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I watched her for a few more minutes before I got out of bed and explored the rest of her apartment. I poured a glass of scotch since I hadn’t had a drink all day, and I sat on one of the couches in the living room. The place was already furnished when I bought it, so these things had belonged to someone else. There was a small coffee table, a little TV, and a large painting on the wall.
It caught my attention because I knew Vanessa didn’t paint it. It was an image of the countryside, of the endless vineyards, the Tuscan sun, and the summer heat of the valley. It reminded me of something she would paint, but the colors, lines, and angles weren’t produced by her hand. It was definitely someone else.
I set my glass down and walked up to the painting. There was a signature scribbled in the corner.
Antonio Tassone.
A rock fell down my throat and landed in the pit of my stomach. It was like someone punched me in the gut with the butt of a rifle. It was a jolt of pain I hadn’t been anticipating, a shock to the heart that made my fingertips go numb.
I’d never been jealous of him because I knew he couldn’t compete with me. No man could. What Vanessa and I had was stronger than anything else she could have with another man. Even if she’d slept with him, it wouldn’t have shattered my confidence. I would have made good on my word and erase him from her memory. But seeing this painting…gave me a rush of doubt.
They had a deeper connection than I realized.
He was an artist, just like she was. They obviously had a lot in common. She got this painting because it reminded her of where she grew up. Or he painted it for her because he knew it would mean something to her. Whatever the case, they had a deep relationship based on mutual interests, art, and spirituality.
For the first time in my life, I was jealous.
I hated this painting. I was tempted to take it off the wall and snap it in half. I wanted to douse it with my scotch then light it on fire on the sidewalk. I wanted to burn it until his artwork was nothing but ash.
I had to remind myself that she dumped him the second I was back. She made the call, which lasted less than five minutes, and it was over. There was no hesitation of where she wanted to be. Even if this guy was an artist she had a connection with, it didn’t compare to what we had.
But I was still angry.
She didn’t sleep with him. She didn’t even kiss him.
I shouldn’t give a damn.
But I did.
I finally turned away and returned to the couch where my scotch was waiting for me. I didn’t want to look at that painting again. I couldn’t stand the thought of looking at it every day while I stayed here with Vanessa. It would be petty of me to ask her to take it down. I didn’t want to be that guy, to show any insecurity at all. But I also wouldn’t tolerate her bringing it along to our new place in Tuscany. No way in hell would I allow that piece of garbage to hang on the wall.
My painting was still there where I left it, on the other wall. But I shouldn’t have to share the space with anyone.
Light footsteps sounded against the hardwood floor. Vanessa was approaching from down the hallway. I didn’t make a sound, but she must have noticed I was gone when she reached for me in the middle of the night.
She appeared around the corner, her hair a mess from the way I’d fisted it earlier. Completely naked with beautiful olive skin, she was a living fantasy. Her dark hair, green eyes, and beautiful skin tone made her the most desirable woman on the planet. She squinted her eyes because she was still half asleep. “What are you doing?”
I was on the couch in just my black boxers. I held up my glass then took a drink. “Couldn’t sleep.”
She ran her fingers through her hair, her lids heavy with sleepiness. “Come back to bed.” Her tone was potent with her bossiness. She turned around, expecting me to follow her.
Normally, I would. But this time, I didn’t. I was pissed about the painting. Until that thing was off the wall and in the garbage, I would continue to be angry.
Her footsteps faltered when she realized I wasn’t coming. She turned back around and looked at me. “Did you hear me?”
Despite my anger, I wanted to smile. I liked the offense in her voice, the way she got angry when she didn’t get her way. She was used to having me whenever she wanted me. And when she didn’t get what she wanted, her attitude fired up. “I’m not tired.” I stared at my glass.
