“My name is Rylan Bellamy,” he said, and it was the truth.

But like everything he’d told her this week, it was only a partial truth, and the part he didn’t say burned. He’d been going by his middle name since college—had settled on changing it the day his father sent in his acceptance letter for him. As if choosing his name were any kind of substitute for choosing his fate. He hadn’t offered the rest of it to anyone in years.

But now it rose up in his throat, that monstrosity he’d been saddled with at birth. That weight that had been placed on his shoulders, that had determined his path for his entire life.

Theodore Rylan Bellamy III.

Somehow, withholding it from her felt like a lie.

He darted his gaze up to her face, searching for any sign she’d caught him in it. But her mouth was a flat line, her eyes impassive and impatient. She was still waiting. He needed to give her more.

Right. She’d been asking him about his family.

He took a deep breath. “I’m the oldest of three children. My sister, Lexie, is three years younger than me. She’s finishing business school, and she’s going to take over the goddamn world someday.” She really was. Lexie, the spitfire. If she’d only been a son . . . Instead, his father had gotten him. Him and . . . “My brother, Evan, is the youngest. He’s a junior in college, and no one knows what he’s going to do with his life, but he—” He cut himself off at the pang in his chest. Because Evan was the real disappointment of the family, and yet . . . “He’s like you. And my mother. He loves art, and beautiful things.”

And that’s why Rylan had always fought so hard to protect him. To keep him from being stuffed into the same airless box that Rylan had.

He’d made sure his brother had a choice.

Kate’s mouth had dropped open, like she hadn’t been expecting any of that. It hadn’t hurt to give it to her, though. All at once he wanted to take back the myriad half truths he’d told her and start anew.

But the idea of it had him reeling, suspended on a tightrope and ready to fall. She’d walk away for real if he did.

That didn’t just hurt. It ached, and in ways he wasn’t prepared for it to.

Something inside of him lurched, reversing wildly to pull him from the precipice. All the lessons he’d had drummed into him about holding his cards close to his chest, not showing people the tools they could use to ruin you—they crowded in around him. Keeping him safe.

He let her go, drawing his hands to his sides to hook them in his belt. He took a single step back. Squaring his jaw and lifting his chin, he said, “And that’s more than I’ve volunteered to anyone. In years.”

Hell, when was the last time he’d given away his last name?

There was danger in all of this, but he stood there beneath the weight of her scrutiny. She’d effectively asked him to let her get to know him. If what he’d offered hadn’t been enough, that wasn’t his fault. Not now.

After what felt like an hour, she closed her mouth, and her posture softened. She reached out a hand, crossing the space he’d put between them, and the air seemed to shiver as the distance shattered and fell.

Her hand on his was cool and small and soft, but it was a relief. The one she placed against his heart even more so.

Gazing up at him, she smiled, real and tentative. “Thank you.”

His throat refused to work, so all he could do was nod.

“Come on,” she said after a moment. She nodded her head toward the hall. “I don’t have a lot I can tell you about Eugène Boudin. But I hear they have an incredible collection of Cézannes?”

It terrified him, just how good that invitation sounded. Twisting his wrist, he moved to intertwine their fingers, swallowing past the tightness in his lungs. “Lead the way.”

The strangest mixture of excitement and nerves bubbled up behind Kate’s ribs. Rylan’s palm was warm against hers, and he followed her so willingly.

She’d challenged him. Called him out for the evasiveness that had been making her feel more and more disposable with every aborted conversation. And he’d chased her down and told her things. Not much, but enough.

And now he wanted to listen to her talk about art.

She was falling into something entirely too deep with this man, giving him more and more of her trust, despite the way her head screamed at her not to. But as they wound their way through the galleries, dodging other patrons and nodding at security guards as they passed them by, she gave in to it. She felt incredible and in control and alive. Consequences were things she could worry about later.

Finally, they reached the part of the museum she’d been thinking of. She skidded to a stop in the center of the room and looked around. Landscapes and still lifes and even a portrait or two lined the walls, all created from thick, short brushstrokes on canvas. All portraying something she’d been trying to figure out but had never quite managed to pull off.

She turned her head to look at Rylan and found him eyeing her expectantly. A moment’s doubt rocked her, making her come up short before she could really launch into anything.

“You sure you want to hear me talk about this stuff?”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

He had, but she couldn’t quite believe he really meant it. “Just, I get carried away.”

“If you do, I think I can manage to get a word in edgewise.”

Now that was something she did believe. Gathering up her confidence, she nodded to herself, then gestured around at the paintings on the walls. “How much do you know about any of this?”

He tipped his head side to side. “As much as anyone whose mother took them to the Louvre when they were a kid?” At the look she gave him for that, he shrugged. “A little. No formal education, but I know who Cézanne was.” His mouth pulled to the side. “Sort of.”

She chewed on her lip, considering. He really didn’t need a full-on history lesson here, but he had asked . . . “So, there were always schools of art, right?”

“That’s what I’ve been told.”

She ignored that. “But for ages and ages, it was all basically realism. Lots of variation inside that, and different styles, but for the most part, people used art to capture what the world looked like. There weren’t cameras, so you needed some way to make your castle look pretty. Or to document things.”

“Makes sense.”

And wow, but it was a good thing he hadn’t asked for that full-on history lesson, because she was taking some serious liberties here.

“But then things changed,” she said. She glanced around at the rest of the room. None of this was based on her own formal education, which, truth be told, was a little lacking in the art history department. But she’d sat through enough lectures, looked at enough slides. Drawn enough studies of other people’s works. “It’s not really formally linked to the camera, but I like to imagine it was. When you don’t need these painstakingly done renderings just to remember someone lived or that something happened, why have them at all? Why make art?”

Rylan’s smile was low and wry. “To express the inner workings of your poor, tortured soul?”

She laughed, a little breathless with it. “Yeah. Basically. That’s what it finally became, when it wasn’t needed anymore just for documentation.” She lifted one shoulder up before setting it back down. “It didn’t make sense to pay a painter to take three months to do what a photographer could do in a day.” She connected her gaze with his again. “And it didn’t make sense to replicate something a lens could do, when as a person you were so much more.”

There was a warmth to the way he looked at her then, and she squeezed his hand before glancing away. “So people started mixing it up. Making it personal. Impressionism brought in all these crazy colors and left in all the brushstrokes the old masters would have blended in. They let you see the artist in the art.”