Page 22 of The Sun & Her Burn
“Not in years.”
“I’ve never understood why she deserved your grace and not him.” I looked up at her in surprise, because I had never thought of it quite like that. “You haven’t told me the whole story, but I’ve always believed the more something hurts you, the more you try to avoid it. Doesn’t it say something that you’re willing to see Savannah, but you haven’t spoken to Adam in a decade?”
My gaze shifted to Dante, who was kindly engaging in quiet conversation with Tore, to give us a semblance of privacy. I knew both men were listening despite the ruse, but it meant something that they did not seem to care.
“You told Dante,” I said, not a question because it was obvious.
“He’s my husband.” She shrugged elegantly, and it reminded me of Savannah. They had many similarities—both could be aloof, cunning, elegant, and cold—but at the end of the day, my sister was the brave one, always going after what she wanted andtrying to better herself even when it was uncomfortable to do so. Maybe that was why I kept nursing this weak flame of hope that one day Savannah would find some courage, too. “Are you worried about him?”
I closed my eyes for a moment because my mind’s eye conjured the memory of Adam mid-panic attack when he’d discovered the paps had captured an intimate photo of us on the beach. He had looked so…wrecked. Broken to pieces barely held together by fragile skin.
“Yes,” I whispered. “I can’t stop thinking about him.”
She uncurled my fingers from the glass and threaded them through hers. In the setting sunlight, her hair glowed like a dark flame, her eyes a clear, burnished grey. She was so lovely and so happy settled into her skin, it made something loosen in my chest.
“Call him, then. Help him. I’m not saying he deserves it, but I think you need to do it. You’re the most selfless person I know, save for Cosima, and I think it might kill you not to go to him in his time of need.”
“How exactly am I supposed to help?” I said, biting off the words in frustration. “Associating with me is hardly going to help when I was the source of the problem the first time round.”
“No,” she agreed, sitting back in her chair with pursed lips as she mulled over the problem. “What he really needs is a good beard. Some pretty girl who can change the narrative and wouldn’t mind being at the center of attention for a moment. I’m sure his publicist can find any number of thirsty starlets to take the part. Whether or not they can be convincing or care about Adam at all is another story of course…why do you have that look on your face?”
“What look?” I asked absently, still stuck on the thought that had cropped up in the wake of her words.
“That look,” she said, pointing at my face. “The same one you had before you called Leone Valeria a pig when he pushed Cosima into the mud. The one that preluded you getting a broken finger.”
“Worth it,” I retorted. “But you’re right. I think I have an idea that could help more than just Adam.”
“Well, then,” she said, crossing her long legs and reaching for her wineglass. “Aren’t you lucky to have a wise sister like me?”
I snorted, but lifted our joint hands to my mouth to kiss her hand. “Sono baciati dalla fortuna.”
I am kissed by fortune, I told her.
And despite the heartbreak I’d experienced in my life, I knew I was the luckiest son of a bitch in the world to have the love of the women in my family and to have experienced the kind of love that changed my center of gravity, even if I’d spent the last ten years trying to regain my equilibrium.
6
ADAM
Iwas running for my life when the doorbell rang.
The thwack of my feet against the treadmill was thunderous, the mechanical whirr loud enough to drown out my thoughts. It was the only escape I had found in the last two disastrous weeks. Run, run, run until the demons fell back, and I was—momentarily—free.
Chaucer was worried about me even though she didn’t try to keep me from working out. There were worse outlets, we both knew, than spending too many hours in the gym.
The last time my life had fallen to pieces, I’d dived headfirst into a bottle of whiskey and hadn’t emerged for years.
So running was the lesser of many evils.
At least my trainer was pleased.
If I did end up getting the famous role of Anton Daventry, even after the gossip rags had exploded with new conjecture about my sexuality, I would need to be in the best shape of my life. While I’d always been broad-shouldered and fit, the last few weeks had seen what remained of my body fat melt away to reveal the kind of muscle normally reserved for professionalathletes. Some of my shirts were too small, now, a problem Chaucer was happy to rectify by burning a hole in my credit card on Rodeo Drive in service of new clothes for me.
I was annoyed when the doorbell rang once, twice, three times, and then again, a few minutes later when I didn’t deign to answer. I thought Chaucer was somewhere in the house, because I didn’t remember her leaving after she arrived that morning to check that I was still alive and sober. Certainly, my live-in chef and cleaner, Bruce, was around somewhere.
So why the bloody hell wasn’t anyone answering the door?
I hit the stop button on the treadmill when the chiming bell sounded for the fourth time, muttering under my breath about lazy employees as I snatched the towel from one handle and used it to mop the worst of the sweat from my brow. There was no helping my drenched quick-dry shirt, so I peeled it over my head and tucked it into the back of my shorts.
