Midnight At Tiffany's (From Manhattan with Love 0.50)

But he knew she dreamed of being a writer, he knew she was self-conscious about her height, he knew she never wore white because she had a habit of dropping things down her front—personal, intimate details that were usually only revealed when trust had grown.

He frowned. Did Victoria have a dream? What were her insecurities?

He had no idea. They’d known each other for years and he didn’t know if she was afraid of heights, spiders or the bogeyman. Victoria would never make herself vulnerable by revealing what she regarded as weakness. As a result, his knowledge of her was superficial. Almost all his relationships were superficial. And the one that might not have been—with his brother—had been broken long before.

He remembered rigging the boat with Brett, laughing as the waves capsized them, drinking beers on the sand as they watched the sun set over the water, and he felt a pang of loss, a sense of grief for something he’d once had and let go.

She snuggled closer. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.”

“You were remembering something and it made you sad.”

He turned his head to look at her and saw gentle warmth in her eyes. “How do you know that?”

“Because one moment you were smiling and the next you weren’t.”

The fact that she’d noticed, paid attention, removed his natural reticence. “I was thinking about my brother.”

She curved her hand over his chest and held him closer. “You should call him.”

He thought about the words that had been spoken and the time that had passed. “It’s too late.”

She shifted onto her elbow and looked at him. “It’s never too late, Alex. I lost my mom five years ago, and I’d give years of my life for a chance to tell her I love her one more time. Don’t let pride get in the way of doing what you want to do.”

Did he want to do it? Uncomfortable with the rush of unfamiliar emotion, he changed the subject. “Tell me about your mom.” It was such a personal question, he wouldn’t have blamed her for refusing, but she snuggled closer, her hair sliding in a silken tangle over his chest.

“She was incredible. Strong. Brave. The most fiercely determined person I ever met. She had me when she was eighteen and her parents—my grandparents—were horrified. They told her that having me would ruin her life. She wanted to be a lawyer, and they’d wanted that for her. When she refused to give me up they cut her off. Mom told me once that they were embarrassed that she was a single mom.”

Superficial, Chase thought. Concerned with appearances and the opinion of others. It was a trait shared by many of the people he knew.

“So they cut her off instead of supporting her.”

“She hated the words single mom. People use that label, don’t they? As if it signifies something, as if it conveys relevant information about character and status. She hated that people made assumptions. She worked three jobs to support us and eventually put herself through college and became a lawyer. That was her dream. She used to say to me, ‘People can make it hard for you, they can discourage and take the heart out of you, but in the end the only person who can kill your dream is you. Don’t ever give up.’“ There was a pause. “I tried so hard to make her proud of me, to be braver and less shy, but I’m sure there were times when she wondered how she could have produced someone like me.” The honest admission tugged at him, and he pushed her hair back from her forehead and kissed her gently.

“She would have been proud of you, moving to New York City, renting an apartment, holding down a job, living your life.”

“It’s more of a room than an apartment and—”

“And?”

“Nothing.” She snuggled closer. “Tell me something else about you.”

“I’m addicted to your body.”

She gave a low laugh and pressed her lips to his chest. “I meant something personal.”

“This is personal.” Chase stroked his hand over her skin. “What do you want to know?”

“What do you like to do when you’re not working?”

“I’m always working.” He spent his days in endless meetings and his evenings working his way through papers produced at those meetings. At some point his work had swallowed up his life.

“But you already told me you like sailing, so why don’t you sail? You love your work more?”

He didn’t love his work. He found it challenging and stimulating, but he didn’t love it. He’d gone into it through a sense of duty and stayed in it for the same reason. His father had needed someone to head up the company, and he’d stepped into that role when his brother wouldn’t. And he’d blamed his brother for his decision. Allowed his anger and disappointment to erode their relationship.

He tightened his hold on her. “When did you start writing?”