Damien is watching my face, but I can’t get a read on his expression.

I turn back around and pick up an already dry bowl and start attacking it with the dishrag I’m still holding. “So that’s it? You just fuck them and dump them?”

“That’s a bit harsh,” he says. “Dump suggests they wanted something more, and I’m quite certain that all they wanted was to be photographed on my arm and have a bit of fun in my bed.”

“All of them?” I keep my back to him. This conversation has turned surreal.

“I’ve gone out with a few women who wanted more. I disentangled myself from those women. And no, I didn’t sleep with them.”

“Oh.” The dish is bone dry, but I’m still moving the rag over it. “So you just don’t do relationships?”

“Not with them.”

“Why not?”

His hand closes gently on my shoulder and I feel the now-familiar heat. “Because none of them was the woman I wanted,” he says as he turns me so that I have no choice but to look at him. His eyes are dark and intense, his voice is like a caress. My heart pounds in my chest, and breathing has suddenly become difficult. I think about the way he looked at me six years ago, that one glance that inspired so many fantasies. But that’s not what he means; I know it can’t be.

“But you did date someone not too long ago,” I say, then immediately regret the words when I see his expression darken. Nice turning to ice.

For a moment, I don’t think he’s going to answer. Finally, he nods. “Yes,” he confirms. “I suppose I did.”

So was she the woman you wanted? The question seems to hang in front of me, but I can’t say it out loud.

The silence thickens and I feel like an idiot for mentioning the woman in the first place. Finally, I lick my lips. “I heard that she died. I’m so sorry.”

His face is hard, his jaw tense with the effort of holding in a strong emotion. “It was tragic.” His voice sounds unnaturally tight.

I nod, but I don’t pursue it any longer. I don’t know why he told me that he didn’t date at all when it’s so clear that this woman meant something to him, but I’m not going to push. Considering the secrets I’m keeping, I can hardly fault him for holding on to a few of his own.

I’m tired now, though, and I want to be alone. I want to find Jamie and go to the corner store and get ice cream and cookies. I want to watch sappy old movies and sit on the couch and cry.

I want Damien Stark out of my head.

Mostly, I want to try to forget the way his touch makes me feel, because I need to abandon even the fantasy of Damien Stark. It’s too raw, too real. And despite the fact that I know I have to, the thought of pushing him away rips right through my heart.

I pull out Social Nikki and smile brightly as I toss my dish-towel on the counter. “Listen, it was nice of you to come by to check on me. But I’m fine. Really. And I’m actually in a little bit of a hurry. I don’t mean to be rude, but …” I trail off, looking meaningfully at the door.

“Do you have a date tonight, Ms. Fairchild?”

“No!” I blurt out the word, then immediately regret it. If I did have a date—if I was already seeing that special someone—I’d have the perfect excuse for brushing off Damien Stark.

“Where are you going?”

“What?” I blink, because that’s not the polite way to play the game. Then again, I haven’t yet seen evidence that Stark follows the traditional social norms. Why I thought he’d start now …

“If you’re not going on a date, then where are you going?”

I can hardly tell him about my new cry-on-the-couch plans, so I fall back on a version of my original itinerary. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to grab a smoothie and then go hike Fryman Canyon Park.”

“By yourself?”

“Well, I could take the Royal Guard, but I think they’re busy.”

“It’s going to be dark soon.”

“It’s not even six yet. Sunset’s not until eight-thirtyish.”

“The sun may not dip below the horizon until then, but there are foothills involved. And once the sun starts to sink, it gets dark fast.”

“I’m only going to take a few shots of the view and the sunset. Then I’m coming back. I promise you I won’t let the boogey-men get me.”

“They won’t,” Damien says, “because I won’t let them. I’m coming with you.”

“No,” I say. “I appreciate the concern, really I do. But no.”

“Then don’t go at all. Let me bring the sunset to you.”

I can’t argue with that, primarily because I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about. “What?”

He leaves the kitchen, then comes back in view with a brown paper–wrapped package. From the size and shape, it’s obviously something framed. “It reminded me of you.”

“Really?” A little trill of pleasure swirls through me.

He puts the package on the kitchen table. “I had intended to give it to you earlier, but you were called away so quickly that I didn’t have the chance.”

I smirk, but if this is his way of extracting an explanation from me, it is not going to work.

“Maybe I should be grateful,” he says. “This way I get to see where you live.”

“I haven’t really put my stamp on it yet. Jamie’s taste runs to Early American Garage Sale.”

“And yours?”

“I’m much more refined. I go for Mid-Century Flea Market.”

“A woman who knows her own mind. I like that.”

From the way he’s looking at me, I’d say he likes it very much. I clear my throat and glance at the package. I know I should tell him that I appreciate the thought, but that I can’t accept it. But I’m curious to know what’s inside it. And I’m warmed by the mere fact that he brought me a gift.

“May I?”

“Of course.”

I leave the safety of the kitchen counter and venture to the table. I keep a chair between us, but even that is too close. I can feel his presence, that sense of the air thickening with awareness. I have to work hard to keep my hands steady as I slide my finger under the tape and start to peel back the wrapping.

I see the frame first and know that this is no ordinary trinket. It’s simple, but made with incredible craftsmanship. But it’s the canvas that truly takes my breath away. An Impressionist sunset that conveys both realism and a heightened sense of reality, as if the viewer were looking at the horizon through the lens of a dream.