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The one time I paid the diner’s waitress anyway—beating him to it and rushing outside right after, he pressed me against his car and gave me double the amount, saying, “Don’t ever do that again,” before kissing me senseless.
“I think I need to take you to a doctor to get your incessant daydreaming checked out.” Carter smiles and unlocks the door to his apartment. “You might be having seizures.”
“Ha ha.” I step past him and my jaw drops as I walk inside.
His apartment looks completely out of place for the South. It looks like it belongs in a beautiful brownstone in New York, or in an architectural magazine.
With stark white walls, round columns that drop down from the ceiling, and massive easel paintings that stand freely in the living room, I almost feel like I’m standing in a museum.
I walk over to where a giant canvas is propped against the wall—noticing that the brushes on the window sill are still wet.
The picture—one of a deserted lake at sunset, is unfinished, but I can already tell that that the final product will be amazing.
“You paint?” I ask.
“Occasionally.” He sets his keys on the counter.
“You did a really good job defining the reeds around the water. I almost thought you used acrylic, but...I’ve never personally known anyone who could get oil paints to behave this well. It’s amazing.”
“You write and paint?”
“I haven’t painted since I flunked out of school.”
He stares at me, and I can tell he wants to ask me more but he holds back. “Are you ready for dinner?”
I nod and walk over to the breakfast bar where he’s pulled out a stool for me. Before I can take a seat, he swoops me into his arms and kisses me—placing me onto the seat himself.
“Do you eat lasagna, Emerald?”
“It’s my favorite.”
“You cook it a lot at home?”
“Hell no. I can’t cook.” I laugh. “And my mom couldn’t either. Whenever we had a taste for lasagna or anything Italian she would order from this place called Rizzoli’s. She wouldn’t let me eat it out of the box though. She’d take it out and put it on real plates so she could pretend like she made it.”
“We’re allowed to share personal stories now?” He smiles and pulls a pan out of the oven. “My mom was disappointed that I turned out to be a boy because she already had three other ones.” He hands me a fork. “She taught me how to cook something new every Saturday because she wanted to pass her recipes down to someone in the family.”
“She died?”
He shakes his head and sets a full plate in front of me. “No, she’s still alive. She just always likes to look ahead.”
“Something her and my mother have in common.” I mutter and quickly stuff a roll into my mouth. I’m starting to say a lot more things out loud lately and I don’t like it.
I pick up a fork and take a bite of the lasagna, completely taken aback by how fucking good it is. The sauce is the perfect mix of tart and sweet and the cheese has to be organic. It has to be.
“This is really, really good.” I’m devouring it, not looking up at him. This is a far cry from the country-fried foods my grandparents specialize in and it honestly reminds me of home.
“I made an entire pan,” he says. “If you would like, I can wrap up the rest of it for you to take home.” He sits across from me.
“Funny. Don’t let this go to your head, but this is probably the best lasagna I’ve ever had.”
“Probably?”
I blush and eat another forkful.
“What type of pictures did you paint in college?”
“Abstracts mostly, but I did a few stills for assignment.”
He puts his fork down and leans forward. “What type of stills?”
“The usual—classroom objects, buildings, and trees. Lots and lots of trees.”
“No models?”
I shake my head. “That was the next class I would’ve enrolled in...”
“I see.” He reaches over the bar and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “If I said I wanted to paint a picture of you would you let me?”
“Yes...”
“Does it matter what type of picture it is?”
I can feel my cheeks burning. “No...”
“Interesting.” He moves his hand away from my hair and takes a sip from his glass. “Good to know.”
I look down at my plate and continue eating, scolding myself for letting him see how he makes me feel.
When I look up again, he’s still eyeing me—smiling at me.
“Something funny?”
“Are you sure you don’t want the rest of the pan?”
