Bad Romeo (Starcrossed #1)(65)
Author: Leisa Rayven

He places the glass carefully back in the case and turns to Holt and me. “I guess that’s part of my fascination. It seems so fragile, yet it somehow manages to endure, even with cracks and scratches. Personally, I find perfect glass boring. I love all of these pieces, and the scars of their survival make them even more beautiful in my eyes.”

“But doesn’t damage like that make the glass worthless?” I ask, calling on my limited antique knowledge.

Eric looks at me thoughtfully. “Worth is such a subjective issue.” He walks over to a large cabinet and pulls out a walnut box. While holding it out to me, he asks me to open the lid. When I do, I see the interior is lined in plush blue velvet. There are six indentations for goblets, but instead of containing intact glasses, there’s simply a pile of broken pieces.

I look at Eric in confusion.

“When I bought the Cranbourne glass,” he says, “this was included in the lot. It’s what remains of the other five glasses. The auctioneer suggested I throw it away. After all, it’s just a collection of broken glass. But to me it was much, much more. Lady or Lord Cranbourne must have retrieved the broken glass after their fight. What the glasses represented—their marriage, their history, their love—was too important to throw away, even broken beyond all repair.”

He smiles at Holt and me before closing the box and placing it back in the cabinet. “The auctioneer considered it to be worthless, because it had no monetary value, but I think it’s priceless. It represents passion, and without passion, life is meaningless, yes? At least, that’s what I’ve always believed.”

After pausing to give us a smile, he heads toward the door. “I’d best help Marco with the dessert. He gets tense if people don’t have something in their mouths every five minutes. Look at the glass as long as you like. Handle it, if you wish. It’s really not as fragile as it seems.”

He disappears down the hallway, then it’s just Holt and me, standing too close as Eric’s words hang in the air.

“So,” I say. “Who do you think saved the broken glass? Lord or Lady Cranbourne?”

“Lord,” Holt says without hesitation.

I look at him questioningly.

“He bought her the glasses,” he says, “and he said something to hurt her. He’d feel guilty.”

“Yes, but she was the one who smashed them,” I say. “And maybe what he said to her was true.”

Holt shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. For her to fly off the handle like that, he had to have been an insensitive asshole.”

“Or maybe she was just a drama queen.”

He pauses for a moment and looks at me, his eyes intense. “Maybe they both saved it. Maybe they carefully collected all the pieces, then had incredible make-up sex in front of the fireplace.”

I raise an eyebrow. “There’s a fireplace?”

“Of course. Possibly with the head of a dead animal hanging above it.”

“Wow. Romantic.”

“I know. Nothing says ‘I love you’ like broken glass and decapitated wildlife.”

I laugh, and so does he. Then his smile fades into the familiar shape of longing I see so often these days.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says quietly. “Did I do something to piss you off? Because if so, I’d like a chance to apologize.”

I look back at the cabinet, trying to ignore how amazing his eyes look reflecting the glass.

“It’s nothing.”

“With the way you’ve been looking at me, I’m pretty sure it’s something.”

He stands behind me, his chest pressing into my back. “If I were a betting man, I’d say you’re pissed because of how much you want me.” He weaves an arm around my waist and turns me to face him. “Don’t you realize I know all the tricks? The dark looks, the anger, no touching. I did the same to you because I was scared of letting you in. But you didn’t let me keep you out. You pushed me, time and again. Maybe that’s what I should do now. Make you face your feelings for me.”

My heart pounds as he runs his fingers through my hair. My breathing becomes shallow and I instinctively fixate on his mouth. How soft it looks. How delicious it would taste.

“You want me to kiss you,” he says. “You’d never admit it, and if I tried to actually do it, you’d stop me, but … you want it. Don’t you?”

I look down. “No.”

“Bullshit.”

He cups my face. “Look into my eyes and say it, then maybe I’ll believe you.”

My stomach tightens, and my whole body flushes, but I force myself to meet his gaze. “I don’t want you to kiss me.”

My voice is unsteady and weak. Just like my resolve.

“Jesus, Cassie,” he says as he strokes my cheek. “You’re a critically acclaimed actress and that’s the best you can do? That’s fucking appalling. Try again.”

“I don’t … I don’t want you to kiss me.”

“Yes, you do,” he says, quiet and confident. “I’m not going to do it. I just want to hear you say it.”

He might as well ask me to walk a tightrope a hundred feet above the ground without a net. I stare at his chest.

He sighs, and I’m not sure if it’s out of frustration or relief.

“Cassie, look at me.” When I hesitate, he puts a finger under my chin and tilts it up until I’m looking at him. “I just need you to know that the second you’re ready to try again with us, I’m going to kiss the hell out of you. I’m going to kiss you until you see stars, and hear angels, and can’t stand up for a week. I hope you realize that.”

My heart is thundering when I say, “Holt, if I’m ever ready, you’ll be the first to know. I promise.”

He gives me a half smile. “So kissing is off the menu, but you should know I’m also offering free hugs today—strictly platonic—for the first beautiful woman who requests them.”

I laugh, probably a little too loudly, and step forward as he wraps his arms around me. His face settles in my neck, and I squeeze him tightly as our bodies connect.

“God, you smell amazing,” he whispers into my skin. “Nothing on this planet smells as good as you.”

“That doesn’t sound too platonic to me.”

“Shh. Don’t talk. Just let me smell you.”

I pull back and cock an eyebrow.

“Okay, fine,” he says and rolls his eyes. “No more sniffing. Jesus, ruin all my fun.”