A/N: Let's check in on our star-crossed lovers, shall we? For those waiting for Chuck's backstory-here it is. And then thigs start to heat up. Let me know what you think!

His apartment was understated, I thought, considering how wealthy I knew he was. It was only a little bigger than my place. He didn't seem fond of flaunting his wealth, as I thought about his running away from his donation acknowledgment and his embarrassment when I saw his expensive car.

His place was tastefully colored in muted hues, the ambiance very male, at once both sophisticated and down to earth, perfectly suited to him. But it wasn't personally decorated at all. The walls were barer than a hotel room's.

There were a few framed pictures on the sofa table, treasures it seemed, ones of the few things placed carefully. One was of Chuck and Ellie when they were much younger, a selfie of them both in college sweatshirts, Stanford and UCLA, respectively; the other of Chuck and a bearded man, both of them in what looked like Buy More uniforms. High school job, maybe? He was just as young in that picture. I noticed his hair was different—his wild curls long and untamed.

Is that how he looks in the morning, his hair askew from sleeping? I wondered, then blushed at the thought.

I started looking around, hoping to distract myself from that thinking. It seemed like a lot of his things were still in boxes. I spied them all, the flaps pulled open, all stacked along the walls in each room, perched on the sofa and the chairs.

"Excuse the mess. I've been so busy, unpacking was the last thing I was worried about," he said as he shut the door behind me. He started hurrying around, kicking boxes out of the way, lifting them off the furniture. He made his way into his kitchen, loosening his tie and pulling it free from his collar.

All in all, there weren't that many boxes, considering it should be every last thing he owned. How much did he leave for his ex-wife in New York? Had he needed to buy all new everything in L.A.? And where was it if he had? Aside from a sofa, one end table, and two bar stools—the open area where we were standing was empty.

"Can I get you something? Coffee or tea? I have decaf." I heard him open his refrigerator.

"Do you have any wine?" I asked casually, even as I kicked myself internally. The last thing I needed was more alcohol.

He didn't answer right away. I turned to look at him, seeing him standing, staring at me, the refrigerator door wide open behind him. "I…don't…keep…alcohol at my place," he replied, stiffly. Mumbling under his breath, I heard him add, "Although, I guess I should have some, just in case…"

His ex-wife! Half of me chastised myself for my insensitivity, the other half wondered why he still thought it was necessary to do so, if he was now 3,000 miles away from her. He was, wasn't he? Why did that thought bother me so much?

He recovered quickly, forcing a smile. "How about sparkling water?" he asked, holding up a bottle of Perrier.

"Great," I replied. I thought about the headache I might have in the morning if I didn't start to hydrate. In fact, no more wine was the best thing for me, I thought.

He told me to sit on the sofa while he grabbed our drinks. I kicked off my shoes, curling my feet underneath me, angled so I could see him in the kitchen. He took the water out of the fridge. He opened a cabinet that was bare inside except for two drinking glasses. "Haven't made the trip to Pottery Barn yet. I have two of everything. Glasses, forks, plates. But only two. I wash a lot of dishes."

I smiled as I took the water from him. He sat beside me, close, but not touching me. The raging fire that had ignited in the art gallery had cooled a bit, although, as I watched him, I could feel it smoldering under my skin. His collar was open, two buttons undone, enough that a bit of his chest hair was visible. It was so sexy I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from making a ridiculous noise.

The silence stretched, yet, somehow not awkwardly. I felt like I was waiting for him to say something. Finally, he did.

"You know, Sarah, my sister…thinks the world of you. She had nothing but nice things to say about you," Chuck said, facing forward, only sporadically glancing at me as he spoke.

I was curious. "How often did she talk about me?" She had only briefly mentioned him to me. It was odd that I never suspected, even if it would have been expected, that she talked a little about me to him.

He blushed inexplicably. "Can I make a confession?" he asked sheepishly. I nodded. "Ellie had mentioned you a few times, you know, in the past, just in general conversation. But when she called to tell me that she had to cancel for tonight, but that she had a plan so I could still go and not show up all alone, I…sort of…freaked out. She was…like…really…trying to sell me on you."

He was just so sweet, I had to giggle. "Wow, maybe she doesn't really think as much of me as she told you, if she was…I don't know…marketing me like that."

I was teasing, but he got flustered, just a little. "No, Sarah, that's not…I mean…" He huffed, growling under his breath. "Missing that filter, in case you don't recall."

I touched his arm, without thinking. I let my hand linger before I removed it. "Chuck, really, it's ok." I wished he could just relax, but I had no idea how to put him at ease.

He turned to look at me, his gaze intense. "She said you were very smart, very talented, very pretty…and very…isolated."

I felt my cheeks, flaming hot, as I shifted my eyes down to my glass of water. "Ellie…uh…really made an effort to get to know me. My default setting is…keeping people at a distance." More walls crumbling.

"How is it that someone so sweet, so beautiful, spends so much time alone?" he asked me. His voice was gentle, like a caress.

"You think I'm sweet?" I asked, smiling nervously. I was parsing, choosing only part of what he asked to address.

He never took his eyes off me as he nodded. "And beautiful."

Every drop of my blood felt like it rushed through my heart all at once. I startled trembling, and steeled myself before he saw it.

"I like being alone," I replied, wishing I sounded more certain than I did.

"No, you don't," he retorted, a slight edge to his voice.

I looked at him sharply.

"I saw your face…when you were looking at that painting." He sighed, studying me again, like he had the actual artwork. "You might be used to it, but you don't prefer it."

"It's easier," I answered, my voice barely above a whisper. "All I ever have to worry about is me."

He scoffed, then chuckled, but without humor. "I know exactly what you mean. Believe me, I do." His eyes were soft when he continued. "I was alone in New York. But at least here, I have my sister and Morgan, my best friend."

I remembered Ellie mentioning a Morgan, as I quickly placed the bearded man in the photograph.

"Ellie said…she thought she might be your only friend," Chuck added, almost apologetically as he saw me squirm on the cushion.

My cheeks were on fire, but I spoke. "She…sought me out…when I said my support system was Bach and Mozart…in that class."

The sympathy on his face was almost unbearable. I didn't want him to feel sorry for me. Like the end of that movie I had mentioned to him.

"What about you, Chuck?" I turned it back on him.

"What about me?" he asked, slightly defensive.

"What's a rich, good-looking, sweet, caring and kind guy like you doing planning on taking your sister to a gala like that?"

That flummoxed him. I wasn't sure if it was the compliments or the situation I described that did it.

"Well, you got me there," he chuckled. "Because…that is also easier."

"Easier than what?" I asked.

"Failing again," he muttered, looking at his glass.

He didn't say anything more. The silence dragged on, a little tensely. I searched for something to say.

"I took that class, where I met Ellie, after I was promoted. I couldn't stop thinking about work, no matter what I was doing. I couldn't sleep, couldn't concentrate. I was terrified that I couldn't handle it, that I would fail…in front of everyone." I was trying to sympathize.

He nodded along as I spoke, leaving his gaze fixed on his glass, away from me.

"How…how much…did Ellie tell you…about…why she had to take the class?" he asked hesitantly.

"Just that…she was…really worried about you, and you were so far away."

He let out a long, shuddering breath, rubbing his palm over his face. "It wasn't fair to her, for me to do what I did. But, the way we grew up…all we ever really had was each other, even when we were really young. It was a gut reaction to go to Ellie when I needed help. But it was…too much." His pitch changed as his face pinched. "She and Devon were trying to have a baby and she was so stressed out from not sleeping and…"

It broke my heart, hearing how much he blamed himself. Two years later, and though I had no idea she had been trying, Ellie and Devon were still childless. Did he blame himself for that too?

And just like that, my mind started racing, things starting to fall in line as I did so. Chuck was confiding in her, and then…he stopped. Ellie had needed the class, but then, I had seen her get better. I thought it had been the class that had done all of that, but I realized, looking at Chuck, that he had just stopped confiding in her, most likely because he knew how he was impacting her health. All of that pain and anguish, stuffed down inside himself, intentionally hidden from his sister, to protect her.

"Chuck, you know…you can talk to me," I said softly. Ellie was the counselor, his words only reinforcing my belief that was true. I had no idea how to comfort or give advice. But I could listen.

He looked horrified. "Oh, no, Sarah, that was never what I was–"

"You thought talking to Ellie was too much for her. So, you stopped talking…to anyone. It's been, what, two years? Please just tell me," I asked him, recalling the haunted pain I saw in his eyes when he was standing next to me in front of the painting. I could listen, and I had a strong suspicion that I might also understand—in a way even Ellie might not have.

He waited so long to answer, it took a few seconds for it to register, that he was talking about his divorce. "When you're little, you think divorce is like it is on tv. Arguments, throwing things, all out war, packing up and taking off. But it's not like that. It's a tragedy, the worst kind I know. Watching all your hopes and dreams die of starvation when there's nothing you can do to save them. It ends up feeling like someone died, only it's worse, because they're still there…like a ghost you can't put to rest. It's so much less about anger…and all about…loss…and sadness…and failure."

His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. I felt a strange need to fill the silence. So much so that I offered facts about myself.

"My parents divorced when I was so small I don't even remember them being married," I offered quietly. I was trying to make a connection, give him support to keep talking. I had the feeling that whatever it was, he hadn't told another soul outside of his sister, probably since two years ago when it happened. His mouth twisted into a crooked grin as he acknowledged my attempt at commiserating.

"Jill and I went to Stanford together. We were friends and then…more than friends. We got married the summer after we graduated and quickly moved to New York. She got a job as a researcher at New York Presbyterian, and they were willing to supplement her way through grad school. So I built my company in New York, pretty much from scratch. It was hard being away from my sister. She is…the only family that I have. Her and her husband and my best friend.

"But we were young, and in love, and…she wanted to go to New York more than she wanted anything. When I think about it now, I think if I had put my foot down and told her I wanted to stay in California, she might never have even married me in the first place. No way to know that, of course. And hindsight is always clearer." He sighed. There was more he almost said, but he stopped himself, like he was internally censoring. I knew, because I had done the same thing earlier.

"I spent so much time getting my business off the ground. Twenty-hour days sometimes. She told me in the beginning she understood, but, the longer that went on, the less she seemed to understand. I would kill myself to set aside time for her, you know, just us, and she would pout or be angry and ruin it, every time. I felt like I never knew what she wanted from me. She had her friends from work, but I was starting a business, hiring people, no one I really socialized with. My friends were in California, but I hardly ever went to California because I was so busy with work.

"I worked and worked…and spent less and less time with her. She felt abandoned, I know. Weeks would go by when I only talked to her in the morning while we were in the bathroom together. I didn't know it at the time, but counseling helped me realize I did some of that on purpose. Ignoring her. Looking for ways to avoid being around her. She was angry or sad almost all the time, and she wasn't very good at communicating her feelings. I never understood what was happening. Work was easy, even though it took all my time. Being married was hard, so I avoided dealing with it. Not very mature of me, but, well, we were young…and everyone goes into a relationship carrying pain from something else, right? If you don't deal with that, you don't have any of yourself to give to anyone else."

His voice was so heavy, so guilt-ridden. He blamed himself for his marriage failing, I realized.

"A divorce can only ever be, at the most, half your fault," I told him, remembering something I had heard on a radio talk show. "The relationship belonged to both of you. You both had some fault in it going sour."

He scoffed. He didn't believe that.

He rubbed his hand over his mouth, over and over. "There was this programmer that I hired about six months before Jill and I split up. Hannah." He said her name like it burned his tongue on the way out. "She…I don't know…had a crush on me or something. Everyone knew I was married. She knew I was married. But maybe the weak spots in my marriage were visible to her somewhere. And don't get me wrong, she stalked me like prey, waiting for the perfect time."

"Did you…cheat on your wife?" I asked him, sick at the thought, although I also was almost sure I knew the answer before he said it.

"No!" he swore, shaking his head back and forth vigorously. "I would never do something like that, Sarah. I'm a decent guy. Ellie did raise me, after all." He sighed, a sputtering, gushing breath that seemed to have no end.

"But Hannah's perfume was always all over my clothes. She took every opportunity to touch me, drape herself over my shoulder. She would text me, starting to ask about work, but it would shift to personal things in no time. I know Jill saw some of those. I wasn't hiding it. I didn't think I needed to. I assumed Jill knew I was faithful to her. I mean, she was supposed to know me best. But she thought I could cheat on her?"

He sighed, some of that frustration still evident.

"Well, she lost faith somewhere. And then she started drinking, more than the social drinking we used to do. She hid it from me…which wasn't that hard to do when I was never home. Once in a while there would be open bottles on the coffee table when I would get home late, but I didn't think anything of it.

"Hannah made a pass at me on the way out of work one night. I rebuked her, told her I wasn't interested. Nothing happened, but she got lipstick on my shirt collar somehow. Jill saw it…and she threw me out of our apartment. She filed for divorce the next day. No counseling, nothing. She wouldn't even talk to me, wouldn't take my calls. I didn't see her again until we were in court and everything was final."

He choked, his voice breaking. "By then, she could barely walk in a straight line. She was heavily intoxicated during the proceeding." He squeezed his eyes closed tightly, like he was in pain. "I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. So sorry in fact…that I gave in and slept with Hannah, like the day my divorce was final. It makes me so sick, but I used her, hurt her. She went after a married man, yes, but she didn't deserve to be used, hurt the way I hurt her. That was me hitting rock bottom."

HIs breath got ragged, angry. "I bought Jill out of her half of my business. It was part of the legal agreement. But she lost her job, lost her chance to complete her Masters, lost her friends…lost everything. She blew through all of that money in less than nine months. She was hell bent on drinking herself to death, sometimes it felt like just to get back at me. I tried to help her, I really did. She wouldn't let me, in the end. She had to move back to California, with her parents. They live near Stanford." He swallowed hard, several times. "She said I ruined her life. Maybe I did. Whatever else I did, I know I didn't give her what she needed."

The anguish I had seen on his face in the art gallery suddenly made perfect sense. Everything made sense. His solitude, his nerves, his general social malaise…not timidity…lack of confidence.

His ruined marriage had broken his spirit, almost completely. No self-worth, no self-esteem.

He was the most wonderful man I had ever met…and because his ex-wife had beaten him down, he believed he deserved to be alone.

"Do you still love her?" I asked him. I honestly didn't want to know the answer, afraid of what it could mean if he still did.

He scoffed, more bitterly. "The truth? I don't know if I ever did. Or if I just convinced myself that I loved her. Or I loved someone that wasn't even there, wasn't real. That she was a completely different person than the one I thought I knew. What does that make me then?"

"Human," I told him, feeling his pain burning inside my chest like it was my own. "Everyone makes mistakes. Some are minor…and some do so much damage your life is changed forever afterwards. But we still have to live with them, find a way to live."

What right did I have to give him advice? He was divorced, but at least he tried. He tried to be married, gave that a shot. All I did was hide, my entire life, safe inside my shell where no one could ever hurt me.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to unload all this on you. You were just trying to help my sister by agreeing to come to the party with me."

"I'm glad that you did," I told him sincerely. "That kind of weight, not being able to talk about it, can destroy you if you let it." I was speaking from experience, but I had no intention of telling him that. "That must have been inside you for a long time."

He flashed me a crooked smile, though his eyes were still sad. "Not the perfect guy, Sarah," he added sadly.

Not only did he blame himself for his divorce, but for his ex-wife's alcoholism as well.

He was so sweet, so kind, so genuine. Caring, considerate, empathetic. It made me angry that he thought so little of himself when he was…so unbelievably amazing.

I leaned towards him, closing the distance between us, until I could feel the warmth of his body against mine. "Remember what you told me before? About George Bailey?" I asked. He looked at me, his eyes edged with tears. "Not being able to carry more than the weight of the entire world…doesn't make you a failure."

I saw the faintest grin creep up. His features softened and the warmth radiated from his eyes. He heard me, what I said, what I left unsaid.

Maybe George Bailey wasn't an impossible character. I just hadn't met someone like him. Before now.

My head was spinning like I was drunk, but I was certain now I was sober. I could feel his breath on my face, the nearness of him drawing me to him like a magnet. I leaned closer, our lips almost touching.

"Sarah, if I kiss you, I don't think I'll be able to stop," he whispered, his voice breathy, strained.

"Who said I want you to stop?" I whispered suggestively. The smoldering beneath the surface was becoming inflamed. What was I doing?

He almost dropped the glass he was holding, the water splashing a little onto his hands. He sat forward, angling his face away from mine.

"That was never my intention when I brought you here. I believe in being respectful. I feel like I got carried away at the museum. That l lost control of myself."

"I…couldn't help…how…attracted to you I was. I am. It took me completely by surprise," I admitted.

He had kept his word, just talking the entire time, despite the make out session in the gallery. I didn't want to leave, even though acknowledging that fact frightened me terribly. I had already told him more than I wanted to.

Chuck held his glass with both hands, his arms resting on his legs and the glass in between his knees. "Sarah, I have to say something. Something that's hard to say…but I think I will regret it for the rest of my life if I don't."

His voice was shaky, breathy, almost vibrating from his nerves. I waited, holding my breath, the heat from his nearness filling every fiber of my being with warmth.

"I know what I said before…about how I acted…when we were in the gallery. The truth is…the truth is…I…felt something. A connection, something that was drawing me to you, something more than just physical attraction. I can't explain it. I don't understand it. I've never had this happen, never felt like this…about anyone, certainly not someone I just met." He set the glass on the table. "I never imagined I could feel like this, that I would say something like this."

I wanted him so badly I could hardly focus on what he was saying. He was more than just physically attracted to me. What did that mean? And why did I have a nagging feeling that I felt the same, even though it terrified me?

What I wanted was so different from what I'd wanted from Bryce. A delightfully satisfying orgasm, without a lot of preamble, the calm knowledge that when he would finish, he would get up and shower and I could fall asleep.

As the fantasy took hold, I knew what I wanted…needed…from Chuck was more. His mouth on my body, his skin against mine, his breath in my ear, on my face. I felt like I wanted to crawl inside his chest, fuse my body to his. My breathing was shallow as those thoughts played over and over again.

When he turned to look at me, his eyes were on fire. "Stay here with me tonight," he whispered passionately. "Not for any other reason than I can't bear the thought of you walking out that door and out of my life…and I will never have the chance to show you how I feel."

The heat was now a raging inferno. Every ounce of strength I had was gone. It went against everything I knew, everything I had been telling myself all night about what was right and what was wrong. It was hopelessly complicated, uncertain…but irresistible, undeniable.

I had never wanted anyone, anything the way I wanted him. It wasn't even the sex I was craving, even after how long I had been without. I wanted him–to kiss him, touch him, feel my skin against his with nothing in between.

Every other thought simply evaporated. I closed the gap between us, wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him ferociously, hungrily, the flames growing inside me as he responded with the same level of intensity. He pulled me into his arms, his kisses making the same trail from my mouth, down my neck and across the smooth mounds where my breasts crested the top of my dress.

"Take me to your bed," I whispered, my breath like fire in my mouth. "Show me."

With unexpected strength, he scooped me up in his arms, cradling me against his chest, and carried me into his bedroom.