About Last Night

His dimple turned up for a visit. “Which part?”

“I was thinking the naked part.” She glanced quickly at the central painting, then away. At his face, then away. Her eyes settled near his collar. It wasn’t exactly a neutral position. Nev in a tuxedo ought to be classified as a weapon. Slightly disheveled, he was a sex grenade.

“You could sue me for all of them. I didn’t ask you to sign a release.”

“I would’ve said no.”

“Precisely.”

She’d said nothing but no since that morning in Hertfordshire. No, she wouldn’t take his phone calls. No, she wouldn’t speak to him at the train station. No, she wouldn’t let him into her office or her flat. She’d been afraid of exactly this—that he’d find a crack in her resolve and immediately make her forget why she couldn’t have him. It had taken four hours for the tattoo artist to inject the warning she’d devised into the soft flesh of her belly, and she’d welcomed every bite of the needle, hoping the pain would become a carapace she could use to protect herself from repeating her mistakes.

But he’d stolen her tattoo and changed it. He’d stolen her whole life story and flipped it around, making it beautiful and tragic instead of sordid and stupid. She didn’t have any carapace to keep him away. Only this body that loved him, this heart that loved him, this brain that was supposed to be helping her fend him off but instead was telling her, Hey, Cath? Guess what? You love him.

She burst into helpless, defeated tears.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight against his chest. “Don’t cry, darling. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have painted you if I’d thought it would make you cry.”

“It’s not the paintings,” she said, sniffling. “The paintings are amazing.”

“What is it then?”

She looked up, wiping her tears and probably smearing her mascara in the process. “I’m in love with you.”

He smiled. No, he beamed, huge and bright, all sparkling teeth and twinkling green-brown eyes. “That’s excellent news.”

“It’s not. We’re no good for each other, only I can’t resist you, and we’re going to end up making each other miserable over and over.” She sobbed, and he tightened his arms, resting his chin on top of her head. His chest was vibrating. He was laughing.

“Why are you laughing at me?” she asked. “This isn’t funny.”

“I missed you,” he said, and kissed the top of her head. “God, I missed you terribly.”

He stepped back, placing his hands on her shoulders so he could look at her. He was still smiling, but his hands weren’t altogether steady, and his cheeks were even more flushed than they’d been a minute ago.

Nervous. This was what Nev looked like when he was nervous. She’d never seen him nervous before, and for some reason the sight comforted her.

“Turn round.” He steered her to face the paintings again. “Tell me what you see.”

Reluctantly, she obeyed. “My life.”

“What kind of life have you had?”

She looked at the paintings, one after another. Thought about her lost father and her lost baby. Her lost innocence and missed opportunities. “Sad. Hard.” Unforgiving.

“Is that what you see?”

“Yes.”

It was, but it wasn’t. He’d made her life different somehow. Shrunken it down and enlarged her. She was the heroine of the story he’d told. Tested and tried by fate, she’d emerged from every episode alive and stronger. Nev’s Mary Catherine was resilient. She was a fighter. This Cath didn’t require forgiveness, because she hadn’t sinned against anyone but herself, and s

he’d done the best she could. “No.”

“It’s not what I see, either. Shall I tell you what I see?”

She didn’t answer. He smoothed his hands over her shoulders and down her arms, catching both wrists and bringing them around her front so she settled back against him in the circle of his embrace.

“I was trying to show you what your life looks like to me. Your past— It’s not a series of mistakes, love. It’s just you. All the things that happened to you that made you who you are. You asked me if I hated you for what you’ve done and what you’ve been through, but I never could. I admire you. I love you. And I wouldn’t change any of it, even the worst parts, because I wouldn’t change a thing about you.”

“Oh,” she said, overwhelmed, but in a fluttery, pleasant sort of way. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”