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Brandon huffs in frustration. “I swear when I find the fucker...” He doesn’t finish.
“You and me both,” I whisper and rest my head against the seat. “I’ve even combed my sketchbook if the person was bold enough to leave a message. But aside from your missing sketches, everything’s the same. The police said the culprit was wearing gloves, so I doubt they left fingerprints.”
“Hm. Whoever it is had on gloves at my house, too.”
Silence fills the car until he asks, “Did you tell your parents about the sketchbook and the guest house? That it might be related to the break-in at the bakery?”
My stomach sinks. “No. I didn’t want them to blame you.”
Brandon snorts, and I look over, asking, “What?”
He flashes me a sly smirk. “You’ve become so much nicer to me.”
“Pfft.” I lower my eyes to my lap and flick my nails shyly. “I’ve always been nice to you.”
“Debatable.”
“Ugh.” I suck my teeth.
He chuckles, speaking again once he settles down. “You know, I like what we have. It feels real.” He glances at me briefly, smiling.
Ms. Jung and Momma’s words echo in my head. While I’ve had a boyfriend before Brandon, my emotions weren’t like this. I didn’t feel these things.
“Hm. I agree,” I whisper, reaching over to hold Brandon’s hand.
I go through the day in a haze, constantly thinking about whether there’ll be another mess.
In my art class that afternoon, everyone’s eager to learn who will have their work in the exhibition. I heard Ms. Jung chose five first-year students and five sophomores already.
When she enters the room, everyone falls quiet, expecting her to announce when she’ll send the emails. But she giggles at our impatience and proceeds to discuss the day’s theme.
I meet Brandon by his car after the final period.
He wraps up a chit-chat with Eric.
Eric waves to me before leaving.
“Let’s grab a bite at our restaurant,” Brandon says, taking today’s oil painting from me to place on the backseat.
“Sure.” I dip my head, too shy to meet his gaze as I mutter, “Maybe we could hang out at your house after?”
Brandon hooks his index under my chin, making me look at him again. “Don’t be nervous to ask for what you want.” His voice is deep and sexy, stirring warmth down below. “Just say you want me to fuck you.”
I roll my eyes and pry my chin from his grasp. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”
That results in a smirk. “Don’t worry, little artist. I’ll fill that body until you’re overflowing.”
Brandon offers me sweatpants and a hoodie, so I’m not lounging around in my uniform.
We relax on the sofa in the guest house, snacking on potato chips while watching a crime movie on Netflix.
“Are your parents home?” I ask. “Maybe I should do the polite thing and say hello.”
“No one’s here. Dad’s waiting for Brit at her therapy session, and Mom’s out drinking with her friends.”
“Why do you do that?” I utter in a sad voice, staring at him.
Brandon scowls. “Do what?”
