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Not even a full night’s sleep could make her feel better about walking through the front door of Mike’s home. First the kiss, then the art. How could it get any worse?
Thankfully, she had her own transportation. She wouldn’t have to wait for Becca or Ethan to pick her up. And if things got bad, she could just drive herself home.
Rose groaned. Her hands clutched the top of the steering wheel and she dropped her forehead against them. She wasn’t going to make either one of those mistakes again. The Mike she knew growing up had respected stoicism and strength—and she’d failed miserably at demonstrating both of those traits.
She lifted her head and stared at the building. Even from here, she could tell he was inside working. There were several lights on in the downstairs where she’d been painting the living room walls. Mike was probably in that room right now, taping up all the spots she needed to fix. He had every right to be picky. This place was supposed to be his home.
It was more than that, though. There was a part of her—an undeniable part—that wanted him to respect her. She craved it for no other reason than because of those moments he’d shown what kind of guy he wanted to be.
Mike wasn’t as bad as everyone made him out to be. He’d had a difficult past, but he’d overcome it. The proof was everywhere. Mike arrived before the sun came up and he didn’t leave until it went down. He was frugal, just like his grandfather—only getting the bare minimum supplies.
She’d never seen someone so dedicated. Rose could only imagine the kind of effort he would put into other aspects of his life—how he’d treat those he cared about. Just the thought of Mike settling down with some cute little Annie Oakley caused her to flush hot and cold all over.
The kiss they’d shared was yanked to the forefront of her memories and the heat intensified. Mike might be rough around the edges, but as she’d spent more time with him, she couldn’t deny she felt a connection to him.
No amount of deep breathing or releasing the pent-up sighs in her chest would improve her current disposition. The only thing she could do at this moment was go inside and get to work. They were probably about halfway done with the tasks they needed to complete, and she couldn’t just wait outside all day.
Rose pushed the door open and trudged up the stairs, wandering into the house with her mind set on one thing and one thing alone.
No more showing her emotions. She’d be just like Mike in that respect.
Unfortunately, her heart had other plans.
Rose came to a sudden stop in the living room. It wasn’t the freshly shampooed carpets or the vacuumed furniture that caught her off guard. It was everything on the walls.
She’d only completed the painting the other day. And already Mike had decorated the walls with what he must have deemed appropriate.
It was either that or he was making fun of her.
Everywhere she turned, her own paintings, sketches, and drawings had been hung. Some with tape, but most of them had been framed. Rose turned in a circle, feeling like she’d been dropped into a gallery of her past. Mike had picked a variety of mediums as well as subject matter.
She wrapped her arms around her middle, emotion flooding every spare inch of her body with its hot betrayal. She’d been to several gallery events in the past, all of them for different artists. But standing here, surrounded by her own work, was almost painful. It hit her differently—and not at all in a bad way.
It was the kind of pain she’d imagine a bodybuilder would experience after a workout. The burn was a pleasant ache.
Rose sucked in sharply, lifting one hand to rub beneath her eyes with a finger and thumb.
“Looks, good, don’t it?”
She gasped, whirling around to find Mike leaning casually against the wall of the hallway. He nodded without any sign of amusement at the pictures he’d put up.
“They’re too good to just throw away. You can’t box them up, either. These deserve to be seen.”
Her heart flipped at the compliment. She wished she could tell him how much this moment meant to her, but her voice failed her. A large, fat tear slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it away just as fast as she could.
“Why? How?” she stammered. “What were you thinking?—”
“I was thinking that you’re good, Rose. You have a talent that many would kill for. I don’t know why you wouldn’t want to share that talent with others.”
Rose pressed her lips together, the bitterness from her childhood overcoming the momentary joy she’d experienced mere seconds ago. “Weren’t you listening yesterday? I can’t be an artist.”
“Why not?” he demanded, moving into the room. “Look at all of this. You have raw talent. Use it.”
That familiar demanding tone filled the air, judging her with each syllable.
“Because the art world is nearly impossible to break into.”
“So is almost every other job.” Mike gestured to the house. “Do you think I’d be fixing this place up myself if I had found my dream job and was making enough money to hire someone? The hard truth is that easy doesn’t exist. Anything that is ends up having a catch.”
