“Why?” she whispered. “Hardly anyone else does.”
I wasn’t sure how to explain something I felt with so much conviction. Maybe it was the pain in her eyes as she spoke or the sincerity of her words, but I did believe her. “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “But I do.”
“He wants me to publicly recant my statement. His lawyer even drew up papers stating if I did, he’d pay me twenty thousand to drop my ridiculous plagiarism claim and stop seeking attention.”
A cheap pay-off compared to what he stood to lose. “All with a non-disclosure of the payout, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“This isn’t about money.”
Her lip began to tremble. “No. It was, is, my work. Two years of my life. He stole it.”
“Then fight it.”
“I’m pretty much out of money to keep fighting it. I won’t give him what he wants, though.”
“So, you came here to try and think?”
“I came here to escape him—it—the whole situation. I was so tired of his emails, the constant barrage of press articles. People following me, calling me names. I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to escape.”
I could understand that. I could also see she was growing tired of talking about this painful subject. Her eyes had begun to fill with tears, the tremble in her lip more pronounced, and her shoulders were tense.
I took the cold cup of coffee from her hand and wrapped her in my arms. For a moment, she held herself stiff in my embrace, then melted into me, her head falling to my shoulder as quiet sobs escaped her mouth.
The desire to comfort this small woman was intense. Never had I experienced such a need to care for someone. Realistically, there was little I could do but hold her and allow her to expel her emotions. I had the feeling, that like me, she was very private and rarely allowed those around her to see her pain. Cradling her close, I stroked her back in long, soothing passes, my voice hushing and whispering comforting words I wasn’t sure she could hear.
She had been led on, lied to and a part of her had been taken away; all things I knew far too much about. She was right: she was fighting an uphill battle. The asshole had everything to fight for, and with: money, power, and success. She had nothing. It was like David and Goliath.
Only, I wasn’t sure this time David would win.9ZacharyI hated tears. Growing up, my mother had used them like a weapon against my father; bursting into noisy sobs as she slumped onto the kitchen counter or flung herself on the sofa in some dramatic fashion. He always gave in to whatever she was demanding at the time, then the tears would dry up, until the next time—it was a never-ending cycle with them. The day I walked away from them was the first time her tears were real, but they meant nothing to me. Later in life, during my career, I watched women turn their tears on and off with no true emotion behind them, making me that much more indifferent to the sight of them. In my personal life, a woman crying meant nothing to me; even though my own behavior often was the cause. I had the ability to ignore the outburst with no effect. I was never swayed by the sound.
Holding Megan, though, and listening to her cry, was an entirely different story. Her sobs were subdued, almost silent, as her small body shook in my arms. My chest ached with some unknown emotion, the same, almost helpless feeling I experienced when I saw her fall. It was a reaction I wasn’t used to nor liked very much. It made me feel out of control, and the one thing I had mastered over the years was being in control. As she cried, I wanted to comfort and fix whatever was causing her so much pain.
It was a peculiar sensation.
Slowly, she grew still, and the muffled, pain-filled sobs ceased. Without a word, I handed her some tissues, allowing her a moment to gather herself as she wiped away the wetness from her face.
“I got your shirt wet,” she whispered, her voice gruff with emotion. “I’m sorry.”
“I have other ones. It isn’t a problem.”
Her eyes met mine, the dark gaze wide and confused. We were so close; I could see the flecks of gold that surrounded her pupils like small sunbursts. Her auburn hair, glowing almost copper, glinted in the late afternoon sun that filled the room. Without thinking, I lifted a hand, trailing my fingers through the thickness of her tresses, admiring the colors spilling over my hand. “I’d like to capture you, exactly like this,” I murmured. “You’re so lovely in this light, with the sun surrounding you, highlighting your hair.”
“Do you do that? Paint, ah, portraits?”