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“Thank you, Milasy.”
My long legs carry me through the living-kitchen area quickly enough. The hall is short: only a few strides. I stand on the lilac carpet outside Cleo’s door and knock twice. When the door swishes open, I smell her before I see her: some kind of soft perfume that reminds me a little of tea leaves. At first, she’s just a curtain of dark hair. Then she swings it back behind her shoulders and I see her face.
Her green eyes are wide, long-lashed, and topped by thin, elegant brows. Her cheeks are high and always just a little pink. Her lips are slightly parted with surprise.
My cock stiffens.
“Kellan?” She’s holding a letter, which she lowers as her gaze sweeps me. She frowns at the basket, like she thinks I’ve got a snake inside.
I surprise her and myself, leaning over and rubbing my thumb along her lower lip. “Cleo...”
She jerks back. “Stop! And come inside, I guess.”
She steps back, and I step inside her room. The first thing I notice is it’s blue: green-blue. It reminds me immediately of the ocean, viewed from high atop a cliff. And that reminds me of home. My chest aches.
I roll my gaze around, noting a white iron bed with way too many plush blankets and quilts. It’s more blanket pile than bed. There’s a yellow dresser, topped with various frames, and a full-length mirror on one wall. A night stand with a delicate, yellow-shaded lamp, casting cheery, amber light across the room. A window, decked in gauzy red curtains. And on the ceiling, glow stars. Belatedly, I notice that the walls are dotted with canvases. I step closer to the nearest.
It’s an abstract painting: red, maroon, and purple. But something juts out of it. I lean in closer and realize there are strips of paper melded into the bold oil strokes. A quick glance around confirms that the other canvases are similar: lovely abstract art, with strips of paper—and maybe even small objects—melded in.
I reach out, compelled to touch, but at the last second, I sideline my hand to the wall outside the frame. I look at Cleo with my eyebrows raised. “Is this your art?”
She glares at me. “Are you a critic, too?”
I remember her calling me a comedian earlier and feel a twist of excitement. This girl is fiery. Complicated. Sexy. Taking her home will be rewarding in so many ways.
I look again at the red, maroon, and purple piece before me. I look more closely at the strips of paper. I catch the words “Though absent long... But oft, in lonely rooms...” and my chest tightens so it hurts to talk.
“‘Tintern Abbey’?”
She steps closer. “I’m surprised you know it, math nerd.”
Wordsworth was my mother’s great-great-great grandfather, but I see no reason to share that factoid with her. My mother was an artist, and while I have none of that talent, I’m not bad with words—finance is a double-major, along with English—but again, what’s the point?
If she wants to see me as a math nerd, I can roll with that. There’s not much point in me sharing anything. Conversely, there’s not much point in me holding anything back...
“I’m a Wordsworth fan,” I tell her simply.
These words in her painting, I can’t stop staring at them. It’s like they’ve grown, until they fill my vision, and I feel the need to write.
I’d like to write about her body. Which means I need to see it again. I turn around and find her still holding the letter.
“What’s that?” I ask.
She cradles it against her chest. “Private Cleo business.”
I find myself chuckling at her puckered lips. “That sounds dirty.”
“Maybe if you have a dirty mind.” She sets it on the edge of her dresser with some reluctance,
and I close my hands around her waist, turning her toward the spot on her rug where I sat the laundry basket.
“A gift for you,” I murmur by her ear.
She crouches down, forcing my greedy hands to release her. “Blankets?”
She reaches into the basket, and I walk around to stand at the foot of her bed, so I can see her face as she digs... ah, she found it. Her eyes pop open wider. Her jaw drops.
“Holy shit! Are you kidding me? Is this a brick?”
