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doing it for years. “I
see past all your defenses.”
    My throat dried up like a mirage in the middle of a desert.
I licked my lips. The need to know what he saw beat in my chest. Was I brave
enough? I nodded. Today, I was. I propped my head into my open palm and asked
tentatively, “And what do you see?”
    His hand smoothed over my leg. “First, red or white?”
    I looked at the delicate spread stretched out on the table
before me. “Normally, I prefer red, but this seems like a meal made for white.”
    He nodded, leaning forward he picked up a bottle and
uncorked it. “Red it is.” He poured the deep, smoky liquid into the glass and
handed it to me. “You should always go with what you really want.”
    I took the glass with trembling hands and raised it to my
lips, taking a sip. The smooth, dry flavor of pinot noir slid down my throat,
warming my nervous stomach. I’d never been wooed before, never encouraged it
from men, but Christos made it work.
    He poured himself a glass and leaned back on the couch, his
hand never moved from my leg. He glanced around my office, taking in the
exposed brick and duct work, the high ceilings that made up the loft space. “I
like this, it fits you.”
    “Katherine found it. I had nothing to do with it.”
    “Oh, I don’t know about that. She might have found the
space, but this office is all you.”
    I frowned. Somehow irrationally irritated by his assertion.
The space was all warm and cozy with dark cherry woods, deep reds and rich
browns.
    Couldn’t he see how cold I was? If I’d picked something that
reflected me, I’d have gone with gun-metal industrial. “Katherine decorated.”
My tone took on the distinctive bite I reserved just for him.
    He cocked one brow. “She obviously knows you well.”
    I opened my mouth to protest then snapped it shut. What was
I doing? Did I really want to ruin this decadent mood between us over
decorating? I shrugged and took another sip of the wine.
    He pointed at a framed photograph. “That picture, it’s
beautiful and haunting. Who’s the artist?”
    I stared at the black-and-white photo, a long stretch of
deserted highway with an abandoned farmhouse on the side, storm clouds filling
the vast sky. My heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t the first person to ask the
question, and I’d never told anyone who’d done the piece. But I wanted him to
know. I took a deep breath and dove in. “I am.”
    His fingers tightened on my leg and there was a moment of silence,
the air still. “You’re very talented.”
    “It was a fluke,” I said, matter-of-fact. I wasn’t being
modest. I’d never been able to capture anything quite like it ever again,
although I’d tried countless times.
    “Maybe.” His head rested along the back of the couch and he
turned to me. “Or maybe you’re just too scared at what you felt to journey
back.”
    Again his own personal brand of truth hit me as if I’d been
jackknifed in the stomach. It was the reason I’d never told anyone I’d done the
picture. The expectation of a follow up that was far too desolate for me to
explore.
    I licked my lips. Words filled my mouth, desperate to
escape. I’d never been a talker, never wanted to confess. I loved the safety of
everything being locked up inside me. Trapped in a tight cocoon of my own
making, spinning around me in layer after layer, protecting the fragile insides
no one but Christos had ever suspected.
    As much as Christos scared me, the words tumbled out anyway,
at long last refusing to be contained. “Sometimes, when I need to think, I get
in my car and drive. I always go somewhere remote and I always take my camera.
I like photography and the unexpected things you encounter when you develop the
photo.
    “The storm had been about to break when I spotted the house.
I pulled over and there was no one out. I still remember the whip of the wind
against my hair, the smell of danger and electricity charging the air. The
contrast between all that lonely