She finally opened her eyes enough to let him see her surprise. “Not a very...soapy name from my marketing guru.”
“What would you call it?”
“Amazing. Perfection. A prelude to...something.”
They both knew exactly what something that was a prelude to.
“How about a prelude to a promise?” he suggested. “Too corny?”
“Well, it’s for weddings planners. They love corny.”
They both laughed, and she reached her hand to stroke his cheek. “I like you, Becker. So much it scares the hell out of me.”
“What are you scared of, Francesca?”
She sighed and closed her eyes. “Everyone I love leaves me.”
The admission was so simple and true, it hit like a punch between the eyes. He didn’t even know how to respond, so he just lay down next to her, ignoring his body’s needs to take this moment to connect.
“What are you scared of, Elliott?”
He thought for a long time, holding her hand, letting their heart rates settle back to normal.
“You are going to tell me the truth and be real, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Yes.” But not yet. He couldn’t tell her yet. He’d have to tell her another kind of truth. A different revelation. “I’m scared that no matter what I do or where I go or how much I spend or make or accumulate, I will never be...” Where I belong. “Home.”
She sat up slowly, leaning on her elbow to look at him. “Tell me why.”
And for the first time ever, he wanted to tell someone everything. All his pain, all his missing parts, all the reasons why he had a hard time being real.
Because with this woman, being real was easy. Too easy. He’d never even thought there was such a thing.
* * *
Yes, Frankie wanted to have sex with Elliott Becker. More sex. Real sex. But something was stopping him, and Frankie suspected he just wanted one last wall to come down between them. He wanted to tell her something. That had been clear for a while now. And she wanted to tell him something, too.
So sex could wait. She had a feeling there’d be plenty, and often. This sharing was far more important.
They were both still fully clothed, but he nestled her into him, sliding a powerful leg over hers. He gently eased her head into the space right over his heart, his chin against her hair.
For a long time, neither spoke. Their breaths slipped into an easy unison, the afternoon sunlight slipping through plantation shutters to stream warmth on them. Frankie felt everything tense and scary and unhappy lift from her heart for the first time in a long time.
“Home,” he finally said. He nodded, as though that sounded right to him. “I’d like a home.”
She pushed up on her elbows again, certain she’d misunderstood the whispered words. “Didn’t you say you have a few already?”
“I’ve got an apartment in New York and I keep a place in Paris, just because, I don’t know. It’s pretty there. My parents retired to San Diego, so I have a place there, and I like to ski so I bought a house in Aspen. And, of course, my gold mine in Massachusetts, but I don’t live there. My place in Boston is in Beacon Hill.”
She laughed softly. “Okay. What’s wrong with this picture? You just told me of, what, five, maybe six different places you own and none of them are home? You live there, right? And something tells me that ‘apartment’ in New York isn’t a walk-up.”
“It’s nine thousand square feet, three stories, with five different balconies and a three-sixty-degree view of New York City.”
“Holy crap,” she muttered.
“And by the way,” he said softly, not breaking the slow stroke of her hair. “I looked up the quote. Money isn’t the root of all evil. It’s the love of money that’s the root of all evil.”
“Who said that? Shakespeare?”
“God. It’s in the Bible.”
“Really.” She hadn’t known that. “Still doesn’t change my feeling about it or the fact that you own all that real estate and still don’t have a place to call home.”
“Because calling a house a home doesn’t make it one,” he said. “Now don’t get me wrong, I love my places. But you’ll never hear me call them home. The apartment in New York is jaw-dropping, I know. I have great parties there, and I actually live in about one-fifth of it, which includes the kitchen, bedroom, and media center. But...” He shook his head. “Nope, not my idea of a home.”
“What is?”
“I don’t know.” He was quiet for a few seconds, thinking. “I started to think this week that...” His voice trailed off, and she didn’t dare look up to see his face to figure out what he was thinking. Because if he was thinking...
No. Crazy fantasies. Stop it, Francesca.
“...that it must be nice to have something that’s been in your family and has history like that.”
Not exactly where she’d thought he might be going, that he might admit her home felt like it could possibly be his home.
“I’ve never lived anywhere for more than eighteen months,” he said. “And now, I don’t live in one place for more than a month or two before I jet off to the next apartment or house. I never had ‘a room of my own,’ a structure full of memories, or, you know, that place where you fall, where you can be...” His voice faded, and then he laughed softly. “A place where I can be myself.”
She smiled at him, getting it completely. “So that’s why you’re a chameleon. You need a home base.” Deep in her chest, so deep it was like a little black hole she’d never expected to find, a low, slow burn heated up, even though it terrified her. What if...could she be...was there a chance to make a home with a man like this?
“So why not build a house in the burbs and live there?” she asked quickly, trying to plug up that sensation.
“I don’t know if I want that, either.”
She slid her arm all the way around him, holding on to his substantial body, warm and close and so, so comfortable. “I think, ladies and gentlemen, that we have found ourselves a man who can have everything but doesn’t know what he wants.”
“You know...” He looked at her, his whole expression soft. “You’re so damn right. I want...” His voice faded and, suddenly, a guard went up. Imperceptible, but she knew it.
“You want what?”
He didn’t answer, still slicing her with his dark gaze, something—a lot—going on in his head.