Page 26 of What About Us

He reaches out and brushes his fingers over her head, scratches behind her ears, and she keeps purring.

“She’s cute.”

“She’s the best cat in the world.” I kiss her a few times before setting her down.

“Do you get cold, Red?”

“Hmm?” I turn with my coat in my hand and see that he’s in the middle of my living room, hands in his pockets, gazing about.

“You have blankets everywhere.”

I chuckle and slip my arms in the sleeves of my jacket. “Yeah, I run cold. I’m also addicted to blankets. I buy way too many, but Cally likes them.”

“And you paint?” He lifts that eyebrow as he turns my way, and now I feel . . . vulnerable. Uncomfortable.

Because I don’t share this with people.

“Uh, when I have time. Which hasn’t happened in a while.” I grab my scarf and hat—it might still be September, but the rink is cold—and when I lead Xander to the door, he catches my arm in his hand and turns me toward the wall where the biggest canvas leans against it.

“Tell me about that one.”

I sigh and slowly shake my head. “I’m embarrassed that you’re seeing them at all, Xander.”

His gaze whips down to me, and he frowns fiercely. “Why? It’s fucking incredible.”

“It’s just okay, and I don’t know. I never plan to give them away or anything.”

“You absolutely should not give them away. You should be selling them.”

I laugh, but he doesn’t join me.

“Tell me about that one. I’m serious.”

I sigh and stare at the canvas. “It’s mountains.”

“I will spank your beautiful butt if you don’t tell me everything about that painting right now.”

I blanch and cough, but he holds my gaze, unflinching.

Spank me. Go ahead. I consent.

I clear my throat.

“There’s a spot I like to drive to sometimes when I want some peace and quiet, and this is the view. So, a couple of months ago—or maybe longer now—I went up there with my supplies and painted this. It took me about three hours.”

“You did that whole thing in three hours?”

I shrug a shoulder. “Yeah. I’m used to painting fast because I never know how much time I’ll have.”

“I want to buy it.”

I snort and turn to leave, but he pulls me around again.

“You’re going to give me whiplash.”

“How much for the painting?”

“I’m not selling it to you.”