Page 43 of Meet Me In The Dark (Skeptically In Love #3)

Celeste

I’m trying to sneak in another episode of trash TV without Julian noticing when I hear the distinct sound of the door opening and a female voice calling, “Julian?”

He throws his head back against the couch, groaning. “Fuck.”

My stomach drops. “What?”

“It’s my mother.”

I jump off the couch so fast, I nearly trip over my own feet. “Your mother?”

“Yeah.”

He stands, far too calm for a man whose mother just walked into his house unannounced.

“You’ve got a code on the gate,” I remind him.

“She has it.”

“But how did she just walk in here? Like, into this house?” I whisper-shriek.

“She has a key.”

I gape at him. “Okay, we have very different families.”

He smirks, pops a piece of popcorn into his mouth, and chews like this is entertainment.

“Julian, I cannot meet your mother looking like this.” I motion wildly to myself: sweatpants, his oversized T-shirt, my hair an absolute disaster, and zero makeup.

He steps in, kisses me, and murmurs against my mouth, “You’ll be fine. My mother loves everyone… except Melinda.”

Is that supposed to make me feel better?

It doesn’t.

And who the hell is Melinda?

Before I can argue, stall, or fling myself out the nearest window, she walks in.

Julian turns and greets her with a warm hug, and I want to die.

She looks like the kind of woman who could bake cookies for you and win a bar fight at the same time.

Julian gestures to me with an easy smile. “This is Celeste.”

His mother turns to me, her gaze sharp but not unkind.

Oh, God, here it comes.

I wipe my palms on my sweats and force a smile like I’m not having a minor breakdown inside. “Mrs. Blackwood, it’s so nice to meet—”

“Oh, I’ll have none of that Mrs. Blackwood bullshit, love. It makes me feel old. Call me Margaret. And I didn’t mean to intrude, I just haven’t heard from Julian, and he wasn’t answering his phone. I thought I was about to walk in on him naked and dead.”

“I turned it off,” he tells her.

Shock crosses her face before she turns to me, her eyes crinkling and her tone suddenly warm. “I like you already.”

I blink. “Oh, thanks?”

Julian chuckles under his breath while Margaret drapes an arm around my shoulders, guiding me toward the kitchen like we’re old friends.

“Come on, love, let me get to know the woman who made my son relax for more than five minutes.”

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

∞∞∞

“Okay,” I say, nudging the dishwasher closed with my hip. “I love your mother.”

Julian leans against the counter with the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. I won the foster kid lottery with that one.”

I pause mid-wipe with the dish towel, turning to look at him properly. “I didn’t know you were in foster care.”

“I didn’t tell you?”

No.

No, he did not.

I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure I would remember that.”

“My parents took me in when I was nine and adopted me when I was eleven.”

Suddenly, I have a new appreciation for both him and the woman I just shared dinner with.

“Do you…” I hesitate, not wanting to overstep. “Do you have any contact with your birth parents?”

He freezes for just a second—so quick I almost miss it—before tossing a towel onto the counter and leaning back against the sink, bracing his palms on either side.

“Don’t know my father. As for my mother? Not often.” There’s something distant in his voice, like he’s pulling it from the furthest corner of himself.

“Do you mind if I ask when you were placed into care?”

“I was six.”

God.

“So you remember her?”

“Celeste,” he warns gently, shaking his head.

He doesn’t want to go there, or he’s not ready. I’m not sure which.

There are still walls up around him. Pieces locked away.

And I get it.

I do.

Some parts of us don’t come out until we’re damn sure they’ll be safe.

That’s when I catch the familiar shadow clouding his eyes. I see it sometimes when he tries to hide it from the world, attempting to mask the hint of darkness I know belongs to him.

I clear my throat. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want sympathy.”

I meet his eyes. “I wasn’t offering. I’m sorry that happened. That’s all. ”

He’s nothing like the man I once thought he was.

There’s no trace of the cocky, arrogant bastard who pinned me against my own front door and made my knees shake with one look. No slick, dominant edge. No biting sarcasm.

It’s disarming.

And dangerous.

So, naturally, I decide to poke the bear without trying to get his deepest secrets out of him.

“Have you always wanted to go into business?” I ask as I rinse two mugs.

“Yes.”

“Even as a kid?”

“Even as a kid,” he says, leaning his hip against the counter.

“What’s your worst habit?”

“I work too much.”

“Best trait?”

“I work too much.”

I roll my eyes and toss a kitchen towel at him. “That’s depressing.”

He shrugs and catches the towel mid-air. “It’s the truth.”

I push myself up onto the counter. “Favorite color?”

“Celeste.”

My stomach lurches as heat spreads down my neck. “Okay, you don’t get to cheat and say my name.”

“Why not?” His smirk is back. “It’s a little high maintenance, but it’s a great color.”

I glare at him, even as my pulse jumps. “Best vacation you’ve ever had?”

“Greece,” he says easily. “A couple of years ago. Off-season. Empty beaches. ”

“Worst vacation?”

“Never had a bad one.”

“Come on. Not even as a kid?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t really take vacations as a kid.”

That shuts me up.

I don’t know why I assumed he had some version of a typical childhood, like summer road trips or family beach holidays.

That’s not his life.

Not his story.

I feel something twist in my chest.

“Ever had a pet?” I ask quietly, keeping my tone light.

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Ever want one?”

“A dog. Big. Lazy. Something that snores and sheds. Maybe when I slow down.”

I snort. “So, never?”

“Probably,” he agrees with a small grin.

“Do you sleep well?”

He exhales through his nose, like he’s summoning patience for this conversation. “Rarely.”

“When’s the last time you got a full eight hours?”

He thinks for a second. “When I was twelve.”

“Okay. Six hours?”

“Before I met you.”

My mouth goes dry.

All I can do is stare at him, feeling my heartbeat in places it shouldn’t be.

This man. This tightly wound, emotionally restrained, maddening man is starting to undo me, and I don’t know how to stop it.

“What’s with all the questions?”

I lift my shoulders and let my heels tap against the cabinet below me. “Nothing. Just curious.”

I tug at the sleeves of my sweater, twisting the cuff between my fingers as my gaze shifts toward the glass doors across the room.

The sun is long gone, but the last traces of it paint the sky in soft streaks of gold and indigo. The doors are cracked just enough to let in the sound of the waves.

“Would you like to go for a walk on the beach?”

The words just slip out.

I don’t even know why I say them. Maybe to fill the space. Maybe because I don’t want this moment to end.

Straightening, he takes one long stride, only to give me the briefest kiss. “You want to walk the beach?”

I nod.

“Then we’ll walk the beach.”

I slide off the counter and grab the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch.

Outside, we follow the winding path down to the sand, as the hush of the waves grows louder with each step.

Julian walks beside me, but he doesn’t try to fill the silence with talk.

I like that about him.

Most men get nervous in the quiet. Not Julian. He exists in it.

“You walk out here often?” I finally ask.

“Not really. I like the view and the peace, but I don’t make it out here as often as I should. Too much work. Too much shit to do, I guess.”

I nod, pushing my toes deeper into the sand. “That’s a shame. You live in a place like this and barely enjoy it?”

“What’s the point in being rich if I don’t work myself into the ground, right?”

The edges of the blanket flap in the breeze as I pull it tighter around my shoulders. “Have you always been like that?”

“Like what?”

“All work, no downtime. No actual living.”

“Yes.”

“Because of your upbringing?”

His gaze remains fixed on the ocean. “When you grow up with nothing, you either accept that’s what your life will always be, or you fight like hell to make sure it’s not.”

The wind lifts his hair, and the moonlight highlights the lines of his face. He seems like a man who has carried his own future on his back for a long time.

“Well,” I say softly, “your mother is very proud of you. I knew from the minute she broke out the childhood stories.”

“Don’t start,” he warns, but there’s no bite in his tone.

“She promised to bring the photo album next time. I can’t wait.”

A quiet huff of laughter escapes him.

“I just wish I could do more for them.” His voice is laced with frustration, or maybe it’s guilt I’m hearing.

“Do more?”

“They still live in my old neighborhood. They won’t leave. Too many memories.”

“It must be nice to be tethered to a place like that. To a home that holds memories.”

“Your house doesn’t have memories?”

“I mean, my nanny was great.”

His brows pull together before I look away. “You’re not close with your parents? ”

“We never had that type of relationship,” I tell him, feeling that familiar burn in my chest.

“Did they know you were in the hospital?”

“Yes.” My gaze flicks down to my feet. “But they’re busy.”

“Jesus Christ. What do they do for a living?”

If that piece of information frustrates him, he’s not going to like this next part.

“They’re doctors,” I finally say, not daring to look and see his reaction.

He sounds more than pissed off when he says, “In history?”

I can’t help but laugh. “No, like proper medical doctors. They even wear stethoscopes and everything.”

“Fucking hell, Celeste.”

“What?” I try to laugh it off. “The poor little rich girl didn’t get enough love?”

“Don’t do that.”

“I don’t need your sympathy either, Julian.”

Understanding flickers across his gaze before he dips his chin in agreement.

Compared to what he had, my childhood was padded in privilege but hollow as hell. A carousel of boarding schools and parents who gave me everything except time or any affection.

Julian had a rough beginning, but he had love. Real love.

If I could trade all the picture-perfect Christmas cards and housekeepers and cold, quiet dinners for a single moment of what Margaret gave him, I would.

The tide creeps closer, white foam licking at our toes before sliding back into the dark water.

Neither of us says a word. We just stand there, watching the waves roll and crash under the moonlight, each lost in our own thoughts about what we’d trade, what we’d keep, and what we might still have left to give.