Brothers of Paradise Series

“Thank you for the photographs. They were delivered this morning.”

His lips curve. “My pleasure. They’re my favorites, those four.”

“They’re beautiful,” I murmur. “Your portion of the video was, too.”Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

“Of course it was,” he says quietly. “I had you.”

My breath catches in my throat, and I can’t look away from the strength of his gaze. He had lied, yes. But I’d allowed myself to hang on to that as an excuse, an opportunity to flee from the unknown.

“I’ve been thinking about us.”

He inclines his head, a dark curl falling over his forehead. “So have I, Ives. And before you say anything, I want to give you something.” He pulls something out of his coat pocket, my eyes snagging on his hand, remembering the touch of it on my skin.

“Here you are!” a voice calls out. “My two stars!”

I clear my throat, refocusing on Ben’s grinning face. He has a champagne glass in one hand, smiling at the both of us.

“Oh, don’t look like that,” he says to Rhys, whose face is impassive. Annoyed at being interrupted, I’m guessing. “You won.”

“Co-won,” Rhys corrects.

“Yes, well, yours is the more artistic of the two, even if I hate to admit it.” He gives me a smirk. “It’ll be a pleasure, Ivy, to watch you in all the travel catalogues to come.”

My smile feels brittle, aimed at the man who gave me the campaign of a lifetime as a prank. “I’m glad.”

“She was-”

But Rhys is interrupted by the arrival of a few other people. A photographer, here to immortalize the event, and the dark-haired model I’d seen in the pictures. My opponent, I suppose. “One final picture?” Ben asks. “To celebrate the launch.”

“Sure,” I say, extending my hand to the other model. “I’m Ivy.”

“Sarah.”

“Your pictures look beautiful.”

She gives me a shy smile. “Thank you. I thought yours, though… they were art.”

“I had a great photographer.”

Ben motions for us to join him by the edge of the terrace, where the sprawl of New York beckons thirty-five floors below. Each step is an act of willpower, forcing myself closer and closer to the edge.

Is that railing really high enough?

“Come,” Ben repeats, Sarah to his right. I take my spot on his left side and look straight at the camera. The death drop behind me feels like a monster, creeping up to attack.

I pose, but my hand is clammy around the champagne flute. The seconds feel like years.

Rhys is standing beside the photographer with a scowl on his face. His hands are buried in his pockets, the top button of his shirt unbuttoned. I focus on the tan skin there.

“There,” the photographer says, lowering the camera. Ben thanks Sarah and me, but I can’t hear them above the beating of my heart.

And then Rhys is there, his arm closing around my waist as he pulls me away from the edge. I follow him across the roof and into the stairwell, where walls keep the abyss at bay.

“A rooftop,” I mutter. “It had to be another rooftop.”

“Are you okay?” His fingers tip my chin back, my face lifting to his.

“Yes. Just…” I shake my head. “I have to keep away from the edge.”

“I remember.”

My palms land on his chest, hard beneath his shirt. “Nobody has confused me like you have,” I accuse him. “Nobody has made me as angry, or as irritated. Nobody has made me laugh as much, either.”

His thumb slides along my jaw. “You’ve confused me too. Every box I wanted to put you in, you’ve defied.”

“Rhys, I know you consider life an adventure and people something to savor, but I can’t handle it if we are like that. It’s not in me to be casual.”

“I don’t want anything casual with you,” he replies. “And for the record, you made it difficult to stay cool and casual.”

“So did you. Impossible, even.”

His hand closes over my wrist, fitting with my palm flat to his chest. Right over his heart, where I can feel the pounding beneath his skin. “You’re trusting and earnest and innocent. Sarcastic and smart. An optimist to your core, Ivy. You take your coffee with too much sugar and your tea with too much milk, but I couldn’t care less.” He rests his forehead against mine, the inky blackness of his hair spilling over mine. “And I always care about that.”

My hands creep up to his neck, to the warm skin waiting for me. “I liked you even when I didn’t like you very much.”

He’s so close that I can’t see his smile, but I can feel it, as if it’s an extension of me. “I know,” he says. “The feeling was mutual. Seeing that Italian model kiss your neck in Rome damn near killed me.”

“I hoped you’d be jealous of that.”

A wicked spark in his eyes. “You surprise me, too, at every turn. I hope you never stop doing that.”

I wet my lips. “Are we really going to try this?”

“Being something, you and me?”

“Yes.”

“I think we should. We’ll probably argue half the time, about what movie to watch, what book to read, about whether or not peanuts should be salted… but I’m okay with that.”

“I’m okay with that too.” My hand slides into his hair, it’s silky thickness caressing my skin. “I don’t think you’d want it any other way.”

His lips close over mine, and I respond in kind, the two of us reuniting like we’re closing a deal-agreeing on our future, on us, on this.

What he is and what I am fits together so well, in so many ways, that even the areas where we don’t match up feel right. I surrender to the delicious simplicity of his touch and wonder if love will always feel like this, like falling, scary and exhilarating in equal measure.

Because love means you have to trust. You have to open up. And you have to allow someone else in, with the power to hurt you, and have faith they don’t.

Rhys’s eyes are open when he lifts his head. “Why are we still at this party?”