“It’s complicated,” he said, and he breezed past me. He took the easel mounted with the haunting painting, walked it to the edge of the room, and set up another in its place. He retrieved a canvas from alongside one of the cabinets filled with art supplies. It wasn’t totally fresh: the background was already crisscrossed with color, pale pinks and blues interlocked. He placed it onto the canvas, then took up a palette, and set to filling it with blobs of thick oil paint from tubes.
When he didn’t elaborate, I prompted, “How complicated?”
He let out a sigh. “The painting itself doesn’t make me punch the wall. Just, sometimes it can get a bit… emotional, I guess.” He looked almost embarrassed at that. I sensed he almost didn’t even want to say it. But I also sensed that he felt strangely comfortable with me… like I did with him.
“Sometimes, paintings can unlock feelings, and those feelings have to go out. Mostly they go into the brushes, but sometimes…” He nodded to a crater in the drywall.
“I thought boxing took care of your aggression,” I said quietly.
“It helps,” he replied.
He’d filled the palette now. Taking up a half-filled bottle of linseed oil, he strode to the new canvas, uncapped the oil, and began to work the paintbrushes. Impressively, they were all clean: handles smeared with dried paint, yes, but the bristles were meticulously cleaned, good as new.
“You’re not going to punch any walls while I’m here, are you?” I laughed, nervously, but I was serious too. It had been kind of frightening seeing him at the boxing match—impressive, but scary. I didn’t necessarily want to see more violence from him, at least not when it wasn’t directed at a willing opponent.
Tristian actually laughed. It softened something in him. “No, doll. I’m doing something nicer tonight.” His voice dipped, low and amused. “If you want to watch me, that is. I figured you like my art.”
I nodded, inching closer. “I’d love to watch you work… What are you going to paint today?”
“Something beautiful,” Tristian said, and his eyes fixed to mine.
“Yeah?”
He nodded. “Yeah.” His gaze warm on me. “You.”
My heart squeezed. My breath caught.
Had he just—?
Did he think I was—?
“Don’t be scared, doll. Just relax. Be yourself.”
I tried my hardest to do that very thing, even with my heart thudding the hardest and fastest it had ever gone. “I… Sorry. I just—I’ve never been p-painted before.” Never been calledbeautifulbefore either, but I couldn’t put that to words. My cheeks blazed enough as it was. If I said that aloud, I thought I might burn up on the spot.
“Well,” he murmured, eyes tracing my face like his brush already knew the shape of me, “then I’m the lucky man who gets to be the first.”
Chapter nine
Tristian
Ilingered at the curb, the engine of my car a low, restless hum in the quiet street. I watched Ingrid’s silhouette retreat toward her front door. The key turned, the door clicked shut, and for a fleeting second, I saw the living room curtain twitch open—a brief glimpse of her looking back—before it fell shut. I stayed there anyway, staring at the window, my jaw tight, my brow furrowed. Because something was pulling at me, and I didn’t want to leave her.
But I forced myself to shift into drive.
I hadn’t wanted to drop her off at all. The day had passed in a blur, Ingrid relaxing into my presence as I painted and we spoke, getting to know each other, and sometimes just occupying a calm, contented quiet together.
I hadn’t made any moves, though I’d wanted to. My mind was thinking things it probably shouldn’t have been. Caught myself watching the low rise of her jeans more than I intended to, the way her lips moved when she rambled.Imagining what she’d taste like. How she’d react if I took what I wanted.
But there had been touches, little lingering moments between us. When she saw the canvas for the first time, she’d leaned close, and I’d found myself almost drunk on the closeness of her, her soft vanilla scent. It had taken everything in me not to sweep her into my arms, press mymouth to hers—to push her back against the wall, pinning her to it, drawing one leg up my hip—
I shook the thoughts away. Too dangerous to think about. If I did for too long, I ran the risk of striding from the car to her front door, hammering on it until she answered, and dragging her out to have my way with her.
And I didn’t much think her father would approve of that.
He probably would’ve shot me on sight.
That was why I’d brought her back. I already despised the man. Was almost positive he was the source of those bruises I’d seen but it was too early to sweep in and fix Ingrid’s life by straightening out her father.
