Page 73 of Lost in the Moonlight

I deftly sliced the tall layers of strawberry chiffon and chocolate torte and brought him a piece.

He closed his eyes while taking a bite, pleasure coating his face in a way that made my belly go soft once again. When he opened his eyes, there was a heat to them that only melted me more.

“Delicious. Sweet but not too sweet. Vibrant. Complex but light,” he said, sticking his finger into the whipped cream frosting and licking it off.

I could only watch. Fascinated. Full of that hunger and yearning I’d been having since the moment he descended into my world.

“It’s just like you.” The words hummed out of him.

I pushed away from the table. I recognized it as running and knew it made me a chicken, but he was terrifying in the way he kept breaking through all my boundaries. Every moment I sat with him, I wanted more of the impossible. I’d always wanted someone who would take the leap, take a risk on me, but I hadn’t really thought about it in reverse. What would I risk for them?

Would I risk Mom? Her safety? Mine?

I started cleaning the mess I’d made in the kitchen while he finished his dessert, watching me the entire time. The quiet now wasn’t a vacuum. Instead, it was loaded with the passion that moved between us.

When I’d finally righted the counters as much as I could, he came over and put his plate in the dishwasher. “What would you like to watch?”

It was the last thing I expected him to ask. I frowned. “What?”

He raised a brow, lips twitching. “Dinner. Dessert. Movie. I figure it’s as close to a first date as we’re going to get at the moment.”

My throat tightened at the thought of us dating. Of being on a date. More impossibilities. I shouldn’t stay, but I also didn’t want to go home. I was a mess. A movie would be a good distraction, wouldn’t it? Still, I couldn’t help but ask, “What would you be doing if I wasn’t here?”

“Obsessing over the gallery, heading to the studio to paint, or reading.”

“Do you read a lot?”

He nodded. “It occupies my brain. Allows me to fall asleep sometimes.”

“What are you reading now?”

“The Night Circus. Do you read?”

“Not very much. I’d rather be baking.”

He grabbed my hand and tugged me out of the kitchen, flicking off lights as he went and guiding me toward the stairs. My brain kicked into overdrive, longing and nervousness mingling and making my palms sweat.

“Where are we going?” I asked, voice breathless and airy.

“I don’t have a television in the living room yet. The only one hooked up is in my bedroom.”

My feet turned to cement blocks, dragging my fingers from his grip.

He turned back, lips twitching. “I promise to be the perfect gentleman. No nefarious reasons for inviting you into my room. I have a little sitting area there and the love seat is actually really far away from the bed—at least a good three feet.”

It was a dare. I recognized one when I saw one. But the truth was, my curiosity was stronger than my nervousness. What would his room look like? Would it be forcefully sunny like the kitchen or a calm blue sea like his study?

I urged my feet to move again, and his grin grew. I followed him to the last room on the second floor and entered the dark side of his house. The place the tortured superhero resided. The mesmerizing vampire. The room was elegant and moody with woods stained almost black and burgundy brocades layered with the barest hints of purples and silvers. Angled several feet away from the king-sized bed with its intricately carved footboard was a low-backed love seat in a plush wine-colored fabric piled with accent pillows. A stack of paintings was propped up against a dresser partially hiding a wide-screened television.

Lincoln began moving the canvases into the hall. I went to help, and my hands stalled on a painting of a woman who looked a lot like me. Except, like in the sketchbook downstairs, she had no freckles, her chin was narrower, and her eyes were a soft, robin’s-egg blue. A glance at the lower corner showed Lincoln’s name scrawled with a date from over a decade ago. Long before he’d ever met me.

He came back into the room, stopping next to me and looking down at the painting.

“That poorly executed piece was my early attempt at capturing Sienna. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.”

A million doubts flooded into me. I’d thought he was as attracted to me as I was to him. I’d thought he saw me…the real me. But what if, instead, he was simply capturing a fleeting reflection of the woman he’d loved and lost?

Why did that hurt so damn bad? Why did it make me want to slam the canvas down on something sharp and tear at the face that looked up at me? Why was I filled with the same jealousy that had coursed through me when I’d seen his head bent close to the artist at the gallery?

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