Finding Him (Covet 2)

I gulped, trying to digest the information he set on the table like a heavy bag full of his past sins. It lodged itself between us and just sat there. “What made you change?”

“Waking up from the coma. You know, that and the fact that my mom beat some sense and logic into me, reminding me where I came from, what my purpose was. I went to the hospital every day, and every day she gave me a lecture and a challenge to be better. That was more than a year ago, when we first reconnected.”

“And in that entire time, the old you never popped up and said screw it all?” I wondered as I picked at my thumbnail and folded my hands in my lap to keep from fidgeting.

His intense stare was back, the one that made my stomach erupt into butterflies and my guilt double up on itself for even reacting that way.

“Well . . .” His smile was crooked, it made him look playful, sexy. Noah would have said Julian looked ready for a photo shoot and probably got manicures on the regular, and he would have probably been right, but Julian didn’t seem to shy away from that ugly side of him. He didn’t care. “I did yell at my brother and ex a few times, I may have flipped over a desk in my office and gotten painfully drunk a few days in a row, and thrown a mild temper tantrum at the Four Seasons, where security had to escort me to my room, but other than that, nah . . . not tempted.”

I burst out laughing. “You threw a temper tantrum at the Four Seasons? What, did your mini bar run out of peanuts?”

“Funny,” he said sarcastically, “and no. If you must know, I was also drunk and pissed off. Apparently seeing your ex marry your twin brother does that to a person, and I wanted more M&M’s. Can you believe they refused to deliver them to my room?”

“Monsters.”

“I used more colorful language at the time.” He shrugged. “And should have probably gotten arrested for assault, but I’m a Tennyson. Rules don’t apply to me.” He seemed disgusted by that.

“I know what that’s like,” I said softly, and I did. People were always watching and saying how wonderful I was. The scary part is trying to maintain that level of perfection—the scary part is the failing and risking everyone turning against you. Fame is a ticking time bomb, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I fell—or was pushed—from my social media pedestal. “I’m a Westbrook, goody-two-shoes daughter of Hollywood royalty. I can do no wrong.”

“I bet I could dirty up that reputation a bit for you.” He seemed almost sad about it. “Trust me, hanging out with me would be enough.”

I frowned. Hadn’t I thought that same thing earlier? How the press would have a field day if they saw us together in the same room? But now . . . now that I saw him differently, I didn’t want to think that, refused to believe it. “I don’t really think that’s true.”

“Clearly you haven’t been reading the newspapers . . . My dad’s still bitter and finds great joy in uncovering every sin I’ve ever committed and leaking it to the media. The idea that I have his blood in my body makes me want to slit my own wrists.”

“Harsh.”

“True!” he fired back. “Anyway, sorry, didn’t mean to travel down memory lane like that. They aren’t fun ones anyway.”

“And mine are?”

“Good point.” He laughed. “At least yours are good ones, solid ones you want to hold on to forever.”

“That’s the thing about memories. They always fade, don’t they?”

He was quiet and then said, “That’s why you talk about them, that’s why you’re writing this down. Your words keep his memory alive.”

I sucked in a sharp breath. “Yeah.”

“Hey, Keaton?”

“Hmm?” I didn’t want him to see me get emotional again, but it was impossible not to look at Julian when he spoke to me, almost like I was doing my body a disservice by not making eye contact.

He walked around the table and then pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “Only the luckiest of men die knowing they lived even a few days with a love like this.” His smile was so sad my heart pressed against my chest like it needed to escape, needed to reach out to him, be the salve to his still gaping wound.

Both of us were broken.

But in different ways.

He was mourning the loss of not just his mom, but of his past, of the time he misused as the man he’d been.

I was mourning a love that ended too soon, like a flower that never gets to fully bloom.

I wondered if it was all the same, because it was painful no matter the reasoning behind it, and pain couldn’t lie dormant for long—no, it must be felt.