“Eavesdropping. I heard you fighting with my father.”
His expression darkens. “He’s a pathetic waste of carbon and luxury watches.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you. So, what was your argument about?”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “Our deal fell apart. It happens sometimes in business.”
Already, he's trying to downplay it. I’m starting to understand that James shies away from showing affection whenever he can, but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel it.
I reach out, running my thumb over his lapel. “Because you chose me instead. Thank you.”
He shrugs. “There was no choice. I could never do business with anyone who disrespects my wife.”
“Because you care,” I whisper.
“Yes.” His cool blue eyes flit between mine. “Because I care about you more than I’ve ever cared about another person. Because I can’t imagine my life without the color you brought into it. Because the most worthwhile thing I’ll ever do is make a family with you.”
Tears prick at my eyes. I might have had a father, but I never had afamily.Not like the one I always dreamed about.
“You know,” I whisper, “I used to think I knew what love looked like. Real love. I only saw that one time when I was a kid. That family I told you about on the way to Greece. They were arealfamily. And I think I’ve lived my whole life telling myself I could never have it even though it’s what I wanted most.”
James's hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. “Tell me again—about the boy.”
Her brow furrows, but she continues.
“Well, I was all alone in that storage room.” I lose myself in the memory. “And then this boy came in. He brought me cake from the kitchen, and cookies, and this mountain of food the staff had given him. He sat with me while I drew. He was the first person who ever looked at my art like it mattered.”
“Horses,” James says quietly. “You were drawing horses.”
My heart stops.
“How did you—” I pull back to look at him, really look at him. The dark hair. The serious mouth that still looks thoughtful when it smiles. The blue eyes that used to be lighter, before life made them harder.
“The lock on that door never worked,” James says, his voice rough. “I knew because my parents took me to events there all the time. I explored every room in that hall when I got bored.”
My hand flies to my mouth.
“You had a purple beaded bag,” he continues. “You kept your markers in it. You showed me every drawing in your notebook, and I sat there looking at them because I couldn't believe someone my age could create something so beautiful.”
“James—”
I can’t breathe. It’s not possible, is it?
“My mother came to get me. You looked so disappointed when I had to leave. I ran back to say goodbye, and we made a pinky promise.”
His eyes are bright now, almost glassy. “I spent years going to every gala I could, hoping I'd find you again. I never did. I never even knew your name.”
The room spins.
All this time. All this time, and the boy who brought me cake, who made me feel seen for the first time in my life, who showed me what a real family looked like?—
“It was you,” I breathe. “You were the boy.”
“And you were the girl with the horses.”
He cups my face in both hands now, his forehead pressing against mine. “Maura, I think I’ve been looking for you for sixteen years.”
A sob breaks free from my chest—half laugh, half cry. “Oh my god.”
