend. She's close to his mother, and she has a sister that he cares a lot about."

"That bothers you?" He frames it as a question, not a statement which means I need to answer it.

"It worries me," I say honestly as I scratch the back of my neck. "It's like there are all these ties binding him to Maisy. That's her name. His ex is named Maisy. How can we be happy and together if she's still a part of his family and he's still part of her family?"

"Does he love you?" His hand darts to his stubble covered chin. "Has he told you how he feels about you?"

"He loves me." The sound of the words coming from my own lips stops my heart for a brief moment. "He's told me a few times that he loves me."

"Families are complicated," he says hoarsely. "Zoe's parents have never warmed up to me. It's not ideal but I love her and regardless of what anyone else feels, I'll never give that up."

Dane's situation isn't ideal either but he makes me feel things I never knew I could feel, and I'm not about to give that up either.

"Bridget." He taps his hand on my shoulder. "I'm serious about Paris. There's a three month internship program there that you're perfect for. I've already spoken to the director and there's a spot reserved for you. It would allow you to show your work in some of the city's most influential galleries."

"There are galleries here," I offer back. "I can build my career here."

"Promise me you'll give it some thought."

"I promise," I reply, even though the thought of moving that far away from Dane rips me to shreds inside.

"I
thought you came over to talk," I finally manage to say.

"I have been talking," he growls as he weaves his fingers into my hair. "I told you how good it feels when you suck me off."

He did say that. He probably said it more than once but I was too busy sliding my tongue over the length of the thick root to hear anything but the moans coming from deep within me. I'd brought him to the edge and just when I felt his body tighten, I'd pulled back hoping to be rewarded with a hot burst of his release on my lips. He'd managed to level his breathing enough that he held off.

His cock is still rock hard and as I graze my lips over the lush head, I hear a low groan seep from his mouth. "I want it to last, Bridget."

I do too. I actually want him to fuck me. My body is aching for it. I've wanted him to take me this way for days and when he texted me an hour ago to say he was coming over, I'd dropped my sketchpad on the bed in the other room and I'd taken a quick shower to freshen up.

I kissed him the minute he walked over the threshold into my apartment and he was quick to yank my clothes off before sliding out of the jeans and sweater he was wearing. Now, as he leans his back against the wall of my bedroom, I rest my cheek against his firm thigh.

"Lick it again." He pulls gently on my hair. "Let me see your tongue on it."

I shift back enough that I know that when he looks down he can see my mouth touching him. I slide my tongue over the head, stopping to circle it again and again. I wrap both my hands around the thickness, sliding them slowly up and down.

"Bridget." My name gets lost in a moan. "I need to fuck you now."

I have little time to react before his hands slide from my hair to my shoulders. He jerks me up, and in one quick movement, I'm on my back on the bed. He leans forward, his moist lips meeting mine in a sensual, deep and core touching kiss.

I reach up to grab his face but his hands are quicker than mine. He pushes them down, so they're resting on the sheets. "I have to put on a condom. Don't move. Don't move an inch."

I nod without a word. I pull in a deep breath as I watch him reach towards the nightstand to pull out a condom package. He rips it open without breaking our gaze. My eyes drop as I watch him sheath his erection quickly and deftly. His hand circles his cock, pulling the condom into place.

His eyes rake over my nude body. "You're so beautiful."

I blush at the compliment. I don't feel exposed when he looks at me. I always feel cherished and admired. My body may not be perfect in the eyes of many men, but I know when Dane looks at it, that he's seeing something he desires at the deepest level possible.

I cry out when he rams himself into me balls deep in one movement. I arch my back trying to adjust to the full length and girth of him.

"Take it," he whispers the words against my lips. "Feel it all."

I reach up to cup his cheeks in my hands. "I feel it. Please."