he’d done.
“I didn’t mean to poke at scars. Armadillo?” she offered.
“Yeah. It’s not a great subject.” He curled her palm against his. “What was your life like when you were singing?”
“Busy. Lonely.” The hand holding hers tightened. Encouraging her to go on. He was so easy to be with—maybe she could open up, just a little. “The guy from Vincenzo’s party, Rory, he was supposed to be the cure for that. We were so similar, both with careers in the industry. Both happy being nomads. He had some bad habits, but I stepped over the empty Jack Daniel’s bottles because I was in love with him. Turns out he wasn’t content to be saddled with a has-been.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. Longevity isn’t one of my gifts.” She’d have tried, for Rory. And probably would have bungled it all up. “That’s what made being an in-demand vocalist so great. I sang all over the world, was constantly on the move.”
She’d loved it, loved having a new destination, new experiences.
And that was the gist of it, wasn’t it? She and Matt had a kinship born of shared pain, but it was tenuous at best. A successful, solid real estate broker who valued family had nothing in common with a music business has-been who sported a giant albatross called Lack of a Career around her neck.
Besides, his heart still belonged to his wife, would always belong to his family. Hers had been cut from her chest by the same blade that destroyed her career. Maybe even before that.
She’d shared this time with Matt because they were both slaying their demons.
How much longer would it take for this refuge to crumble around her?
Eight
E vangeline rolled over and pulled the sheets up around her neck. Cold. And still dark. Though her brain languished in the fog of semiconsciousness, she could tell Matt wasn’t asleep. His breathing was too even.
Two weeks and four days into it and she could already gauge his state of consciousness. She also knew his favorite foods, the exact rhythm to move her hips to make him explode, how to get that blinding, sincere smile out of him that shivered her insides.
And if he was awake, she knew she’d never go back to sleep.
They were becoming dangerously entangled for two ships who were supposed to be passing in the night.
Supposed to be. But she was still here.
She kept looking for a reason to leave. Kept waiting for claustrophobia to set in or for Matt’s true colors to shine through. The longer she spent with him, the more convinced she became that he was the real deal and she could trust him. He was a genuine guy who wasn’t looking for the quickest way to get rid of her. Who treated her like he’d stumbled upon a rare treasure.
Instead of scouting for the exit, she stayed. The longer she stayed, the more obstacles she saw to keeping this Venice bubble afloat.
Why couldn’t she have met Matt in six months? A year? At any point in the future when she’d figured out who she was going to be and could give Matt what he deserved—someone a lot more together, at a different place in her life.
She scooted across the cool sheets and nestled into his arms. “You need a glass of warm milk?”
He kissed her temple. “Did I wake you up? Sorry.”
“You didn’t.”
But maybe on some level, he had.
That instantaneous spiritual bond hadn’t dimmed in the slightest. Sometimes, he finished her sentences, and sometimes, she didn’t have to speak at all. It was more than gelling and she puzzled over the indescribable, powerful nature of their relationship.
It should feel weird. Suffocating. It didn’t.
“I’ll go downstairs so you can sleep.”
Something was bothering him. Matt’s ghosts continually haunted him and lots of great sex hadn’t produced quite the exorcism she’d have wished.
She snaked an arm over his chest to hold him in place. “Don’t you dare. Talk to me.”
“It’s not a middle-of-the-night subject. But thanks.” His hand wandered over to stroke her
“I didn’t mean to poke at scars. Armadillo?” she offered.
“Yeah. It’s not a great subject.” He curled her palm against his. “What was your life like when you were singing?”
“Busy. Lonely.” The hand holding hers tightened. Encouraging her to go on. He was so easy to be with—maybe she could open up, just a little. “The guy from Vincenzo’s party, Rory, he was supposed to be the cure for that. We were so similar, both with careers in the industry. Both happy being nomads. He had some bad habits, but I stepped over the empty Jack Daniel’s bottles because I was in love with him. Turns out he wasn’t content to be saddled with a has-been.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. Longevity isn’t one of my gifts.” She’d have tried, for Rory. And probably would have bungled it all up. “That’s what made being an in-demand vocalist so great. I sang all over the world, was constantly on the move.”
She’d loved it, loved having a new destination, new experiences.
And that was the gist of it, wasn’t it? She and Matt had a kinship born of shared pain, but it was tenuous at best. A successful, solid real estate broker who valued family had nothing in common with a music business has-been who sported a giant albatross called Lack of a Career around her neck.
Besides, his heart still belonged to his wife, would always belong to his family. Hers had been cut from her chest by the same blade that destroyed her career. Maybe even before that.
She’d shared this time with Matt because they were both slaying their demons.
How much longer would it take for this refuge to crumble around her?
Eight
E vangeline rolled over and pulled the sheets up around her neck. Cold. And still dark. Though her brain languished in the fog of semiconsciousness, she could tell Matt wasn’t asleep. His breathing was too even.
Two weeks and four days into it and she could already gauge his state of consciousness. She also knew his favorite foods, the exact rhythm to move her hips to make him explode, how to get that blinding, sincere smile out of him that shivered her insides.
And if he was awake, she knew she’d never go back to sleep.
They were becoming dangerously entangled for two ships who were supposed to be passing in the night.
Supposed to be. But she was still here.
She kept looking for a reason to leave. Kept waiting for claustrophobia to set in or for Matt’s true colors to shine through. The longer she spent with him, the more convinced she became that he was the real deal and she could trust him. He was a genuine guy who wasn’t looking for the quickest way to get rid of her. Who treated her like he’d stumbled upon a rare treasure.
Instead of scouting for the exit, she stayed. The longer she stayed, the more obstacles she saw to keeping this Venice bubble afloat.
Why couldn’t she have met Matt in six months? A year? At any point in the future when she’d figured out who she was going to be and could give Matt what he deserved—someone a lot more together, at a different place in her life.
She scooted across the cool sheets and nestled into his arms. “You need a glass of warm milk?”
He kissed her temple. “Did I wake you up? Sorry.”
“You didn’t.”
But maybe on some level, he had.
That instantaneous spiritual bond hadn’t dimmed in the slightest. Sometimes, he finished her sentences, and sometimes, she didn’t have to speak at all. It was more than gelling and she puzzled over the indescribable, powerful nature of their relationship.
It should feel weird. Suffocating. It didn’t.
“I’ll go downstairs so you can sleep.”
Something was bothering him. Matt’s ghosts continually haunted him and lots of great sex hadn’t produced quite the exorcism she’d have wished.
She snaked an arm over his chest to hold him in place. “Don’t you dare. Talk to me.”
“It’s not a middle-of-the-night subject. But thanks.” His hand wandered over to stroke her
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