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One song bleeds into another and into another until I don’t know how much time has passed. But the sun has set, and the only light coming in through the windows is from the streetlamps and nearby buildings.
By the time I set my brush down, the canvas is a kaleidoscope of colors.
Without question or exchange, Ansel senses the finality and stands up from the couch.
Once he’s standing behind me, he rests his hands on my shoulders, and I can feel the warmth of his fingers through my sweater.
“Is that me?” he asks, and I glance up to meet his eyes.
“If you were a rainbow, I think these would be your colors.”
His smile lights up the whole fucking room. “It’s brilliant.”
I laugh at that. “Now, that’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”
He shakes his head and reaches down to grab my hand and help me to my feet. Standing directly behind me, he pulls my back against his chest and places his lips near my ear.
“I’m not lying,” he whispers, and the heat of his breath triggers goose bumps that start at the back of my head and slowly move down my neck and arms. “It’s heartfelt yet cool and both soft and rough. It’s pensive and maybe even a little irritable around the edges, but there’s also a lightness to it. If I were a rainbow, this would most certainly be me. There’s just one thing missing.”
“What? Something missing? I’ve gotta tell you, buddy, I think the ol’ Indigo creative well has run dry.”
He laughs and runs an intimate hand through my hair. My stomach lifts itself into my chest, and I have to swallow just to keep myself from moaning. Ansel either doesn’t notice or pretends not to.
“You need to sign it.”
I glance at him. “Sign it?”
“Yeah,” he says and points to a nearby canvas resting against the wall. “Every artist needs to leave their signature.”
I look at the canvas and see the inscription in the right-hand corner.
AB.
It’s simply his initials. A messy script with an A and a B.
I pick up the brush near my hip and put it to the canvas. Only instead of my initials, I sign Indy in the bottom right-hand corner of my creation.
“Perfect,” he whispers near my ear, and every nerve ending beneath my skin comes to life.
My eyes flutter shut, electrified by the way I feel when his body is pressed up against mine. The insane urge to turn on my tiptoes and press my mouth to his full lips damn near consumes me.
God, he makes me feel so good…
Across the room, the sound of “My Boyfriend’s Back” by the Angels starts to play inside my purse, and everything—and I do mean everything—comes crashing down around me at once.
It’s Matt’s ringtone—the one he set for himself on my phone—and the lyrics are entirely too ironic for my liking.
I blink out of my stupor and step forward to put a little distance between us.
“I’m glad you like it,” I whisper hoarsely, the realization that I’ve completely forgotten my boyfriend for almost an entire day making me feel sick.
When Ansel caresses the skin of my cheek with a rough, sexy hand, I realize just how badly I need to get out of here.
Ansel
If Indy’s desire to run were a volleyball game, the ringing phone was the set, and the feel of my hand on her cheek was the spike. And just like that, it overcomes her.
“So, it’s getting late,” slips from her pretty little lips as she heads toward the top of the stairs to collect her jacket and purse. I follow in her wake but do it slowly enough so as not to make her even more uncomfortable. She’s putting her arm into the sleeve of her coat when I come to a stop in front of her, and she verbalizes what her actions have already made pretty clear. “I think I should probably be heading home.”
Even though I don’t want her to go, I understand why she needs to, so I don’t even entertain the idea of pushing her to stay.
Instead, I concentrate on making sure she gets home safely.
“I’ll call my driver,” I say without hesitation.
She slides the last button on her coat through its hole and settles it into place while shaking her head. “No, I can—”
“Indy, I’m not taking no for an answer on this,” I say softly but firmly. “I’m making sure you get home safely.”
It’s a Friday. The city is bustling, the sidewalks and subway are crowded, and the roads are slick with black ice. As a survivor of a traumatic car accident and a realist with a grasp of just how much evil there is in the world, I’m completely unwilling to yield on this particular issue.
Before she can protest again, I pull my phone out of my pocket and call my driver, Hank. He’s been with me for years, and while I don’t need him twenty-four seven now that I’ve got my sight back, it’s a rare occasion when he can’t accommodate my request.
