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“Yeah, it was awesome.” I’m following him like a lovesick little puppy, so oblivious to the world around me that I almost miss a glaring detail in the far corner of the room. But it stops me in my tracks.
Rowan’s cupboard, where he usually keeps his paintings, is open...and empty. That’s when I notice the stack of flat items wrapped in butcher’s paper. There’s a canvas bag, too. I venture over and see that it’s filled with his supplies—brushes and paints and sandpaper and other artistic bits and bobs.
“What’s all this?” I ask.
Rowan has his back to me as he’s standing at the fridge. But even without seeing his face I sense the change in him. The tension and wariness that he exuded when he opened the front door... It’s back.
“The paintings?” He turns. Now it’s like looking into a stranger’s face—the warmth and humour and all the things I’ve come to love about him are locked away.
“Yeah. Are you moving them somewhere?” I ask.
“I’m getting rid of them.” His tone is hard-edged, resolute. It’s like he’s warning me not to push.
But seeing all those beautiful canvases wrapped and stacked, hiding away the incredible pain and artistry beneath, is sad. “Why?”
“They’re a distraction.” He walks across the room and his face is impossible to read.
“They’re beautiful.”
“No, they’re not.” There’s a deep groove between his brows. “I’ve been wasting my time on them and it’s not helping anything. The gallery is my number one priority. And the way the show went last night...”
He blows out a breath and I want to fold him into my arms and rock him until all that tension melts away. But when I take a step forward, hand outstretched, he tenses up. That little flinching movement stops me in my tracks.
“Emery...” He shakes his head. “I know what you’re going to say and I don’t want to hear it, okay?”
Okay, nowthatpisses me off. “Did you suddenly get your clairvoyant’s licence overnight? Please, enlighten me.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t be like that.”
“Like what? I’m asking a legitimate question.” I feel my spikes pressing outward but I make a conscious effort to keep them in. Spikes are for people I don’t trust...and I trust Rowan. “Why are you getting rid of the paintings when it’s clear they’re important and meaningful? Not to mention it’s some of the most expressive, stunning artwork I’ve ever seen.”
“Just because we’re good at something doesn’t mean we should do it.”
I blink. “Why the hell not? Youtoldme you wanted to be an artist at one point. And that passion suddenly evaporated into thin air? I don’t believe it.”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe,” he says quietly. “You don’t know the real me.”
For a second, I feel winded, like someone has hefted a basketball straight into my gut. “Excuse me? How have I been spending more time with you than anyone else in my life and yet I don’t knowthe realyou?”
That statement hurts, because it’s precisely the opposite of how he makes me feel. And that disconnect is a fist around my heart. It hints at things I don’t want to be true—like that maybe this means nothing to him. That I’m disposable to yet another man.
That I’m a distraction, just like his paintings.
“You don’t know what it did to me, losing her.” The pain in his voice is so sharp and so raw that my eyes immediately prickle with tears. I blink them back, because crying now won’t solve a bloody thing. But I feel his pain as deeply as if it were my own.
That’s how I know he’s lying. I do know the real him. And I care about him.
This is bad. You weren’t supposed to go down this rabbit hole again because youknewhow it would end.
The same way it always ends...with me being rejected.
“You have no idea who I was before, what I was like. You have no idea how it changed me.” His dark eyes are like burning coals, passionate and fury-filled. “I can’t keep pretending that I’ll ever get back to being that person. That Rowan is gone.”
“But why do you think that you can’t keep changing? Who you are today doesn’t have to be who you are tomorrow or next week or next year. We all change. That’s part of life.” I suck in a deep breath. “Hell, I’ve changed since being with you. A month ago, I was someone I didn’t recognise—squabbling with my team and torturing myself with other people’s opinions. You helped me see what I was doing, and that allowed me to change for the better.”
“That’s not...”
“Not what, Rowan?” I take a step forward and touch his arm, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t react.
