Page 83 of Vows in Sin
Her words bring a sign of elation to me. “And here we are.” I lean down, kissing those perfect lips.
I take her home for a hot shower and warm clothes.
I hear a shriek from the bathroom. I take the stairs two by two, bursting into the room. My heart whollops against my ribcage.
I hang on the frame of the bedroom door, staring in. “What is it? Are you okay?”
She comes out, hair wet, towel wrapped around her. She’s holding her phone in one hand. Thrusting it up in the air, she shouts, “Josie called! She actually called! And guess what?”
I sink onto the bed, hand to my heart. I catch my breath, wondering if all older men dating younger women feel like they’re having heart attacks. “What?” I ask. “And who is Josie?”
She sinks down beside me, turning to face me. Her face is positively glowing as she fills me in. I wrap my arms around her, listening. She senses my anger when she gets to the part about Magda screwing her over.
“It’s okay,” she says, a gentle pat on my arm. “Josie said she loved the honesty of that viral video I posted, the one I made before I left Italy, she wants to hire me.” She stares at the phone, then looks back at me with a massive grin on her pretty face. “I’m shocked. I’m genuinely shocked.”
My stomach plummets. I have to support her. But this is precisely what I was afraid of.
Losing her.
The job is in New York. She can’t go back. Not when we’ve only just come together. But she’s young, she’s at that age where she needs to focus on her career. A good man would support her.
“Congratulations.” My heart sits in my throat. “What did you tell her?”
She cocks her head at me. “What do you think I told her?”
“I genuinely don’t know.”
“Don’t get testy with me, Renan Bachman,” she commands. “You know me well enough to know what I said.”
I wince, guessing, hopefully, “No?”
She narrows her gaze at me. “Not exactly.”
“Tell me!” I huff, my heart racing. “Can’t take these dramatics right now.”
“I told her no in a moremeway. I said, Josie, I’m thrilled. But I’ve traded in my photoboards for finger paints. My pink pumps for Nike. My silk robes are now pajamas.”
“I love those sexy robes,” I growl, rushing her and scooping her up in my arms. “Especially when there’s nothing underneath.”
She waves a hand through the air. “It’s the only way I wear them now.”
“Did you tell her you’ve given up marketing for photography?” I kiss her forehead. “That you are an artist.” I kiss her cheek. “And that the Bachman family has hired you to document their journey?”
She has already begun creating a thick portfolio of emotive images of displaced people finding solace in one another.
She waves a modest hand in the air. “Nah.”
I cup her face, holding her so she has to meet my eye. “You are so fucking talented. You know that? You make people cry with the click of your camera. You take moments and make memories.”
She blinks. Hard. Then smiles. “Thanks.” Her voice is soft, but I know she hears me. “That means a lot, coming from you.”
Relief, sweet and calm, cleanses my soul. She’s mine. She’s staying.
I lean down, kissing her all over her face as she giggles.
But I haven’t asked her the most crucial question. The one I need an answer to.
I ask. “And are you happy?” And I wait.
