And, maybe, that’s enough.
In bed, we’re lying on our sides and looking at one another. Lawrence looks adorable with the color high on his cheeks, his lips swollen from my kisses and his hair rumpled because of my hands. It’s hard to imagine that this man runs a multi-million dollar empire. Leaning forward, I place a peck on the tip of his nose.
He smiles a satisfied and relaxed smile. “What was that about?”
I grin happily. “I just felt like it, Mr. Rothschild.”
We continue to gaze into each other’s eyes silently while our smiles fade like the light coming from outside. In the peace that follows, I sense a stirring in my chest of something that I don’t quite understand or want to admit to myself. The truth always complicates things, and my life is already complicated enough.
So I ignore it all, bury it deep down where things are always easy to forget, and let myself enjoy the moment. “You know, after I met you, I went home and googled you,” I say.
He quirks an amused eyebrow at me. “And what did you find, my little detective?”
“Besides how much you’re worth and your penchant for models and actresses?” I slant him a wry look and then roll my eyes when he has the decency to chuckle and not deny it. “Not much. But there was an article that caught my attention. There’s this blogger who thinks that you suffered a grand disillusionment when you were young and that’s why you can’t seem to settle down with anyone. So romantically cliché, no? But I wonder, is it true?”
Staring at his own hand, Lawrence begins to trace a path on the curve of my waist, drawing small circles. The gentle stroke raises goosebumps over my skin. A shadow crosses his eyes momentarily, darkening them. “Don’t you know that curiosity killed the cat?”
I close my eyes and turn flat on my back, surrendering myself to Lawrence and his wandering fingers. My breathing becomes uneven as his hand searches every nook and cranny of my body, learning it, memorizing it, and setting it ablaze.
He hesitates momentarily, seemingly waging how much to tell me. “She was seventeen years old when I met her, and completely out of my reach. I was a serious, stoic and humorless twenty-eight year old man going on forty, or so my friends used to joke. Pursuing her was out of the question. In my defense, I didn’t know how old she was when I first saw her. All I knew was that I had never met a more beautiful woman than her.
“I’d got caught in the rain without an umbrella on my way to the office, and sought refuge at an Irish pub. I walked in and headed toward the counter where an older man was polishing some glasses. After I sat down and ordered a drink, I looked around the place and immediately saw her. She was writing on a notepad at one of the tables to the side. I assumed she was a college student working on a paper. She had this tiny frown between her eyebrows and I found myself wanting to smooth it.
“She looked up and our eyes met as she smiled. I was embarrassed and wanted to look away but her smile made it impossible. It was guileless, artless, and inviting. So different from what I was used to.”
“She sounds nice.” I place my hand on his. “Go on … What happened after? Did you talk to her?”
“Not that day, but eventually I did. You could say that I became a regular and one of the more esteemed customers of the pub.”
I laugh. “How regular?”
“Didn’t miss a day.”
“What about her? Was she always there, too?”
“She was. She was actually the one who approached me first. I went there every day with the sole purpose of finally talking to her, but as soon as I saw her chatting with other customers, filling the entire place with her inner light, I felt unworthy and changed my mind. One day when I was getting ready to leave, she came up to me and introduced herself. She said that she was tired of waiting for me to make the first move, so she was taking matters into her own hands.”
In bed, we’re lying on our sides and looking at one another. Lawrence looks adorable with the color high on his cheeks, his lips swollen from my kisses and his hair rumpled because of my hands. It’s hard to imagine that this man runs a multi-million dollar empire. Leaning forward, I place a peck on the tip of his nose.
He smiles a satisfied and relaxed smile. “What was that about?”
I grin happily. “I just felt like it, Mr. Rothschild.”
We continue to gaze into each other’s eyes silently while our smiles fade like the light coming from outside. In the peace that follows, I sense a stirring in my chest of something that I don’t quite understand or want to admit to myself. The truth always complicates things, and my life is already complicated enough.
So I ignore it all, bury it deep down where things are always easy to forget, and let myself enjoy the moment. “You know, after I met you, I went home and googled you,” I say.
He quirks an amused eyebrow at me. “And what did you find, my little detective?”
“Besides how much you’re worth and your penchant for models and actresses?” I slant him a wry look and then roll my eyes when he has the decency to chuckle and not deny it. “Not much. But there was an article that caught my attention. There’s this blogger who thinks that you suffered a grand disillusionment when you were young and that’s why you can’t seem to settle down with anyone. So romantically cliché, no? But I wonder, is it true?”
Staring at his own hand, Lawrence begins to trace a path on the curve of my waist, drawing small circles. The gentle stroke raises goosebumps over my skin. A shadow crosses his eyes momentarily, darkening them. “Don’t you know that curiosity killed the cat?”
I close my eyes and turn flat on my back, surrendering myself to Lawrence and his wandering fingers. My breathing becomes uneven as his hand searches every nook and cranny of my body, learning it, memorizing it, and setting it ablaze.
He hesitates momentarily, seemingly waging how much to tell me. “She was seventeen years old when I met her, and completely out of my reach. I was a serious, stoic and humorless twenty-eight year old man going on forty, or so my friends used to joke. Pursuing her was out of the question. In my defense, I didn’t know how old she was when I first saw her. All I knew was that I had never met a more beautiful woman than her.
“I’d got caught in the rain without an umbrella on my way to the office, and sought refuge at an Irish pub. I walked in and headed toward the counter where an older man was polishing some glasses. After I sat down and ordered a drink, I looked around the place and immediately saw her. She was writing on a notepad at one of the tables to the side. I assumed she was a college student working on a paper. She had this tiny frown between her eyebrows and I found myself wanting to smooth it.
“She looked up and our eyes met as she smiled. I was embarrassed and wanted to look away but her smile made it impossible. It was guileless, artless, and inviting. So different from what I was used to.”
“She sounds nice.” I place my hand on his. “Go on … What happened after? Did you talk to her?”
“Not that day, but eventually I did. You could say that I became a regular and one of the more esteemed customers of the pub.”
I laugh. “How regular?”
“Didn’t miss a day.”
“What about her? Was she always there, too?”
“She was. She was actually the one who approached me first. I went there every day with the sole purpose of finally talking to her, but as soon as I saw her chatting with other customers, filling the entire place with her inner light, I felt unworthy and changed my mind. One day when I was getting ready to leave, she came up to me and introduced herself. She said that she was tired of waiting for me to make the first move, so she was taking matters into her own hands.”
