Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
If Rian’s sparking temper and fits of pique around Damon were for the same damned reasons.
He couldn’t be wondering that.
Couldn’t be wondering at the soft parting of Rian’s lips; at the way the silence between them seemed to tremble, honeyed and slow.
Damon sucked in a breath, and forced it out on uncertain words. “So...where are your showings?”
“New York, mostly,” Rian said after a moment. “My family is from Rochester, and well...anyone who’s anyone in the art world...” He shrugged with an uncomfortable little laugh, ducking his head. “And it’s past tense. Were. I pulled them all when I came here.”
“Why...?”
“Because I didn’t know if it was what I wanted,” Rian murmured. “And I didn’t know if it was what I deserved.”
Damon wasn’t sure what to say. What it was okay to ask, what wasn’t, why he even wanted to know. But finally he said, “Is this more about having things handed to you?”
“And the prize goes to Mr. Louis,” Rian said with a touch of cynicism that seemed to be turned inward, his own words a weapon to stab himself. His gaze flitted to the side, then up, lingering on the stained glass covers on the light fixtures. “My parents aren’t famous. If I mention Ariana and Ronan Falwell, the most recognition they’ll get is thinking my father’s name sounds like Ronan Farrow. But they’re moneyed, and if you know the right people in the world of useless New England old money that keeps perpetuating itself through corporate investments, their names open doors.” He smiled up at the panes of gold, lips tight. “Including doors to prestigious art galleries for their useless son whose only purpose was to be pretty, and make pretty things.”
“Ah.” Damon glanced over his shoulder, out the door...then shifted to nudge it closed, blocking off the hallway outside. This just...didn’t feel like a conversation that should be overheard by anyone passing by. “So you want to try to show something under your own merits?”
“At this point, I don’t know,” Rian said with a touch of frustration. “I thought so. I thought I’d just come here to find it in me to produce something really worthy, but the longer I stay here, the less I care about that...and the more I care about staying here for these boys.”
Damon flushed, heat pooling under his skin.
He somehow hadn’t expected that from Rian.
Especially with such sincerity, sweet and gritty as that raw sugar in his voice.
“You care about them that much?” he asked tentatively.
“Entirely out of character, isn’t it? I should try to be more self-absorbed.” Rian glanced over his upraised shoulder; the net top fell down further, the stark line of his collarbone a deliciously articulated ridge against pale skin, his bare shoulders dotted in a startling speckling of tiny tan freckles like a robin’s egg. Damon tore his gaze from Rian’s shoulders, and followed his line of sight to that wisteria sculpture as Rian continued, “But I just keep thinking if my parents had been a little more absent, a little less interested in spoiling me... I could have been one of these boys. My parents still don’t understand why I’m here.”
Yet between those words was something a little more honest, clear as if Rian had whispered into Damon’s ear.
My parents still don’t understand me.
“Hey,” he offered. “I get it. My parents don’t really understand me, either...but it’s kind of hard to ask them to when I don’t really understand myself.” He tried a smile. “I love ’em anyway. And I’m guessing you love yours, too.”
“Yeah.” Why did Rian’s most genuine, honest smiles always seem so sad? “I do. But sometimes I wonder what it’s like to love someone without feeling so...so completely separate from them.”
Yeah.
I wonder that too.
And that wondering was a knot in Damon’s throat, a tightness in his chest, a strangeness that kept him lingering on the single slim tendril of night-dark hair lying against the stark line of Rian’s jaw, against the smoothness of his neck; the way his smile faded but his lips remained parted as if he was drinking in something deep and slow on the air, the pink tip of his tongue just barely visible. A subtle movement of that tongue, as if on an unspoken word, reflected in the working of Rian’s throat...and Damon caught himself, forcing himself to look away.
“I think a lot of people wonder that,” he said neutrally. “Maybe we’re all just looking for somewhere to belong, and thinking everyone else has it figured out when they’re asking that same damned question, too.”
“Could be. All of us alone and wishing to be as together as we think everyone else is.” Rian thrummed quietly, low and every word like a drop of syrup. Sugar candy, Damon thought again, and tried not to wonder if Rian would taste that way, and crumble on his tongue. “But Damon?”