He’d thought there’d been something else there. With Kate, when she hadn’t known who he was or what he brought to the table. She’d looked at him like he was something more.
But in the end, after she’d found out . . .
It still hadn’t been enough.
He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and gritted out, “Without it, I’m nothing.”
A long beat of silence followed, deafening even over the roaring in his ears.
“Teddy . . .”
He cut her off right there. Pushing off the wall, he opened his eyes and squared his shoulders. “If you’re still here in the morning, the coffee’s—”
“In the jar next to the fridge.”
“Right.” He took another step forward.
Her voice followed. “You’re not nothing.”
“Sure.”
“And you know you can’t run forever.”
He clenched his hands into fists and kept walking.
Only in the silence of his room, with the door closed, did he whisper, “Watch me.”
Kate knelt beside her suitcase the following morning, gathering her things as she got ready to head out. Her heart still ached every time she let herself think about what had happened the day before, but she was done with that. Done.
She’d given into the temptation to be a self-pitying lump the night before, but this morning, Paris was her oyster. She was going to do all the things she’d been too caught up in her whirlwind romance to take the time for. There were a couple of sights she still wanted to see, and she was getting back to the Louvre if it killed her. All she needed were her pencils and charcoals, maybe that lonely little bottle of ink. Her new sketchbook . . .
Her heart pounded in her chest as she turned the contents of her suitcase over a second time. Her sketchbook.
It wasn’t there.
The metal structure of the bunk behind her creaked as one of her still-sleeping roommates turned over in her bed. Kate bit her lip. She felt like a heel to be making so much noise, but she needed that book. Professionally if nothing else. Those sketches she’d done had documented the new style she was developing. She could’ve used them for reference for when she wanted to—
She stopped herself, an ugly bubble of laughter getting caught in her throat.
For when she wanted to what, draw him?
And suddenly, she wanted to do just that. Not the lovesick paintings she’d imagined she’d labor over while she nursed her broken heart, but angry ones. She wanted to take him apart, lay him out with furious brushstrokes and flay him to pieces with a palette knife. Expose him as a liar and a thief and—
A thief.
A new, colder rage slipped like ice into her veins. Did he steal her book? He would’ve had the opportunity. While she’d been in the bathroom, when he’d started to unpack her stuff in an effort to get her to stay. He’d already stolen her secrets and her story and her body. Taking her art would’ve been just one more violation.
Maybe he’d done it to get her to contact him. He was so good at saying all the right things. He’d lured her into his bed once already, and he’d been damn close to convincing her to stay and hear him out yesterday. Maybe this had all been another trick to rob her of her time, or convince her to let him fuck her again before she left.
Maybe she should do just that.
He had told her that she deserved pleasure and sex, and clearly he knew how to give it to her. She could get in touch with him and ask him if he’d found her sketchbook and go back to the mansion he probably lived in and get him to put his mouth on her again. Take what she wanted from him this time.
And then leave. Go home with all kinds of lessons learned.
About what she could ask for in bed and what happened to her when she let it become more than that. More than just sex.
But no. Crawling back to him after everything she’d said—she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
She couldn’t afford to take the risk. Rage might be fueling her blood right now, but her heart was still too tender. Too bruised. She didn’t trust it enough.
It—and she—needed time to harden up before she tried getting close to anyone again.
Hands shaking, she repacked her suitcase and stowed it, then checked over her purse. She’d swing by the hotel where she and Rylan had stayed on the off chance that housekeeping had found her book. That she’d just left it there by mistake.
If it wasn’t there, she’d write it off as a loss. She’d put it behind her.
She’d move on.
Lexie was still there when Rylan woke up. She’d traded the pajamas for one of her usual ensembles, a black and white and pink top with jeans she’d probably paid a grand to have look like they’d been casually worn in. She’d done her hair and makeup, too, though he had no idea who for.
He stopped at the threshold of the living room to blink the sleep from his eyes.
Jesus, when had she started to look so much like their mother?
Scrubbing at his face, he stumbled past the couch where it looked like she’d decided to crash for the night, pillows and folded-up blankets stacked up neatly on the floor beside it. He mumbled out a low grunt of a greeting as he passed her.
“You seem chipper.”
He grunted again and poured himself some coffee. Lexie must have made it earlier. At least having her around was good for something.
It was early yet. By his own ridiculous standards, he’d slept in the past few mornings with Kate, but waking up alone had apparently reverted him back to his usual habits. And he was exhausted.
“What’re you doing up?” He poured some cream in his coffee and took a sip.
“Jet lag is a bitch. I got a nap in, but that was about it.”
“You could have used one of the bedrooms.”
“You’re in the one I always used to stay in. And Mother’s room . . .”
Yeah. That was the last place he wanted to sleep, too.
“There’s always a hotel.”
“Like the one you’ve been staying at the past few days?”
That woke him up. “Excuse me?”
“You left the bill on the entryway table. You still have the place for another night, you realize.”
“That’s not for me.” Not anymore.
“And the duffel bag by the door is just one you keep full of dirty laundry all the time?”
He didn’t have an answer for that. Flipping her off was close enough, though.
“Very mature.” She turned off the TV and crossed the room to him, empty coffee mug in hand. “You know, you never did tell me what was wrong last night.”
There wasn’t much point denying that something had been bothering him. The shattered vase in the corner kind of gave him away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Ooh, it must be good, then.” She refilled her cup and put her back to the counter. “Come on.” Her voice went teasing. “I can braid your hair and you can tell me all your secrets.”
He gave her an appraising look. She was trying just a little too hard here. But then again, she also decidedly wasn’t pressing him about going back to New York to save the company. Or giving him shit about his outburst from the night before.
So he went with it, letting the one corner of his mouth curl up. “The hair-braiding thing only ever worked on Evan and you know it.”
She hummed in agreement. “He had such nice hair, before Dad made him cut it off.”
“It’s probably grown back by now.”
“It was still short the last time I saw him.”
“Which was when?”
“Six months ago, maybe? He came and stayed with me for Christmas.”
While Rylan had stayed here, staring out a window at a Paris that was lit up like a tree.
“Teddddyyyyyy,” she whined. “Tell me.”