“Tell Jilly I said hi.”
I shoved the phone back into my pocket. What the hell was wrong with me that I was more annoyed than excited about this booty-call invite? It was the first time I felt relief when a woman said she couldn’t see me for a while.
Relief—and something else.
I looked around Jesse’s studio, at the canvases alive with lines and color, and brushes dipped in turpentine. There was nothing shallow here, no fake giggles meant to flatter. Just raw talent. Passion. And so much depth I could drown in it and die a happy man.
For the first time in decades, I wanted more than a warm body in my bed. I wanted this—the mystery, the mess, the contradiction that was Jesse.
That was one scary thought.
I found Jesse in the kitchen nursing a cup of coffee.
I sat across from her. “Candi says hi.”
Her lips twitched. “I heard. I’m Jilly, right?”
“She’s not great with names.” I shrugged sheepishly.
She waved vaguely. “Oh, I’m sure she has other redeeming attributes.”
“She does. She’s very nice.”
“Mm-hm.” She used her fork to doodle in the melted cream on her now empty plate. “Sebastian, can I ask you a personal question?”
“My favorite kind. Shoot.”
“Why do you date women you don’t seem to really connect with?”
I blinked, startled—not because the question was invasive, but because it mirrored the one I’d often asked myself.
“What do you mean by that?”
Jesse hesitated, as though she wasn’t sure if she should say more. Then she squared her shoulders. “They just... don’t seem like your type. I’ve seen you have more in-depth conversations with your door. You’re smart, successful, so why settle for superficial when you’re clearly capable of something deeper?”
My frown softened. “You think I’m smart?”
She rolled her eyes. “You know you are. Although you don’t show it by the women you date.”
I traced my finger along the rim of my coffee cup, buying time. “Maybe I’m still figuring out what I really want. Or maybe I’ve just been waiting for someone who sees past the packaging. Someone special. Unique.”
I met her eyes then, steady and unflinching. “In the meantime, I’m not made of stone. Don’t tell me every guy you’ve dated was a deep philosophical thinker with a subscription toScientific American.”
She made a tongue-in-cheek face. “Fair enough. Not every date has been a TED Talk. It looks like we have the same problem. Superficial, dead-end relationships.”
I propped my chin on my fist, studying her. “Any ideas on how to fix that?”
She gulped. “No idea. They say that the harder you look for something, the harder it is to find it. Sometimes, it’s better to wait until that something—or someone—finds you.”
“And how do you know when that special someone finds you?”
“If it’s special, you’ll know.”
I took a sip of coffee. “See now, I disagree. I believe in making my own luck.” I watched her over the rim of the mug. “Do you think we could save each other from shallow relationships?”
Her lips parted, but she made no sound. She didn’t know what to say.
I didn’t know what I meant. The words had just slipped out before I could analyze them, censor them, make a plan.
