Page 64 of Brooke
She discovered a guest bedroom anchored on the first floor resplendent in a simple and cozy design of white with black accents. Without intending to, she wandered in. The fluffy pillows and bedding looked inviting, and the hand-crocheted green afghan hanging over an unpainted pine wooden bench underscored the welcome feeling.
Brooke disliked fussy and showy guest rooms, making a person afraid to touch things. Anyone who stayed here would feel like they could take their shoes off and relax. She ran her hand over more little touches in the room: a piece of driftwood standing in the corner; a trio of three gray stones resting in a white pottery tray beside the bed on a wooden table made from the same pine as the bench.
She decided to forgo looking at the design of the attached bathroom. They needed to speak, and wandering around his home without him beside her felt a little wrong. Spying the curved metal staircase, she climbed to the second floor.
The double doors to his bedroom were open, and there was no mistaking it was his. From the doorway, she couldn’t help but stare at the large custom-made bed fittedwith another fluffy duvet, anchored with large wooden posts at the ends. Olive, she thought, a spark of excitement lifting the heaviness inside her. The whole room was done in olive, the grains of wood like rivers trapped inside solid form.
She wasn’t surprised by the statement bed. He was a large man, so the size and frame made sense, but it still looked elegant, comfortable, and inviting.
She hadn’t been in that bed yet, but she wanted to be. Breathing rapidly, belly tightening, she heard her pulse drum in her ears. God, how she wanted to be in that bed with him, letting him cover her with his body and murmur love words to her in his deep, grounding voice.
His watch was resting on the wooden bedside stand, along with an upright piece of driftwood that looked like a piece of sculpture. She wondered what he saw in the lines of wood. To her, it looked like a woman dancing. Dean would say he’d put it there to call the woman of his heart to him.
God, why didn’t she have that kind of gene? The romantic one where she believed true love existed and could last? Like her father did apparently.
Shivering, she went down the hallway, only to find another curved metal staircase. She climbed it, her feet taking the steps carefully. They weren’t as treacherous as the steps in Nanine’s home, but they weren’t a piece of cake either. The staircase would frame his body nicely, but there was little room for more than one person at a time.
At the top, she found him in a high-ceilinged room obviously designed with his work in mind. A large drafting desk dominated the room with surrounding tables scattered with papers. Two design boards rested in draft form on a presentation easel, one with the faces of her and her roommates taped to them. She peeled her regard away to the man she’d stayed for, the one she’d also hurt.
He was sitting quietly in another slingback chair, gazingout the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlookedJardin Luxembourg.
“Do I need a peace offering?” she asked quietly, clasping her hands to stop them from trembling. “I suspect I could have found an olive branch somewhere in the house.”
He rose from his chair, his usual humor absent from the drawn planes of his face. “Why would you need an olive branch? You were upset. It sometimes happens. Words are not perfect vehicles for communicating what the heart feels, especially when one is not communicating in their native tongue. I fear mine did me no service today.”
Her throat grew scratchy as she took a few more steps inside the room. Suddenly, she realized she couldn’t speak to him in the language of his birth. She’d need to do something about that. “Obviously some of yours did. I’m here. When I wanted to be elsewhere.”
He seemed to go completely still then, and the full knowledge of how she’d hurt him washed over her.
“Axel, I don’t know where to start, but I want to say…” She had to clear her throat. “I’m grateful you asked me to come to your home. To tell you what happened. And I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to hurt you either.”
His stride toward her was purposeful, his intent gaze never leaving her face. “Do you want to sit down? Take a walk?”
She thought of the park close by but discarded the idea. Her nerves were too raw, and there were too many people to navigate. “Let’s sit. I’ll be more focused if it’s only us.”
He gave a brief smile before moving toward a wide-framed wooden chair adjacent to the couch in the corner. Hefting it up like it weighed nothing, he carried it over to his own. She tentatively walked over and sat down, knitting her hands together.
“I overreacted,” she began, her voice raspy and unsure. “Iheard what you said and immediately took it as criticism. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize anymore, Brooke.” When he put his hand on his heart, she knew he meant it. “We have forgiven each other, I hope. What I’d like you to tell me is why you heard it as criticism.”
She was so sick of telling that story about her mother. So sick she wished she could go back and change the woman who’d given birth to her. Erase her from her memory and start over with no memory of her.
Because here she was, twenty years after the incident in which her mother had ignored her existence, practically denied she was her child—in a public place, no less—and it was still locked inside her like a stupid insect in amber, preserved for all time with the power to hurt her and everything good in her world.
“How about I tell you what incites my nature?” he began when she hesitated, resting his large hands on his thighs. “First I should tell you that I like nature more than most people.”
A flash of humor touched her mouth. “Because it doesn’t talk back?”
“No, because it’s honest.” He turned his large frame in the chair to give her his full attention. “When you consider what I’ve chosen to do with my life, you’ll notice much of it is spent in solitude with my thoughts and my imagination. Yes, I meet with people who wish to hire me to create an unforgettable space for them. But I don’t usually see them as friends or ones I can trust, even though I have had relationships with a few. I see them as people who wish me to be their genius, their visionary, and in some cases, their cocktail party story. I am a hired performer of sorts.”
Her mouth went dry, hearing the loneliness in his voice. He wasn’t bitter or cynical but practical. “Axel, I had no idea. You are so?—”
“Proficient at hiding my feelings?” His large hand waved through the air. “Ah, Brooke. You and I have more in common than you know. We have learned how to thrive amidst childhood neglect and other painful experiences. That is why we understand each other.”
She unclenched her hand and extended it to him, wanting to comfort, wanting to bridge any remaining distance between them. He always did it with her. She hoped he realized the power of the gesture. “I’m sorry you’ve been treated that way.”
He clasped her hand with the whisper of a smile and drew it to his mouth to plant a tender kiss there. Yes, he understood. His blue eyes shone with warmth. The touch was so soft and sweet she felt that burn again, behind her eyes and in her heart. This man…
