Page 131 of Angel Eyes

“Juliet.” My eyes snapped up, finding his across the three feet of space that separated us, and he stared at me so intently I was forced to look away. He took a hesitant step forward, the floorboards creaking under his weight. “Juliet … if I thought there were words sufficient to express how deeply I regret my actions, how truly sorry I am for not trusting you, I would say them to you until my voice gave out.” He took another step, and I glanced up without meaning to.

Bad idea.

The second I clocked the look on his face, some small measure of my resistance crumbled.

He looked so vulnerable.

“As it stands, I know there’s nothing I could ever say to make up for what I’ve done. You deserved so much better from me. You …” His Adam’s apple rose and fell, his expression pained. “You deserve so much better than me. You deserve someone who will give you all their trust without holding back. And God knows I want to be that for you.”

Another inch of space disappeared as he moved closer, and my hands brushed against the entryway table as I drew in a slow breath, trying not to be utterly consumed by him. His scent was all around me now, his warmth, his dark lashes and eyes the color of the sea. It was too much, much more than I bargained for when I agreed he could stay. I thought I would rage at him a bit, or at least maintain a cold indifference before telling him to kick rocks. Instead, here I was, trembling in my own foyer, my heart quickening at the deep rasp of his voice.

Really impressive, Juliet.

“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he said, his breath catching. “But I’m going to ask for it anyway because I can’t bear to walk the earth without you by my side. And I know I’ve got issues to work through, and I promise you I will. Only …” His forehead dropped to mine, and my hand moved of its own accord, reaching up to touch his face. “If you choose to forgive me, know that what happened last week—my utter failure to believe in you, to believe in us—will never happen again.” He shuddered as my fingers grazed his cheek, his eyes closing in surrender, and he leaned in, the magnetic force of him drawing me despite the steady ache in my chest.

“Please give me another chance,” he whispered. “I swear on my life, I won’t let you down.”

His hands were on my waist now, sliding up my ribs in a familiar caress that had my knees swaying. It would be so easy to give in and let him kiss away the pain. To move ten feet to the sofa and lose ourselves in each other, soothing each other’s sorrow in a way only we could. But …

“No.” I took a step back, sounding sturdier than I felt. “You hurt me.” My hands shook as he dropped to his knees in front of me.

“And I have never been sorrier in my life.” He pressed his head against my stomach, and when he looked up again, his eyes were ringed with moisture. “But I swear, I’ll never hurt you again, baby. Please give me a chance to show you.”

I clamped a hand over my mouth to stop a sob from slipping past my lips. “I can’t just forgive you because you want me to, Gabriel. All my life, I’ve allowed other people to decide for me, letting their voices crowd out my own until my wants became buried beneath their needs. But I finally understand I have to make choices based on what’s right for me. And maybe that means I’ll have to let other people down, but at least I won’t be letting myself down.”

I lowered myself to the floor, cupping his face between my palms. “You were the one who helped me see that. You encouraged me to move beyond the shadow of my grandfather’s dreams and figure out what I wanted for myself. You challenged me to stand up to Tom when he overstepped my boundaries.” His throat moved on a hard swallow as I ran my thumb beneath his lower lip. “Being with you has made me stronger in so many ways, and I’ll always be grateful for that. But whatever decision I make next needs to be the one I make for myself.”

And then, whether because I needed to or because it might be the last time, I brushed my lips over his, cherishing the feel of them, the taste as his mouth moved reverently over mine like he could feel it too, the finality of it all. After too few seconds, I pulled back, and he stared down at me like he was memorizing every curve and line of my face.

“I need you to go now,” I said quietly, my heart ripping right down the middle. “Please.”

I waited for him to argue, and part of me, the old Juliet who still lived somewhere inside, wished he would. But he didn’t. Instead, he took both my hands and pressed a hard kiss against them, his damp eyes holding mine. Then he pushed to his feet and disappeared through the door.

Forty-Six

Gabriel

Soft chords of jazz guitar drifted from in-ceiling speakers, mingling with the hum of voices and the clink of champagne glasses as dozens of people, mostly strangers, milled about the gallery. Hands in my pockets, I watched from the corner, taking in the scene as though peering through a looking glass. All I had ever wanted was right in front of me, and yet, I was apart from it, a stranger in a world of my own design.

Shouldn’t I feel excitement or at least some sense of satisfaction? Where was the joy I thought would accompany this moment? This was the endgame after all—the thing I wanted most.

The thing I want most.

What if this wasn’t what I wanted most anymore? What if the thing I wanted most wasn’t even a thing at all, but a person?

One person in particular.

Sinking back against the wall, I pressed a fist to my chest to loosen the tension that had lived there since Juliet asked me to leave her apartment yesterday. It had nearly killed me to do it, but she needed space, and I respected that. Never mind the fact that I’d wanted to call her about a dozen times since and had written and deleted twice as many texts. In the end, I’d settled for sending her one message—I will love you forever.

She hadn’t responded.

I blew out a shaky breath, shifting my weight.

What if she wouldn’t forgive me? Was I just supposed to live my life without her? Impossible. The thought alone was enough to gut me.

“Gabriel.”

Jean-Claude headed in my direction, maneuvering around a journalist who was examining one of my paintings. Or at least I thought he was a journalist, given the way he kept pulling out a notepad every so often to jot something down.

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