Page 92 of Modern Romance March 2025 (5-8)

Except, I remember with a cold dash of memory, for the aftermath. He held me, kissed my hair, cradled me as if I were made of glass. But as soon as he stood, that mask dropped back into place. He told me he had a meeting and wouldn’t be joining me for dinner. And then he left. Aside from my flushed face and the delicious, lingering sensation of having been made love to, there was nothing to suggest that I had just had my first brush with sexual intimacy.

He handled it the way he should have. Had he dragged it out, whispered vague promises he never intended to keep, it would only make my ability to keep my distance more challenging.

Still, it left me with the feeling of being dropped off a cliff. So I threw myself into work. Again. Doing what I had accused Rafe of doing as I sought to distract myself.

Unfortunately, focusing on work had only introduced a new worry. That perhaps I had bitten off more than I could chew in starting my own business. Working on one project at a time was one thing. Working on two with a third waiting in the wings was something else entirely.

Rafe’s advice, that I should consider hiring someone to help, resurfaces. As much as I want Tessa’s Interiors to be mine, if I truly want to grow, I’m going to have to change my mindset. Frustrated with myself, and even more frustrated with Rafe that hemightbe right, I look away from my desk and out toward the sea.

It’s beautiful here. The tension that gripped me between Paris and Corfu has disappeared. Ironic when I think about it. In trying to distance myself from my past and avoid anything that might remind me of the years after my accident, I had actually been holding on. If I had said no to Rafe’s request to accompany him to Greece, I wouldn’t have had last night. I wouldn’t be gazing out over the cerulean waves, the olive trees, the brilliant sky.

I sigh. It was so much easier to move on in Paris, with no reminders, nothing familiar for me to fall back on. There was only forward.

But this trip, I’m coming to realize, is good for me in so many ways. Showing me how to accept my past, live my present and look ahead to the future.

I glance back at the sketch pad lying on the table next to the lounge. In between schematics and materials, I took a few breaks. But instead of picking up my book, I sketched, mentally redecorating the rooms James had given me a tour of the afternoon I had arrived. Before Rafe had made it clear he had zero interest in doing anything but selling his father’s house.

I only met Lucifer a handful of times. I loathed the man, so I can only imagine what growing up with him had been like. From the snippets Gavriil told me about how Lucifer treated him, it’s no wonder that Rafe is a block of ice. It’s probably the only way he survived.

A shudder crawls down my spine. When I have children, I will never let them go a single day without knowing how much they are loved, as my father did. I will endeavor to never suffocate them under the weight of my own guilt and insecurities, like my mother did.

I pick up the sketch pad and flip through it. The rooms themselves are beautiful, with the colors and flooring serving as surprisingly solid foundations. Clean. Timeless. It’s the ostentatiousness of the furniture, the paintings, that overwhelms. As if Lucifer bought the most expensive things he could find and stuffed them into rooms.

Which, I think with a snort, is probably exactly what happened.

Rafe, however, is about efficiency. Progress. Yet as I’m coming to know a different side of him, he also has that undercurrent of passion, that attention to detail. He says nothing matters to him. Yet I see the way he looks out at the sky, the trees and especially the ocean. As if in the busy pace of his life, the view of nature calms him.

I don’t even know if he’s aware of it himself. It makes me wish that he could trust me, just one room, show him what could be possible and maybe even give him a glimpse of a side of himself he hasn’t listened to. May not even be aware exists as he marches forward with his schedules and checklist.

Maybe tomorrow. Given the argument that came out of our discussion before, I have no interest in reintroducing that tension. Or pushing him.

A knock sounds on my door. “Come in.”

My body tightens as Rafe walks in, dressed in a white polo shirt and tan slacks. Even in neutral-colored clothing, the man looks like a Greek god.

“Good morning.”

His face is smooth, but there’s a hint of warmth in his voice as he approaches me, hands tucked into his pants pockets.

“Good morning. How did you sleep?”

I give him a small smile. “Are you genuinely asking, or is this your way of looking for a compliment?”

His teeth flash white against his tan skin, so quick I might have missed it had I blinked. A slight pressure builds behind my eyes at the side of his genuine smile. I wish he would smile more.

“I was genuinely asking after your welfare. But compliments are acceptable too.”

I roll my eyes as I glance away. But I noticed my sketch pad lying open. Trying to move as casually as possible, I reach over and start to close the pad.

“I slept well—”

“What is that?”

I slam the cover shut. “Just sketches. Doodling.”

“That looked like the master bedroom.”

My body tenses. His face is back to being blank, his voice emotionless. I have no sense of direction, no indication of what he’s thinking or feeling.

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