Page 92 of If It Can't Be Us

I scrunch my face up in thought. “I don’t know.” The question rattles my nerves, and I quickly sip some water. “I don’t know what we are; I don’t want to define it. I just like whatever it is that we have.” I give her a look of concern. “Is that fucked up of me?”

Meredith frowns, a look of worry crossing her face. She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I don’t know. I guess it depends on how Vivian feels about that… Just don’t screw it up, okay? This is a good thing that you have.” She gives me a half-smile and digs into her lobster tail.

We finish our dinner with lighter conversation, but the weight of my feelings for Vivian lingers in the back of my mind.

As we part ways, Meredith gives me one last knowing look. “Hey… just be honest with her. It’s the best way to keep what you have.” She gives me a hug, and I squeeze her tightly.

“I will, Mer. Thanks for everything.”

* * * * ** * * **

Two Weeks Later

I wake up in Vivian’s bed alone, having slept in. After pulling on boxers and joggers, I head downstairs and make a cappuccino with her espresso machine—the same machine I have at home. She ordered it after falling in love with mine. The rich aroma of the coffee fills the kitchen, grounding me in the familiar routine.

With my cappuccino in hand, I take the stairs to the rooftop and step outside. It’s sunny, and though the morning air is cool, the sun’s heat cuts through the chill. She’s not here, but I see a light on in her art studio. I walk around the patio to the back where her studio is, the faint smell of paint growing stronger with each step. The door is open, and I slip inside quietly.

I find her sitting on her stool painting, her back to me, completely lost in her work. She has a picture displayed upright next to her canvas, showing what looks like a Utah mountain landscape: pine trees and a lake with snowcapped mountain peaks. Her painting is an exact replica of the picture, and she’s adding small strokes of detail to the lake.

I prop myself against the door, one arm crossed and the other holding my coffee. Intrigued, I watch her work. She looks sexy in a black satin pajama set. The flowy shorts are short, and the top is revealing in the best possible way, with one of the thin straps hanging off her shoulder. Her hair is pulled into a clip, with strands brushing her shoulders. Her coffee sits next to her on an empty stool, a space heater is on in the corner, and music plays in the background.

Grinning, I clear my throat, not wanting to scare her but making enough noise for her to turn around.

She doesn’t. “How long have you been there?” she asks without losing focus.

“A few minutes,” I say, my eyes laser-focused on her back, as if she can feel them.

I cross the room, stopping just behind her. Brushing my fingers on her shoulder to avoid messing up her brush strokes, she stops. I grip her shoulders and press my lips on her neck. “Morning,” I murmur into her ear, and she grins.

“Morning,” she turns just enough to kiss my lips, letting it linger for a moment.

I stand behind her for a few minutes, planting soft kisses on her shoulders, kissing her butterfly tattoo, which I now know is for Ben and Evie.

I move toward the wall across from her and lean against it, so I can watch her face while she works. There is something extremely intimate about watching Vivian paint or draw. You can almost feel what she is working on from the intensity in her eyes and the emotions that show on her face. She pulls back to look at her work, tilting her head slightly and biting her bottom lip, her eyes scanning her painting before she dips her brush and continues.

The song changes and as its melody starts to play, a smile creeps over her face.

“What are you smiling about?” I ask. A smile spreading over my face as well.

A soft laugh escapes her lips. “You wanted to know what was on my sexy playlist,” she says. “This song is on it.”

I don’t recognize the song, but its familiar, slow rhythm definitely has a sexy vibe. The music fills the studio.

“I was in the car with Ben one day when this song came on. Niall Horan sings it.” She breaks focus for a moment to see if there is a flicker of recognition.“Slow Hands?”she asks. I shake my head. She furrows her brows in concentration and continues, “Anyway, I told Ben I thought this would be a great song to have sex to. After that, anytime he was in the mood, he’d blast this song throughout the house”—she glances up—"summoning me.” She lets out a laugh. “So, let’s just say I’ve had a lot of sex to this song… A lot.”

“Have you?” I ask with a smirk, holding her gaze as I slowly close the gap between us. The chorus starts to play in the background, amplifying the pull between us.

“Yeah,” she says softly, a smile playing on her lips.

I pull her up, wrapping my arms around her waist, and stare intently into her bright-green eyes. Her hands rest on my chest.

“Do you wish that Ben were here?” I ask—a fucked-up question, but I have to know.

“I always wish Ben were here,” she says honestly, “but that doesn’t take away from the fact that I want you here too.”

I search her eyes, hoping she’s not just saying what she thinks I want to hear.

“Leo,” she whispers, her hands skimming down my bare chest as she leans in to give me a soft kiss, her lips brushing against mine. “Fuck me… Right here. Right now.” Her eyes lock onto mine, bittersweet and filled with longing.

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