Page 91 of Sinfully His

“And that one over there was running around like nothing mattered other than his entitled sense of justice while workingout his daddy issues in the DA’s office.” My father pointed behind me and I turned to see Harrison walk in with his bride on his arm.

“What the hell did I do?”

“You’re late. Take a seat,” my father said, pointing to a few other empty chairs on the other side of the table. “I’m simply pointing out that the love of a good woman can change a man in unexpected ways.”

“He’s right,” Harrison’s bride, I think her name was Eddie, said.

Harrison narrowed his eyes at her for a moment, then kissed her forehead and led her over to the empty seats.

A few moments later, Amelia came downstairs looking a little frazzled as she smoothed down her hair and her dress and practically floated into the dining room.

“I am so sorry I’m late, everyone. I was stuck on a parent-teacher conference that was… challenging.”

“Everything okay, honey?” Luc asked, standing and pulling her chair out for her.

“Everything will be,” she said with a serene smile.

“Is Rose coming too?” I asked, trying to seem conversational and not like I was desperate to know where my angel was.

“No,” Amelia said with a smile. “She was going to be here, but she found an earlier flight, so she could settle into her new apartment before school starts.”

She left. She left again, and she didn’t tell me. My heart pounded in my chest, and it was suddenly hard to breathe. She was gone, again. I couldn’t get to her. How was I going to make her admit she loved me if she wasn’t here?

“Oh, where is she going to school?”

CHAPTER 38

ROSE

The bright winter sunlight seemed to show the truth in this beautiful, abandoned church. It was so peaceful here but also melancholy, at least that’s what I was trying to show in my painting. Everything I had worked on since arriving in London had a touch of sadness about it. I couldn’t help it.

That’s how I felt. I should be excited about my new life, working on building relationships and friendships here, but there was still a bone-deep sadness I just couldn’t shake. It was him. That sadness was me missing him.

Classes had just started, and I was given an assignment to paint the architecture in London, whatever building we chose, as long as it made us feel something.

Churches made me feel a lot of things.

But this one made my heart ache. The Anglican Chapel at Nunhead Cemetery was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. It had been abandoned, for some time, more a ruin now than anything else, but it was still so fascinating. Almost like you could see through glimpses of time to what it used to be.

This church, unlike the one I had attended back home, had beautiful spires that instilled hope, not fear. The archways’details were all just so stunning; if you were quiet and held your breath, you could almost see a young bride in her simple white dress next to her new husband waving to her family as she got into a horse-drawn buggy, heading to her new life.

You could see the people gather outside after mass, talking about the words of the priest, mothers holding children, fathers talking to each other about their day-to-day worries, and it brought a sense of the community that had long passed. The remains of that community lay in the cemetery.

It was beautiful, it was inspiring, and just a little sad. That was what I was trying to convey as I sat on my blanket in a small area not covered by snow. A bottle of wine and a little plate of dried fruit and cheeses to snack on sat next to me while I tried to capture the essence of this building on my canvas.

I tried to focus on the details of the spires, imagining what the people looking up at them thought when they were brand new. My painting needed to capture the melancholy of long-ago lives, not the depression I felt because every church reminded me of him.

I was pulled out of my thoughts when my phone chimed at my side again.

It was another text from Thomas.

I had been in London for weeks now. And his messages had been consistent.

I didn’t respond to any of them. My fingers always typed out a message, but I never sent them. I told myself that maybe I would if he had sent me something that I could respond to, but he never did.

Something he said to me before I left stuck with me. He told me my mother stole both of our lives, and I had to wonder, if she wasn’t the way she was, would he and I have ended up together? If he wasn’t so angry and broken by her actions, if I wasn’t sodamaged, could we have had a normal relationship? What would Father Manwarring have been like as a normal boyfriend?

Would his messages have been something like, “hey, how’s it going?” Or “what’s it like in London right now, babe?” Instead, I got messages that said things like: “I miss the way your sweet cunt drips the purest honey into my mouth as I make you come on my tongue.” And even “Do you think about me late at night when you lie in your bed? Do you close your eyes and try to remember how it feels to have my cock pumping in and out of your tight little body?” And, “I just lit an altar candle, and I ache to know if you think of me every time you light a candle as well?”

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