I pointed right at his chest. He never said a word but a muscle in his jaw twitched wildly.

  “So we’re back to that. Ten years pass and we’re right back to that.”

  “Why not? You seem to be stuck in the past, mired in how I fucked around and ruined our trust when I have told you repeatedly that I never—”

  “This isn’t about the broken trust from back then. It’s about how I am too fucking scared to give any man my heart after you shredded it so badly. Since us, I’ve run from every relationship when it got too deep. And now here you are, back in my life, asking me to give you my heart again, but you don’t see that I’ve never been able to fully give it to anyone other than you!” The anger left his eyes. His jaw softened. My heart began to weep. What had we done to each other?

  I let my lashes drop and drew in a massive breath. When I opened my eyes, he stood right in front of the door yet, his face drawn tight with pain and sorrow.

  “I don’t know if I trust anyone enough to give them that much of me again,” he gruffly confessed. “I need time, Dane. I want to love you as you love me but…”

  I lifted my hand to silence him. “I understand. I hate it. I hate that we scarred each other so deeply. I hate that the failure has followed us through every relationship we’ve had since we ended things.” I drew in a shaky breath. “But I do love you. I always will. That will never change. So, when you feel that you’re brave enough to let me help guide you over that rickety bridge you’re terrified to cross, come find me. I’ll be in Paris, acting like a typical heartbroken author, drunk and surly and probably smelly, until you’re once more in my arms.”

  He nodded in silence then stepped away from the door.

  I removed the cord from the USB port, slid my laptop under my arm, took the wine, stopped by his side to kiss his cheek, and walked out of his office, head high, tears being gracious enough to wait to make an appearance only after I was in my cabin by Cranberry Creek. He never came to see me off when I checked out the following day, and I was actually thankful for that. I did not want him to see me puffy-faced from weeping coupled with an ugly wine hangover. This time it was me who needed to be strong for him. The poor flight attendant had to suffer through my ugliness. The sweet young man really never had a chance of making that flight any less horrid.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I faked being sick. Yeah, I was that childish and that morose. I lied to Madame Pent over the phone, telling her that I had brought back an ugly bug from the states so she should steer clear. Then I called Ruth and fed her the same cock-and-bull story, asking if she could just move the event back a week. After an hour, my editor called back, sounding quite upset about my malady, and said that Patrice and Kim were happy to reschedule. They wished me a quick recovery just as she and Marcel did. Hanging up, I felt truly sick for lying to the only people on this continent who loved me. Oh but woe is me. I crawled back into a wine bottle for another two days.

  When I awoke on one particularly sunny morning—or possibly afternoon—I flopped to my back, my bedding clinging to my tacky skin. The sun was wickedly bright, so I threw an arm over my eyes. The stench of drunken, unwashed man assaulted my nostrils, making me gag more than once before I dragged my sorry ass out of bed and into the shower. Washing felt good. I didn’t shave. It was back to the Walt Whitman look for me. My life plan had shifted since I had come back to Paris alone and aching like a busted limb. Gone was the fantasy of a home filled with Khalid, kids, and cats. My new goal was to become a hermit. The world’s youngest recluse. I’d hole up here, write, grow my beard, get plastered on a nightly basis, eat lots of French pastries all day long, and die at forty from cirrhosis of the liver combined with a massive coronary. People would praise my genius after my death. My tombstone would have something bitchy on it that dealt with the futility of love.

  By the time the party at P & K Books was a mere hour away, I was well on my way to my daily drunk. Ruth and Marcel, two of the most kind-hearted lesbians I had ever spent time with, were keeping me in check—or trying—while attempting to keep the fifty plus guests crammed into the eclectic little book store with the wide bow windows filled with complimentary champagne. Even though I despised champagne, I was knocking it back flute after flute.

  “Did I tell you I fired my agent yesterday?” I asked a thin woman in a funny pink hat as we chatted in front of the non-fiction section.

  “Oh, no. Why did you do that?” she asked and rubbed at her nose with her finger.

  “Ah, there you are! Excuse us.” Ruth swept in like a hawk clad in a ruby red Dior summer dress with cutouts on the shoulders. She pulled me around by my sleeve, her polite English slowly fading away to be overtaken by irate French. I was planted by a stool in the front of the store, my back to the bow windows. On the stool were some index cards with notes I’d jotted down, as well as the blurb and synopsis of the upcoming book which had a title, but the fourteen flutes of champagne had made me forget what it was.

  “Dane, you are making an ass of yourself,” she said in French through gritted teeth as she straightened the tie I’d put on to make the plain cotton shirt look somewhat dressy. The jeans and espadrilles were beyond dressing up Marcel had announced when she’d first seen me. “This is a big party. Several representatives of our new American branch are here. Please, let me get you something to make you feel better.”

  “The only thing that will do that is back in the states,” I replied, my French more than a little slurred so I went to English because I could speak that sober even though I was tipsy, right? Right. “Just give me my note cards and let’s get this over with. My stomach is touchy.”

  She looked me over, frowned, kissed my cheeks, and then swept the note cards from the stool and put them into my hand.

  “Poor lovesick man.” She sighed then went to stand next to Marcel, both diminutive brunettes watching me as if they feared I might topple over. Or vomit on myself. Either was possible. My gut was feeling a little tumultuous. Fucking champagne.

  I smiled at the people who had gathered to hear me be witty and erudite, to wow them with the announcement of my next book and how stupendous it would be. Patrice and his wife lingered by the old creaky door, smiling at me as if I’d hung the moon, my biggest fans, they sipped their bubbly and waited with bated breath, like all the others packed into the stuffy book store. It was close in here. I tugged on the tie Ruth had just tidied then glanced down at the first note card, blinking to read the opening lines. It was a funny little pun followed by the beautiful homage to book stores and how every breath taken in a book store carried a million stories. Damn, I was good. I began to read the slightly-blurred words, using the stool as a sort of anchor to keep me standing upright even though if I crashed to the side that dumb blue stool wouldn’t stop my fall. For some reason, it just felt safe.

  The sound of the bell over the side door broke into my opening remarks. I glanced up from the card, wondering who would dare to arrive late, and found dark brown eyes in a face that I loved beyond all reason settling on me.

  “Khalid,” I said aloud, halfway through a clever comment about sales and aliens. He smiled uncertainly at me, his face one of many but certainly the brightest among the fashionable and learned who were elbow-to-elbow. The group as a whole turned their heads to look at him pressed into a corner by a tall shelf that overflowed with young adult books. A fine red blush rose up in his cheeks. I threw the notes to Ruth, pushed the stool from my thigh, and waded out into the crowd of gawkers and publishers, fans and friends, reviewers, bloggers, and those who simply who wished to be among the literary elite of Paris.

  I nudged a man in a bright red scarf to the side, my head spinning, my heart thundering against my ribs. He gave me a sour look, obviously miffed that my editor was now going to make the big announcement.

  “It’s going to be a great book,” I told scarf man before I grabbed Khalid by the wrist and hauled him out into the misty Parisian night, the set of several small bells over the side door ringing out our departure. The tinkling of the bells could still be heard as I pulled him under a streetlamp, took his heated face between my hands, and stared at him, soaking up his beautiful face as I breathed him in. “It really is you, right? I’m not having a daydream fueled by Dom Perignon, am I? Tell me this is really you.”

  “It’s really me.”

  I leaned into him, pushing all my weight into his chest, easing him back until his spine rested on the base of the street lamp, and then I tipped my head to kiss him. He opened before my lips touched his. His taste exploded on my tongue as I licked into his mouth. Tears ran down my cheeks, mingling with the soft rain blowing down the street. We stood under that lamp time lost to us, it could have been minutes passed or days, we were lost to anything but the heat of each other.

  “They’re clapping,” he panted when the kiss broke for a second. I glanced over my shoulder to see the bow windows of the book store packed with people, all clapping, grins on all their faces. “They’re happy for us.”

  I glanced back at Khalid, saw the joy in his gaze, and kissed him again, just once and quickly, before taking him by the hand to lead him to a taxi stand on the corner. I bowed theatrically to the people applauding us before we ran off. When he, with his lone and sodden carry-on, were safely in the backseat of the first taxi in line I prattled off my address in French, not caring how much the trip may cost. The cabbie replied, and we were off. Turning on the seat, my shirt soaking wet, hair flat to my head, I stared at Khalid grinning at me, his bag on his lap, his fingers tight on the strap, his gaze never leaving my wet face until we were moving, then he spent a few moments staring at the city. Paris on a rainy night was truly enchanting.

  “I saw a painting once, an oil, that looked just like this.” He jerked his chin at the cobblestone street lined with trees and glowing vintage gas lights. I placed my hand over his to keep the connection between us alive. “It was brighter, an abstract, but it captured the colors and wet streets perfectly.”

  The driver leaped into things, in horribly fractured English, telling Khalid where he could see fine art if he was into such things.

  “Merci,” I murmured to the cabbie who inclined his head then fell back into silence.

  “Everyone here sounds like your ex,” he whispered before I stole another kiss, and then another and yet another.

  “Don’t bring him up. Not now, not in this moment.” I cupped his scruffy chin in one hand and pushed back the wet hair from his brow. His lovely nose wrinkled as I bared his forehead, so I dropped a kiss to the furrows over his eyebrows which helped ease them away. “Tell me why you’re here. Tell me all of it. I need to know how you got here. No, wait, tell me later. Just kiss me now.”

  We made out the entire way to my musty old house. I threw money at the cabbie, could have been millions, although I doubted that since I’d only had about fifty euros on me when I’d left home. He got them all. The rain was now heavier. I hustled Khalid into my tiny house, locked the door, and then began peeling him out of his wet clothes before he got sick.

  “I have to touch you, taste you…every bit of you before I die.” I lapped at his lower lip as I stripped him bare, tossing our wet clothes to the floor. I’d tend to them later. Right now, nothing on this planet was more important than loving this man who was stroking my face as if I were not a hairy, inebriated fool.

  “We should talk,” he said after we’d fallen into my bed, the rain beating on the windows, probably leaking into the guest room. “I have to tell you why I’m here…ah, Dane, that’s wickedly good.”

  I wiggled the finger in his ass around then fell on his neck to feast on the whiskery flesh that covered his jugular. He pumped his hips upward, pushing that finger deeper as he stroked my cock.

  “You’re here because you love me.” I left the sweetness of his shoulder where it joined his neck to enjoy the hot tang of his mouth yet again. “Tell me that’s the truth, and the rest can be hashed out later. Just tell me you love me.”

  “I love you,” he cooed, slipping a hand into my damp hair to ensure my mouth settled on his again. “I need you. I do not want to live another day without you. I am scared shitless…”

  I kissed his fears away, at least for this night, by giving him myself totally, holding nothing back, spreading myself on the bed, arms and legs wide, my cock hot and eager and hard, I gave him everything that I had. The burning sting of his cock slipping deep made me gasp then purr. I reached for him, needing him close, chest scrubbing chest even if depth were lost. He tucked my ankles behind his head, leaned over me then he began to move, thrusting hard then pausing to lap at my lips. Over and over, deep then shallow, kiss then thrust, his fingers tight around my cock, jerking and whispering how hot I was, how tight, how beautiful and how beloved. I came as he talked, the pressure and friction of cock and hand working me internally and externally was too much to bear any longer.

  He pulled out suddenly as I lay there, feet by his ears, cock jerking and spurting, and pulled the condom off so that he could shoot on my belly. We both smeared our spunk into my skin, me coating my fingers then bringing them to my lips so that he would fall over me, capture my mouth, and tongue off the thick cream. It was sublime and animalistic and possibly the most intense orgasm I had ever experienced.

  He slithered to the bed beside me, as gelatinous as I was by the looks. My legs fell to the mattress, the hamstrings cramping. I moaned softly as the pain eased off to a dull ache, like the lingering aftereffect of a Charley horse.

  “Did I hurt you?” His voice was muffled by bedding.

  “No, leg cramps. I’m out of shape,” I groaned, slowly easing myself out of bed and limping to the lone set of doors in this room. I cracked them a bit to allow cool air to creep into the overheated room. I had what could be called a patio, I guess if you called a railing with a flower box a patio. “Fuck my ass hurts.”

  He stepped up behind me, strong arms circling my waist, which was kind of the opposite of what I opened the door for, but it was Khalid, and so I sighed when his sweaty body molded to mine.

  “Thought you said I didn’t hurt you.” He kissed my shoulder. A soft little breeze moved over us, carrying fine misty rain that felt marvelous.

  “Not that part of my ass,” I replied, gazing out on a rain-soaked alley, my love holding me close. It was, truly, a dream come true.

  “Ah, I understand.” His chin came to rest on my shoulder. I let my hands lay on his forearms. The pitter-patter of water dripping from the eaves was soothing. “You need to work those muscles a bit more, luv.”

  “I’ll walk to the patisserie in the morning.”

  He laughed lightly, a sweet and tender sound. “Not quite what I meant but it’s something. Come back to bed, Dane.”

  We turned from the lights and rain, the door left cracked, and washed up then climbed into the bed after peeling off the dirty sheets. With the cover under us and a blanket over top, we moved to each other in the dark. My lips sought his. He held me tight to his side.

  “Tell me now,” I said as my head rested on his bicep. “Tell me all about this miracle.”

  He drew in a long breath, his fingers fiddling with my hair. “I didn’t want to end up like that poor stupid ass.”

  My eyebrows knitted. “What poor stupid ass?”

  “Dale.”

  “Oh, that ass.” I chortled then dropped a kiss to his chest, right beside his nipple.

  “Yeah, that poor stupid ass. You killed him. You killed Odom and Cyran. You call them all dying—even the ass—a romance?!”

  I had to ponder on that for a moment. I could be glib, but I was too tired and could feel the creeping tendrils of a miserable champagne headache starting. Honesty would probably serve me better here since I was hoping for some from him.

  “I have no idea how to write a happy ending for a love story.”

  “I’m not sure I would either.”

  The rain continued to fall, the dripping steady on the wrought-iron railing. “How long are you here?” I asked just to break the melancholy moment.

  “Two weeks…” I sensed something more and pushed up to rest on my elbow and gaze at him. There was no light to see him by, no moonglow or nightlight, yet I knew his face so well I pictured it in my mind. Restful, his hair drying on his brow. I reached out, brushed the tip of his nose, and stroked his hair back from his forehead. “I’m terrified right now.”

  “I know.” I leaned down to press my lips to his cooling brow. “Tell me how a dead fictional ass brought you to me.”

  He took his time replying, and I was happy to let him do so. “I didn’t want to end up dead staring at the people that I loved but never saying it to them.”

  “He was a mule. They can’t say they love their owners.”

  A huff rumbled out of him. I smiled at the sound. “Don’t be daft. Of course the ass can’t say it, but I felt he wanted to, right? He adored Odom and carried his gear all over that fucking kingdom, but he never got to tell him that he loved him. Then, at the end, the fucking evil prince rides down on them and kills them all, and there lays poor stupid Dale, right next to Odom and fuck.”

  “Babe, you realize that the romance was between the men, right? And not the man and the mule?” I let my hand rest on his brow as he tried to not sound like he was choked up.

  “I felt for that ass,” he mumbled thickly before threading his fingers into my hair to pull my mouth down to his lips. He kissed me with such emotion that I was shaken to the marrow when our lips parted. “I cannot be that ass. I cannot watch you love someone else again. So, I packed my shit and put in for vacation time owed and flew over, praying all the while that Allah would guide me to you and that you’d still want me.”