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I roll my eyes at him. “Besides me. What do you do for fun? What about college? What are you going to study?”
“My dad wants me to study business and take over his company in the future.”
I frown. “But what do you want?”
Without answering, he pulls out of the lot and turns onto the main road.
“I’ll help you set up the easel,” he says instead.
My stomach falls. “Right. I meant to tell you; I won’t be able to keep it. My mom says it’s too expensive a gift. Plus, I told her it was from a guy, so she thinks you want something in return.”
Brandon doesn’t respond right away.
“Don’t be offended,” I add in case. “I’d love to keep it. I’ve wanted such a nice easel for a while now. But my parents—”
“I’ll keep it for you,” he coolly interjects. “In the guest house, where you’ll come by after school and paint without interruptions.”
My pulse quickens at the idea, but I still refute. “I can’t just go to your house to paint. What about your parents?”
“Oblivious.” There’s no emotion in his voice. “They won’t notice, and even if they do, they won’t care.”
That sounds sad. But Brandon appears unfazed. Perhaps he’s used to it.
We reach the intersection, and he takes the exit to West Heights. “Tell your parents you’re giving the easel back. It’s not a lie, only that you’ll use it with me.”
I consider it for the rest of the drive to my house.
When Brandon slows down outside, I tell him, “All right. Hold on, let me get it.”
He shuts off the car and follows me inside, helping me gather the pieces from the carpet in my room.
“You know, I still feel weird about accepting this from you. It’s expensive. I want to pay you back.”
“Don’t,” he deadpans.
“But…” An idea pops into my head. “Okay. What if I paid you in paintings?”
His lips curve from pleasure. “More time with me. That sounds nice. I accept.”
“Ugh. I should have seen that coming.” I giggle in defeat and tell him, “Deal.”
I think back to the garden and the way he caressed my lips, face, and neck with the rose. Heat rises beneath my skin, but the run-in with Heath cools it.
“Brandon, um, have you ever been in a fight since—”
“Yes,” he answers before I finish, picking up the bag with the easel. I already took out the brushes and oil paints and was happy to have them in class.
Holding his gaze, I ask, “What caused the fight?”
His jaw spasms. “Sophomore year, a prick decided to mess with me. He jabbed his finger into my shoulder. I beat him so badly he spent weeks in the hospital. My dad footed the bill and apologized to his parents. I spent a month in therapy.” It’s crazy how his expression remains blank as he tells me these things.
“At the beginning of my junior year,” he goes on. “Some kid was tossing a ball to his friend in the schoolyard. He lost his balance and knocked into me. Even though it was an accident, I attacked him—fractured his ribs. Dad established the scholarship to smooth it over. The same one you’re on now.”
I sputter a soft gasp, observing him.
“You’re wondering what’s wrong with me,” he assumes, tone deep. “Why I’m so vicious. I told you, little artist, there’s a monster inside. Once it’s triggered, I lose control.”
“No.” I edge closer.
