“Just renewed my contract with Nike.”
Although I nodded, part of me anticipated the next excuse. Because he could give them, and I would take them.
Only—it didn’t come.
He stood beside me. I returned my attention to the images, keeping clear of the one from the night of my leukemia nonprofit fundraising event two summers ago.
I had started Whispers of Hope after high school and worked closely with my doctor and a research team to help other kids with cancer. Kids like me. I’d turned my twenty-first birthday celebration into a fundraiser. Should’ve been an amazing night. And honestly? That was how it started. There were generous quantities of king crab legs and celebrity shoutouts. Even more generous donors, helping a cause that touched hearts.Then it wasn’t.
I glanced at another photo of me and smiled. I had never seen myself as beautiful. Not that I had bad self-esteem or anything. When raised on death’s bed, other things became more important. Books. Too many cheesy rom-coms, some adventure. I valued what other youths neglected, like not ditching classes, though Momma homeschooled me from freshman through junior year. Plus, I already had an AA degree before senior year, so there was that.
There was also the lens of my camera to hide behind. Stalkerish photos to take. Not to toot my own horn, but my stalkerish photos were amazing—courtesy of the fine instructors at UCLA.
However, Lachlan had found every single photo ofmeand placed it in this room. He was the curator. And me? I now experienced the opposite side of the lens. Became art. Seen. Celebrated. Loved. Even if he hadn’t spoken it yet.
Lachlan’s arm slipped around my waist, his hand resting on my opposite hip. The tension in the muscular wall of his chest pressed against my shoulder. His breath brushed the shell of my ear.
“I’d build galleries in every city if it made you feel this seen.”
“I don’t want that,” I whispered. “I just wantoneman who sees me. Every version.”Maybe the broken version from that summer night.“And still wants to stay.”
“I’m trying, Natasha.” His voice cracked slightly.
I peered at the man who should’ve been my enemy. His entire family should’ve been my family’s enemy. But they weren’t. MacKenzie Boy Four—the son right before Lachlan—married a girl I knew who had been trafficked by the Chelomey Bratva. Of course, that name … Chelomey had gone extinct since the girl Jamie loved, Jordyn, had saved me during my senior year in high school. Thus, the alliance between my family and his.
Even so, an alliance wasn’t enough. I craved him. Wanted him more each day.
The Russian in me should’ve remained poised. And the Black girl in me should’ve appeared composed. A front. Nope. Ever since I took the plunge, I flocked behind Lachlan MacKenzie, and even when I felt like the only woman in Lachlan’s world, one thought scared the daylights out of me.
Would Lach ever truly be mine? Could he love me more than baseball?
2
LACHLAN
For the first six months,we’d been inseparable during phone conversations, getting to know each other, flirting. Then we started dating. Now, after a year and a half strong, I saw her in a new light. Still. Silent. Glowing like light had caught her at the right angle. Natasha stood in the center of the gallery I built for her. She had to know I saw her.
She’d never once been second in my mind, even when the world kept yanking me five different directions. Practice. Photo shoots. Interviews.
Now she stood in the middle of it all.
I didn’t want her to leave. Didn’t want to comply with my fifty-million-dollar Dodger contract or other contracts I’d signed. Didn’t want to do anything without including her.
Natasha’s eyes shined, happy tears collecting in her gorgeous hazel orbs. “You did this, for me?”
I stepped closer, resting my hand on her waist. “Yeah. Had to.”
Natasha didn’t need grand gestures. She wasn’t the type to be impressed by this hotel penthouse or the Nike boxes stacked in my closet. Or even the two million I gave to Whispers of Hope,her foundation. She’d appreciated it. But she’d appreciate it when I visited the kids stuck in the oncology ward. She’d grown up surrounded by power, diamonds, a private jet. Cancer. Still, I wanted to give her something onlyIcould give her.
Time. Thought. Devotion. And maybe the food that awaited us near the French doors. The cold prevented an outdoor meal, so dinner was served on a white-linen table, sheltered by silver domes. For the next hour, candlelight flickered across her gorgeous face as we chatted and ate.
In no time, Natasha dropped her linen napkin on the table, drawn back to the canvases.
“You framed a part of me I thought nobody even noticed.” She glanced at an image that had taken some calling around to her old college professors to grab.
“Allow me to become your personal curator for life.” I climbed out of my chair and planted my kneeling body between her legs.
Her laugh was low, breathy, the kind that hit right in the center of my chest and stayed there.
