“My forgery,” Ezra says.
“Yes.” I close my eyes, seeing the painting as clearly as if it hangs before us. “Anatomy of a Ghost. My grandfather’s greatest work. The culmination of everything he’d learned, everything he believed about art and authenticity.”
“The one you came to steal from me.” Despite the words, there’s no accusation behind them.
“Yes.” My answer hangs between us, simple in its honesty.
Ezra shifts to see my face. “But you didn’t take it.”
“No.” The admission costs me nothing now, here in the quiet sanctuary of Ezra’s loft, wrapped in his arms with the taste of whiskey on my tongue. “I didn’t want to leave you with nothing.”
His expression softens at my words. “You left me with everything except yourself.”
“I thought it was kinder,” I whisper, the words an inadequate salve for the pain tattooed across his body.
“Kinder for whom?” His question holds no anger, only a genuine curiosity that deserves an honest answer.
“For you.” I reach up, threading my fingers through the streak of silver in his hair. “I was protecting you from all the ways I could hurt you. From all the ways loving me could destroy you.”
Ezra catches my hand, bringing it to his lips. “Did it ever occur to you that I might want a say in what risks I take? In who I choose to love despite the consequences?”
No, it hadn’t occurred to me. I decided without giving him a choice, convinced my departure was a gift rather than the theft it truly was. “I was trying to do the right thing.”
“The right thing,” Ezra murmurs against my palm, “would have been to trust me with the choice. With the truth.”
His words settle into my bones, rearranging a fundamental part of me. All my careful masks, my calculated escapes, my practiced lies, were built on the assumption that honesty was too dangerous to risk.
Yet here I am, more naked than I’ve ever been, speaking truths I’ve never voiced, and the world hasn’t ended. Ezra hasn’t turned away in disgust or disappointment. He’s still here, holding me as if I’m precious rather than broken.
“What about your parents?”
The topic shift leaves my alcohol-soaked mind reeling. “What about them?”
“Where were they while your grandfather taught you the family business?”
“My father was a musician, in town for a show only long enough to knock up my mother.” I sigh, my lashes fluttering down. “My mother…She’s somewhere in California, a mistress to whoever she can con into paying for her lifestyle.”
“The family business.” His arms encircle me fully now, his heartbeat steady where mine threatens to falter.
Ezra traces lazy circles on my stomach, and his mouth finds the sensitive spot where my neck meets my collarbone, sending a shiver through me. “My family has a business, too, you know.”
“Yeah. Lots of businesses.” I turn my head to give him a fuzzy frown. “No need to brag about being a billionaire.”
His fingers pause on my hip bones, close enough for my dick to thicken with interest. “Imports.”
The shift in his tone brings my full attention to him, and I struggle to focus past the curl of desire and the warmth of whiskey seeping through my veins. I wait, sensing more to come, unwilling to interrupt whatever truth he’s prepared to share.
“Stolen goods,” he clarifies, each syllable deliberate. “Artwork. Relics. Pieces that should’ve never been locked behind glass.”
My body tenses, muscles going rigid with surprise and the kind of understanding that arrives with sudden clarity. Not the shock of discovering criminal connections. A family as rich as the Rockfords has to have some shady dealings, but the perfect alignment of our worlds, the unexpected symmetry of our separate paths, feels too perfect.
Kismet.
My tongue darts out to sweep over my bottom lip. “You’re a smuggler.”
“That’s what my mother called it.” His lips curl into a smirk. “I call it reclamation. Curation. Giving passion back to what was preserved to death.”
His fingers resume their lazy caress, tracing the contours of muscle and bone. The touch distracts me, building the heat under my skin, and I shake my head to stay focused.