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I awaken at three in the morning, which has historically been the time when I’ve hastily scooped up my clothing and tiptoed out of his room and his life. Tonight, I won’t. Tonight, I would rather stay and enjoy his arms wrapped around me. I turn around to move into his embrace—and I’m shocked to find the bed empty.
Panic strikes me. I palm the space adjacent to me where the sheets are cold and wrinkled.
He left me. He left me.
I try to find my underwear, but the room is pitch black and the pair I was wearing are—let’s face it—really tiny. I’m fumbling in the dark like an idiot, trying to swallow the lump in my throat because I can’t believe I managed to screw this up.
These past two months were excruciating. Every bit of willpower and impulse control in my body went towards keeping Gus at an arm’s length. I knew it was risky to put space between us for months, but I wanted to know him. I thought it would be worth it, in the end, if we learned there was more between us than electrifying sex.
And there was—there is—I thought. We’re so similar—both awfully misunderstood. The world knows him as a cold and cruel recluse, obsessed with his work, when he’s just tentative with his unparalleled brilliance. The world thinks I’m a glamorous, jet-setting hedonist and socialite, when I just want a stable partner who loves me and takes me seriously, but keeps me on my toes.
For a decade, I’ve relied on the excitement of travel to keep my interest. Then I met Gus, and realized he could thrill me in ways I never thought possible—all from his heated patio in Montana.
And I ruined it all somehow, even when I thought we finally had our shit together.
My heart wants to split at the thought of him leaving, and I need him here. I need him here right now because—
Because I love him.
The realization collides into me like a Toyota Corolla skidding and slamming into a ditch. I love Gus Winter. I’m truly and unequivocally in love with Gus Winter.
I love him even though I tried not to. I love him even though he’s reticent to fall in love again.
But how could I not love him? How could I not love a man who beams when he hears me talk about the books I’ve read and takes fantastic pictures of me like it’s his job? How could I not love a man who fucks like a god and worships me like I’m a goddess? How could I not love a man who can buy literally anything, but still mopes sometimes because all he wants is a freaking puppy?
Frantic, I race to the suite’s living room to find my phone and to call the shit out of him until he comes back.
“Julia?”
Startled, I jump and look around the dark living room until I spot Gus. He’s reclining with his back against the entrance to the suite, shirtless with a blanket draped over his shoulders. His laptop rests on his thighs and a frown covers his face.
“What the hell are you doing running around the suite…naked?” He peers over at me.
“What the hell are you doing over there?” I demand, trying to retain my dignity even though this is one of the most mortifying moments of my life.
He glances over his shoulder at the door behind him. “Nothing.”
Thick silence swells between us because it’s abundantly clear neither of us wants to admit what we’re doing.
“Are you…are you guarding the door? August, are you guarding the door so I can’t leave?” I finally ask.
“No.” He’s not convincing.
“Okay, liar. Well, I’m running around naked, in a panic, because I thought you left me, and the thought of you gone makes me sick to my stomach. So, I’ll ask again: Are you guarding the door?”
“I mean, it was either that or I tie you to the bed,” he replies, feigning seriousness before a smile breaks across his face.
I burst out laughing, unable to hold back. I’m still laughing when he scoops me up and carries me back to the bedroom, where he makes good on his threat to tie me to the bed. Twice.
Chapter 22: Gus
When Julia is still sleeping soundly by my side the next morning, I assume it’s a dream. Some fever dream that taunts me with the one thing I want, but can’t have because I’m too hung up on my past.
But then I reach out and let my fingertips trail along the line of her spine. I trace goosebumps, and faint, wispy hairs, and silky skin. My soft touch makes her stir, but she doesn’t awaken.
She’s real. This is real.
The sight is otherworldly, but wonderful. Julia is wrapped around me, long hair spilling over my chest. One hand rests on my stomach; the other is tucked below my shoulder blade. Her hold is proprietary—and I like it a hell of a lot.
