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He took another step closer to me, his eyes hardening. “Don’t make me ask again.”
The last thing I wanted to do was tell him the truth. I didn’t want to hurt him, and I didn’t want to think about the past when it had nothing to do with our future. “No, he didn’t paint it for me.”
His right eyebrow rose, and instead of being satisfied with that answer, he pressed for more. “Then why was it in your apartment?”
“Griffin—”
“I have the right to know.”
“Forget about him. I have.”
He ignored those words. “Vanessa.”
“Why does it matter?” I demanded. “Whether he meant anything to me or not, you mean more. You’re the man I love. I never loved him. Let this go.”
He clenched his jaw tightly, as if he was struggling with his own emotions. His eyes shifted back and forth as he looked into mine, deciding how he would proceed next. He knew he should drop this, that getting worked up over some guy didn’t matter. But looking at that painting ignited his insanity. “It matters to me.”
“I never asked about what you did in the three months we were apart—”
“I jerked off and slept alone. Every night. End of story.”
“And I did the same thing. End of story.”
“No,” he snapped. “You were going on dates, talking about artwork, sharing your passion.”
This was a nightmare that would never end. “I never went on a date with him. When he asked me out, I told him I wasn’t ready.”
“Tell me how that painting got there.”
He was never going to let this go, was he? “Fine.” I threw my arms down. “He came by my gallery as a customer. Took a look around and bought one of my paintings. Then he left. I had no idea who he was or that he was a painter himself. Then about a week later, I was out with Carmen when I noticed a painting in the window. I loved it, so I walked inside and bought it. Later, I learned that he was the artist. When he realized we bought each other’s paintings without realizing it, he asked me out. I said no. That’s the story, Griffin.”
As he soaked in the story word for word, his appearance began to change. No longer angry, his entire body began to soften, but not in relief. Anguish moved into his eyes, and he wore an expression similar to the one he wore the day he left me. His breathing picked up, and his nostrils flared slightly. It was the first time he broke eye contact with me, like looking at me only caused him pain. He stepped back, his eyes shifting back and forth as he processed what I’d said. “You bought each other’s paintings…”
“It doesn’t matter, Griffin. The second you were back in my life, I forgot he existed.”
He didn’t listen to a word I said. He ran his hand through his short hair and down the back of his scalp. Overwhelmed with misery, he didn’t know what to say. His spine wasn’t straight anymore, and his shoulders weren’t rounded. His posture turned weak.
“Griffin…”
He turned to the door, dismissing the conversation.
“Griffin.” I followed him to the entryway. “Do not walk out on me—”
He walked out the front door and slammed it in my face.
He left me—again.
Seventeen
Bones
I drove my truck out of Florence and into the heart of Tuscany.
There was only one person I wanted to see right now.
Vanessa’s answer was even worse than what I imagined. They bought each other’s paintings without even realizing it. I wasn’t a romantic guy, but I knew that meant something. Stuff like that didn’t just happen.
They had a deep connection.
She loved only me, and that’s all that should matter.
But it bothered me.
Infuriated me.
Because none of that would have happened if her father hadn’t stuck his nose where it didn’t belong. None of that would have happened if I’d been given the chance I deserved. During those three months, Vanessa met a man who easily could have become her husband. Based on the small amount of information I knew about him, he sounded like her other half. What were the odds that the two of them would find each other that way? By falling in love with each other’s artwork?
Of course he went after her.
He went after my woman.
I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white, and I was tempted to punch out the side window just to feel something shatter against my hand. The victim of my beating should be Antonio, but that wouldn’t be right.
Only one person deserved the beating of a lifetime.
Thirty minutes later, I pulled up the house I’d only entered once. It was a place I’d never felt welcome, not even now. I killed the engine, stormed up to the door, and then banged my fist hard against the wood.
