Make It Sweet

“What did your agent say?”

“There’s a part. The director and producers both want me. It’s a drama based on a huge bestselling thriller.”

She told me the title, and I whistled low. “Who do they want you to play?”

“Beatrice.”

I knew the book. Beatrice was the main protagonist, who was either slowly dissolving into madness or was actually being stalked by a killer; the audience wouldn’t know until the end. If Emma pulled it off, she’d be a huge star.

“You can do this,” I said with conviction.

She gripped my arm, holding on. “I know. I can feel it. This is my part.”

I kissed her swift and soft. “Where is it being shot?”

“Here in LA for the most part. I think there are some scenes in Nevada as well.” Her smile gentled. “I won’t go far.”

The promise had me pausing; the reality of our situation, of how I’d soon change it, crept back up to poke at my insides. I hadn’t told her my news. I couldn’t now. Not in the face of her happiness.

I pushed the thought away and concentrated on kissing her lips, light pecks that didn’t need to lead anywhere but sent pulses of pleasure down my spine each time I touched her.

She made a noise of contentment, her fingers combing through my hair. “Oh, and there’s something else.”

“Something bigger than a kickass role in a potential blockbuster?”

“Well, not that good, but I think it’s pretty great.”

“Tell me, sweet Em.”

She cuddled into me. “I want to take you somewhere. Will you come with me?”

“Not going to tell me where?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Mysterious. I like it. I’ll come.” I tugged the comforter away, baring her to my gaze. “But you first.”

After a long, thorough exchange, we both came.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Lucian

The house was in Los Feliz where the road wound its way up into the hills toward Griffith Observatory. Hidden behind a private stucco gate, it was a Spanish revival–style estate from the 1920s. In a lot of ways, it was a smaller version of Rosemont, with its terra-cotta-shingled roof, white plaster walls, darkly arching doorways, and beamed ceilings. Roses clung to the walls and dotted the courtyard.

Our steps were quiet as she led me through a grand living room with a carved-stone fireplace, past a library paneled in oak, and into a light-filled kitchen with wide windows overlooking an oasis of a pool. Worn marble counters stretched cool and smooth under my palm. I surveyed the double-wall ovens and eight-burner stove. This was a chef’s kitchen. And clearly the heart of a well-loved home.

“It’s private,” Emma was saying, walking to the arched double doors that opened to the outside. “And quiet.”

“It has good light.” My gaze roamed the kitchen, taking in the massive walk-in pantry and breakfast area. I had Jean Philipe’s old farm table in storage. It would fit perfectly right here, glowing in the sunlight.

Glass-paned cabinets and shelves lined the far wall. More than enough room to hold platters, plates, cookware, crockery. I glanced up at Emma, feeling her stare.

She smiled shyly at me. “You like it.”

“I do.” Didn’t explain the way my heart threatened to beat out of my chest.

“I’m buying it.”

There it was. I’d expected it; why else would she bring me to see a house for sale? But the confirmation still hit with the force of a well-placed kick. “How many bedrooms?”

“Five.” She didn’t move from her spot in the sun.

“Kind of big for one person.”

“Yes. But it feels good here. Like home.” Her gaze didn’t falter from mine.

Home. Hers. Away from mine. But did I really have a home? Rosemont was Amalie’s. Yes, I’d always be welcome, and it had been my refuge. But was it home or a safe space to hide away from the world?

I ran my hand along the counter once more. Unlike so many counters in high-end California homes, this one was old. It had a history, its tale told through faint stains and the silky smoothness of the marble. It would be excellent for tempering chocolate, rolling out dough.

Home. The temptation of creating one with Emma burned in my gut like boiling sugar, sweet but painful. Because I couldn’t do that. Not now, at least. “When are you moving?”

The floorboards creaked as she stepped a bit closer. “As soon as I can. Maybe two weeks.”

I absorbed that. She was always supposed to go. And it wasn’t that far from Rosemont. Why did it cut into me? Why did I feel cold along my skin, as though she were already gone?

Fuck. That hurt. She said I made her happy. I wanted to make her happy and proud.

“Lucian?”

“Yeah?” I tried to make it sound light, but the word came out terse.

Her expression was pained yet welcoming, as though she was trying to tell me something I kept missing. “Where do you really live?”

“What do you mean where? I live at Rosemont.”