“Of course. I’m an open book with you.” He takes my hands and takes me there.
I pick up a framed photo by the edge, a shot of Heath and Jude and two people who are clearly his parents. “It’s you and your family,” I say of the picture of them at the dinner table, wearing Christmas paper crowns, holding Christmas crackers. “I bet there’s a fireplace and hot mulled cider nearby.”
He just grins and shrugs out a yes.
“I think I love your family already.” I pick up another shot—Heath and Jude, outside a theater.
“That’s a play he did here. Pillow Talk. His breakout show,” he says.
“Has he ever performed on or off-Broadway?”
“Not yet. I wanted to take him to see some plays when I was in New York for a long weekend a few years ago. But he was shooting a BBC show.”
My eyes widen. “You were in New York! I could have bumped into you.”
“Wouldn’t that have been a bit of kismet?” he asks.
“It would. I can see it now,” I say. “You and me meeting a few years ago.”
And I truly can. Him and me in Manhattan, checking out restaurants, going to shows, kicking around the park, taking pictures on Bethesda Terrace.
I want to ask whether he wants to go to New York with me. If he’ll take a trip, meet my friends, do it all up.
But it does feel a little too soon. I’ll hold the idea close and ask him eventually.
I find a shot of Heath and the man from the store playing chess in the park, Heath’s face intense as the other man lifts a knight. “Nigel,” I say. “But who took this photo?”
He gestures to another image, one of a dark-haired man with his arm wrapped around a lovely redhead. “That’s my friend Griffin. He was in town for a few months, and he took that shot of Nigel and me in Battersea Park. Griffin runs tours in Paris. He’s English, but he speaks five languages. Sometimes I take photos for him of places around the city because he’s been working to expand those tours here.”
I clutch the photo to my chest. “I love it. It almost makes it seem like you like people,” I tease.
“Some people,” he says.
I set it back down as the light from the window casts its rays on a picture behind the one of his friends. It’s an image of Heath and a woman. She’s tall, with intelligent eyes and dark blonde hair. They’re standing by the river, and his arm is looped around her shoulders.
Violet.
A pang digs into my heart, but it’s not jealousy. It’s sadness—for what he’s been through and for how hard it must have been to lose her.
On the one hand, I’m only here with him because she’s not, but that’s such a black and white way to view the situation. Life happens. And you have to go forward. Allow your grief to run its course until you eventually reach a place of acceptance—and then you start healing. I know that all too well. “It’s a lovely photo,” I say softly—respectfully too.
“Thank you,” he says.
That’s all, and I suppose it’s all that needs to be said.
It’s the only photo of her.
This mantel isn’t a Violet shrine. It’s not a monument to his past love. It’s simply a place for pictures of the people in his world. It’s the stories of the years, of the things he’s done, of those who matter to him.
An empty gold frame stands at the end. “And that?”
Heath dips his head, looking sheepish.
“Come on. What’s that for?” I ask, giving him a gentle bump of the shoulder.
“Look, if you came into my home and I had a photo of you already, I would look like a stalker.”
“Are you saying you removed a photo of me from it?” I tease.
He laughs, tossing his head back. “That would make me very odd.”
I give him an I’m waiting stare. “So . . .”
“I could see you and me in there. Maybe that shot from the gardens. Maybe on a bridge. Perhaps we could take pictures of us kissing all over London, and I could have a shelf of kissing photos instead of books.”
My heart soars at that image, or rather, all the images. “You would take pictures of us kissing?”
A smile curves his lips. “I would. I want to.”
“Then you should.” I lift my chin. “Consider me your willing subject.”
There’s nothing to do then but to kiss. It’s imperative.
Then kissing leads to the bedroom, where clothes come off once again, and then we’re tangled up, bodies pressing, hearts connecting, sealing this promise to kiss all over the city.
The kisses turn hotter, hungrier, and then I’m under him, and he covers me.
This is where I want to be. Feeling his glorious weight as he presses into me. As he moves in me, I drag my nails down his back, making him shudder. I register that detail—he likes being marked. Maybe it makes him feel more connected to me. A little bite. A little scratch.