But the place was about to be mine, and that made it worth any price to me.
Maybe that’s why I’d felt compelled to come here after seeing those drawings. They’d left me feeling edgy and unsure of who I was and what I wanted. And the fact that they had been so meticulously and lovingly created by Cole left me just as confused about what he wanted.
Considering all the canvases devoted to my image, you’d think he would’ve seized the opportunity to take me. But he’d walked away, and now my head was all but spinning.
The house soothed me. It was tangible. It was wood and brick and stone and nails.
With the house, what you saw was what you got.
With Cole, not so much.
I sighed, because that was the bottom line, wasn’t it? Why I’d driven miles out of my way and was going to end up late to meet my friends? Because every second of every day my mind was trying to unravel the mystery that was Cole. And not doing a very good job of it, either.
Frustrated, I got out of the car and walked to the front porch. I pressed my face against the window and looked inside, noting the battered hardwood floors that I would soon be sanding and refinishing. The dingy walls that seemed to cry out for a coat of paint.
This was more than a house, I realized. It was an anchor. Nine-hundred and twenty-four square feet tying me to Chicago and this life and my friends.
Katrina Laron.
Somewhere along the way, that’s the girl I’d settled on.
I pressed my forehead against the glass and sighed. Had I really just been griping about not being able to figure out Cole? Had I actually been frustrated because he saw me as pure and innocent? Pretty unfair considering I changed who I was every five minutes.
Hypocrite, thy name is Katrina. Or Catalina. Occasionally even Kathy.
God, I really was a train wreck.
Because the house didn’t yet belong to me, I technically wasn’t allowed inside. Technicalities rarely bothered me, though, because they only became a problem if you were caught breaking the rules. And even then, I could usually talk my way out of it.
The key was stored in the real estate lockbox, to which I also didn’t have access. I’d been here before, though, usually with my agent, Cyndee, and I’d been around the block enough times to know that one never misses an opportunity.
So when she punched in the combination, I’d paid attention to the code. I recalled it now easily enough—my father didn’t give a flip about my grades in school, but fail to remember something he told me to memorize, and I’d end up grounded for a week.
I entered the code, grabbed the key, and let myself in.
The air was stale and thick, and already stifling even though it wasn’t yet noon. But I breathed in deep anyway, because this stale air and everything surrounding it was going to be mine soon.
There was no furniture, so I didn’t sit. And I hadn’t come with any particular purpose, so I just started to wander, taking in the rooms, imagining how I would fix them up. Knowing that I could fix them up.
I sighed, understanding now why I’d been so determined to come here. Maybe I couldn’t get what I wanted from Cole. But I could damn sure get this house to fall into line.
It didn’t take long to circle through the living room, kitchen, bedrooms, and bath. I took a peek at the backyard, then turned back toward the front door, my car, and my friends.
I was about to step out onto the porch when my cell phone rang. I dug it out of the back pocket of my jeans, then sucked in a breath when I saw the caller ID. Cole.
I hesitated a moment, but there was no way I was going to let this call roll to voicemail, even if I should. So I bit my lower lip, then pressed my thumb on the green button.
I didn’t, however, say anything. Just my little nod to passive-aggressiveness.
“Liz told me you came by the gallery.” His voice was steady. Smooth. And I couldn’t read one damn thing into it.
“I did.”
“If you were looking for an apology—”
“No!” I blurted out the word, then immediately winced. So much for cool and collected. “Dammit, Cole,” I said, and though the words were harsh, my voice was gentle. “Don’t you understand that there is nothing to apologize for?”
There was such a long pause before he spoke again that I started to fear the line had gone dead. When his words did come, they seemed to hang between us, heavy with emotion and regret.
“You tempt me, Kat.”
“I guess that makes us even.”
His low chuckle was like a balm, and I found myself smiling. “You’re a goddamn fool, blondie.”
“But I’m not,” I said. “I’m smart, Cole. And I know what I want. You know what else?” I asked, but I didn’t wait to give him time to answer. “I know what you want, too.”
“Really? And what is it I want?”
“Me,” I said, then hoped that I hadn’t just taken another giant step away from him.
He said nothing—neither agreement nor protest—and so I pressed gamely on.
“I saw your studio space. I saw me.”
“All right,” he said slowly. “And what did you think?”
“The images are stunning, but I told you that last night when you found me looking at the one in the gallery.”
“That was a poignant moment. The beautiful woman unaware she was looking at her own reflection.”
“Beautiful,” I continued, “technically perfect. Pure. But not me. Not really me at all.”
“You’re wrong,” he said.
“The hell I am. I’m not pure. I’m not innocent. Christ, Cole, you had your fingers inside me less than twenty-four hours ago, and it wasn’t me who walked away.”