“What was that?” he asks.
“What was what?”
“You just flinched as though I was going to hurt you,” he tells me slowly as he lowers his hands from the door.
I watch as his face goes from smoldering and sexy to cool and detached. Instantly, I want to apologize. I want to tell him that I didn’t mean it. He can trust me, and I can trust him.
I know I can trust him, don’t I?
I watch him as he slips his hands into his pockets. He takes a step away from me, averting his eyes from my body. Sighing, I reach down and wrap my robe around myself. I want to scream and tell him that I didn’t mean it, but it’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Can you please move away from the door?” he asks in a surly, gruff tone.
I can feel the distance already starting to spread between us. All the trust and all the moments leading up to this are gone in the blink of an eye.
“Can we talk about this for a minute? I still have questions.” I try to appeal to his professional nature.
“Get the fuck out of the way, Gemma,” he yells.
Instantly, I move away from the door.
When he reaches it, he grips the handle. Angry green eyes lock with mine.
“Things changed that morning because I spoke to Beau. He told me her parents were coming to visit. He explained how they wanted to meet me. They didn’t trust me and didn’t trust my intentions. They were coming to visit, and I knew they wanted to take her away.” It sounds as though he is feeling it all over again. He seems destroyed. “I wanted to make sure she didn’t want to leave. I needed to make sure she believed in us,trustedus. So I made sure she wanted me just as much as I wanted her.”
“She stayed, didn’t she?” I ask, knowing he’s about to leave because he’s still pissed.
“She stayed…until she left,” he replies cryptically.
Opening the door, he exits and leaves me standing in my room, wondering how the hell I can fix the trust I just broke.
Ten
ARMOR
I MAKE MY way up to the studio after lunch.
He didn’t tell me to meet him there. He didn’t invite me to come. But after what happened this morning, I have a burning compulsion to see him and set things straight.
As I get the door of the studio, I can hear music floating through the air. The violin definitely holds a fascination for me now, and I can tell I am not alone. It is obvious it also pulls at Phillipe in a way that I still don’t quite comprehend.
Stepping across the threshold, I look around the room and spot him sitting on a stool behind the large canvas propped in its usual spot, on the easel over by the window.
He hasn’t seen me yet, so I’m careful not to make any noise as I make my way farther into the room that is dappled by the sun’s rays.
I can see his feet resting on the floor. He’s taken off his shoes from this morning and rolled up the bottoms of his jeans. His hair looks rumpled and disturbed, and his mouth is pulled into a serious line that makes his entire face look different. He appears annoyed, frustrated, and maybe even a little bit sad.
I know that I ruined whatever trust I had gained when I let my preconceived ideas and opinions of him take hold ofme for just a millisecond this morning. Now, as I stand here, watching him move his brush across the smooth surface with his focus aimed intently on what he is doing, I can’t help but be disappointed in myself.
I amalwaysobjective in my job. I have never been one to let other people’s opinions influence the way I interview or talk to a potential witness or subject of a story. This morning, though, when I let previous stories feed my moment of doubt, I did, and in turn, I lost his trust. It’s now imperative that I regain it.
“I know you’re standing there, Gemma.” His somber voice floats across the silence.
Clasping my hands in front of myself, I make my way farther into the room. I stop behind the canvas, directly in his eye line.
For some reason, I feel the need to whisper, “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
He stops his painting as his annoyed eyes rise to meet mine over the top of the canvas. “Well, you have.”
