He raises his hand very slowly and brushes the back of his fingers along my lower lip, down my throat. Lightly, like a warm breeze. But my body responds with vengeance. My pulse starts breaking through my skin. Goose bumps erupt everywhere. He smiles.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he says, tracing my collarbones with the tips of his fingers.

“I’ve seen worse,” I breathe. “Nitroglycerin for example.”

The dimple forms in his cheek. “I’m still sorry. It’s very difficult for me to control my reactions around you.”

I know somewhere deep in my brain I should ask many questions. But the only one I can form is, “Why?”

He sighs and drops his hand. “Embargo,” he says, pouring some wine and handing me a glass.

How can I argue with that?

I take a deep, steadying breath and clink his glass with mine. “To embargoes, then.”

He chuckles now, shifting his chair closer to mine, our arms almost touching.

“And to the women who broker them.”

Chapter Sixteen

For Love’s Sake Only

When we finish lunch, Aiden brings out a box wrapped in purple. The color of my eyes. From the lack of bows and the precise application of the tape that matches the military organization of his home, I have a feeling he wrapped this himself.

“Happy graduation, Elisa,” he says with a raised eyebrow. I will never live that down.

I start unwrapping the box with shaking hands, careful not to tear the paper he touched. He shifts his feet minutely, looking almost nervous. I smile at such a normal reaction and peek through the tissues. What I see stuns me. A pair of brand-new sneakers exactly like my nearly dead ones. On each of their heels, in discreet, tone-on-tone stitching, I read:

Elisa C. Snow

“She walks in beauty.”

My breath leaves with a loud whoosh. Byron’s quintessential poem of revering a woman from a distance. Unattainable yet yours, in every way. And also a pun, because shoes are meant for walking. It takes me a few tries to find my voice.

“Does Byron’s poem have a special meaning to you?” Whisper is good. Any sound beyond that might spoil the moment.

“Yes.”

“What?”

He shakes his head. “Embargo.”

“Is there a reason you chose it for me?”

He smiles and brushes my cheek with one finger. The caress is so intentionally gentle—as if he is touching a mirage—that I think it is meant as an answer to my question.

“Every line in that poem reminds me of you.” His index finger trails along my jawline and over my lips.

Like before, my body implodes. Heart beating in my throat, blood pooling at the bottom of my belly. He kisses my jaw and cheek gently, like a butterfly’s wings.

His scar is close. Really close. I want to kiss it but I don’t know how he got it, so I blow on it lightly. He smiles but pulls away.

“Thank you for the shoes and the poem. I’ll wear them well.”

He chuckles. “Shall I arrange a funeral for your old sneakers?”

“No, I think they’re museum worthy. Or at least Guinness standard.”

“I’m glad for your other present then,” he says, taking a professional-looking Nikon camera out of the box. “The other one seemed ready for retirement.”

I smile, fighting a lump in my throat. Leave it to fate for an irony like this. Aiden giving me a way to preserve everything I will lose.

His index finger comes under my chin. “Are you okay?”

“You couldn’t have given me a better gift.”

He smiles as though in relief. “Not even the Hubble Telescope?”

“Not even that.”

“I’ll cancel my order then. Now, are you ready for your painting?” he asks, excitement transparent in his voice. Bloody hell, it’s here. I feel queasy, like the salmon is swimming upstream.

“Umm—may I have another drink first?”

He smiles. “Need some ethanol-induced neurotransmitter excitation?”

I nod frantically, blushing down to my toes.

“Okay, neurotransmitter excitation, here it comes.” He pours me a glass and I down it in seconds, not bothering to look ladylike.

He laughs the first carefree laugh I have heard from him. The sound reverberates at that warm spot he ignited between my lungs. “Another one?”

“Yes, please. It can’t hurt.”

He fills it only halfway this time. I gulp it down.

“Okay, that’s enough. I don’t need another lesson on dichotomous keys—the last one kept me up all night.” He pries the glass out of my fingers.

I guess I’ve earned that. I want to ask him about staying up all night—preferably together—but I don’t think my nerves can take it. Hydrogen, 1.008. Helium— Oh, bloody hell, I don’t have time for the whole table. That’s fine—I have backup. I pull out the Baci chocolates from my purse immediately.

He looks at them and chuckles. “More emergency provisions?”

I nod and eat my leftover apple slices, then drink some water. This is how my mum taught me to eat chocolate.

“What are you doing?” Aiden asks, eyeing the last apple slice with confusion.

“Oh, sorry. This is how I eat chocolate. Would you like one?” As Javier and Reagan will tell anyone who will hear, I don’t share chocolate lightly. But Aiden could have my right arm, let alone my last chocolate.

He smiles. “Sure. But what’s the deal with apples? I’ve never heard of this.”

“They cleanse your palate.”

“And the water?”

“Cleanses the palate after the cleansing.”

“That’s a lot of cleansing.”

“Yes, but it’s worth it.”

Aiden chuckles again, eats the last apple slice, then drinks some water. He peels the Baci and pops it in his mouth. Knowing the effect his mouth has on me, I busy myself reading the note that my Baci had inside.

“Hmm, I can see the big deal. That’s quite good.” He licks his lips.

“Yes, but Baci chocolates are meant to be read to get the full effect,” I blurt out without thinking.

He looks at me like he thinks he should have built a padded room, not a painting studio.

“Read? How do you read a chocolate?”

“Well, Baci chocolates have little love-related sayings in them. Even baci means kisses in Italian.”

“Am I supposed to add ‘in bed’ to the sayings like they do with fortune cookies?” He looks sinful, his perfect eyebrow arching arrogantly.

I flush. “I don’t think so. It would…ruin the poetics,” I mumble but all I can think about is Aiden saying in bed.

“Well, let’s see what my fortune holds.”

He fishes his note from the silver wrapping paper. I hold my breath.

“‘Love me for love’s sake only,’” he reads slowly. A deep V forms between his eyebrows. He looks like he would rather be whipped than loved for love’s sake only.

“Elizabeth Browning could write. But don’t worry, it doesn’t mean it’s coming for you.” I go for a joke, but inside I’m reeling. I have never seen such a visceral reaction against love. As though he does not think it belongs in his world.

He peers at me. “Clearly. What does yours say?”

“‘If you gave me all the kisses in the world, they would still be too few.’ It’s a proverb by Sextus Propertius.”

“Yours sounds more fun.” He smiles, but his eyes remain tight. Then, he takes my hand. “Come.”

I stand, amazed that my knees can support me. We walk through a hallway along the ubiquitous glass wall, our footfalls echoing on the polished hardwood floor. Over the sound system, Neil Diamond croons about a girl becoming a woman. We walk past six open doors and stop at one that is slightly ajar. He opens it and steps to the side. I enter, feeling like I am walking into a haunted house and a dream at once.

It’s his bedroom.

Everything here is gray and cream too, but my attention is riveted by the walls. Here are my paintings. All of them, side by side on the wall facing his bed. The one with my neck is first, then my shoulder, my waist and finally my leg. As though he is undressing me for the very first time. The bottom of my belly tightens violently at the thought.