Love Beyond Words (City Lights, #1)(29)

“To forgetting him,” Natalie said dully.

She held her shot a moment, turning it in her hand, then tossed it down. By the end of the night, she was as good and drunk as she had first promised herself, but nowhere near close to erasing Julian from her thoughts.

I don’t want to erase him, she thought, her heart aching. I love him too much.





Chapter Thirteen


The book had taken on a life of its own.

Julian didn’t know at what point he had stopped writing it for the sake the story and when he’d begun to write it for Natalie. Not even halfway, he guessed, given how the arcs had progressed. It was infused with Natalie; she inhabited its pages so that Julian sometimes felt as though he were merely a vessel, that some other power were using him to capture her spirit. His more practical side had a simpler explanation: he was madly in love with her. Her spirit inhabited him, infused him so that his writing—like his every thought—couldn’t help but be saturated with her.

Whatever the reason, I have to finish it. For her.

He sat in the car outside Niko’s that late January night, dreading how selfish and pigheaded he must seem, but it couldn’t be helped. If he blurted out the truth without plan or evidence, she wouldn’t believe him. She’d evict him from the café—and her life—for good.

Steeling himself, he tore out of the car and strode toward the café before he could change his mind. She was alone, sitting behind the counter, a book in her hand, though he could see from the street that she was preoccupied. His heart ached for the disquiet on her delicate features, and shame burned his skin to know he put it there.

It’s almost finished. Then I’ll tell her everything, and pray she’ll forgive me.

The bell tolled above him—a discordant jangle that set his nerves on edge. Natalie’s face lit up at the sight of him and then dimmed almost immediately. He cursed himself. You did that. You and your fumbling cowardice.

“Natalie,” he said. He ached to tell her how beautiful she was, how her kiss on Christmas Day had been the most exquisite thing he’d known in so many lonely nights, but it wouldn’t be fair. “I have to finish the book,” he told her in a quiet voice. “After it’s done, I’ll—”

“Okay, Julian,” Natalie said quickly, fanning her hands in front of her. “Just…do what you need to do and then…I don’t know.”

“Natalie…”

“Here.” She held out her hand and dropped the Victorian mosaic pendant into his.

He stared at it sitting in his palm. “But it’s yours.”

“Not yet.”

He nodded. She’s right. You have no right to expect anything more.

The door chimed. Natalie wiped her eye. “I have customers.”

Julian went to his customary table and got to work. He wrote in a constant, unbroken stream, marveling that the words could flow so effortlessly—and the story retain its hopeful cadences—despite the circumstances between them. There was no conversation that night and when she locked up, he waited a respectful distance away.

“Good night,” he said. He had thousand more words behind those, but she slipped quickly into the shadows.

“Good night,” she said, and let the gate close on its own.

#

February brought constant rains, and the café was quiet most evenings. Julian wrote furiously, driving the novel to its crescendo without looking back. The sense of being only a vessel came over him again, as he hardly had to think or ponder. He only needed to set pen to paper and the words came; the exact right words aligning in the exact right order. He’d experienced this before on other books, but could never sustain the euphoria—the pure submersion—of the work for so long. It’s because of her. It’s all for her.

Natalie was so patient. So kind. If anything could distract him from the writing, it was the urge to sweep it all to the floor and hold her in his arms instead. But he knew his limitations. His urges. It would be so easy to forget everything and lose himself in her as he had on Christmas Day. But he had to tell her first, and once he told her, there would be no going back. Revealing his secret was a distant second to letting himself love her as much as he did; laying his heart bare before her the much more dangerous endeavor. I love her too much, he thought, watching with an almost detached fascination as his pen—the pen she had given him—flew over the pages.

And then the book was finished.

A quiet, empty Tuesday night. The sky was heavy with rain, the air charged.

At quarter to ten, Julian wrote the final words and shut the composition book—one of five others that comprised the whole. He set down the pen and put his hand to his mouth, contemplating what he had done. It’s ended and now we can begin. He looked at Natalie perched behind the register as usual, a book in her hand. She’d been watching him; she knew what he’d done. Did you wait for me? Julian wondered, and wasn’t half surprised to see her nod in reply.

The sky broke open.

The rain fell in sheets, sounded like shattering glass as it struck the pavement. The power went out without a flicker, and the shop was plunged into blackness. Julian stood at the window, held out his hand to her. Careful, he admonished himself. Natalie wended her way through the darkness with ease, and Julian steeled himself as her hand slipped into his. Even that simple, chaste touch quickened his pulse.