“I know.” When she gives a start, I add, “I read your HR file at the office.”
“That’s illegal,” she exclaims.
I raise a brow.
She drops the subject. Yeah. If you’ve stolen someone’s program, you’re hardly in a position to judge a little hacking.
“Jobs in my field are scarce.” She shrugs. “I was thinking of trying at some tattoo parlors.”
I don’t show my surprise. When I imagine fine arts, I imagine the paintings I’ve stolen from fancy galleries and museums. I imagine art brokers and curators, not tattoo artists. In my very uneducated opinion, there’s a huge difference between a Van Gogh and your local tattoo artist’s version of a starry night, but what do I know? Ian is the expert on tats.
I straighten. “I’ll check with a few guys in Pretoria.”
“Really?” she asks, her eyes wide.
“Really.” I go after her, cornering her against the cupboard. I’ve never chased after a woman, but since meeting Violet, I’ve done a lot of chasing. When it comes to us, that’s all I seem to be doing. Cupping her face, I brush a thumb over her cheek. “I already told you. I want you to be happy.”
“Okay,” she says with a frown, as if she still finds that hard to believe.
It’s the hardest truth I’ve ever admitted, that I want her happiness more than my own, enough to let Elliot get away with what she’s done. The choice, on the other hand, was easy. I’ll do it again if given the chance.
Ultimately, I want to be happy. I want us to be happy, but betrayal is like a gorge between us that I don’t know how to bridge.
I drop my hand as the truth cools the moment and that fragile suspension bridge rocks in our turbulent winds.
Her lavender eyes darken. She’s read my mood. She’s probably accurately guessed my train of thought.
Adamant not to spoil the moment again, I turn for the door. “I have to get ready for work.”
“Leon,” she says to my back.
I stop. I can count the number of times she’s spoken my name on one hand. I wait, holding my breath, willing her to say the words I want to hear.
Her voice is soft. “Thank you for the breakfast.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, not looking at her.
Breakfast is her right. Providing for her needs is my duty, my privilege.
Thanking me for a privilege I stole isn’t the words I was hoping to hear. Thank you are not the words that will heal us.