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Until I see him lift out a foldable easel, a fresh canvas, and a set of pastel paints that make my mouth drop.
“Here. Something to get your mind off the bullshit,” he explains, a knowing smile curving on his lips. “It’s not as fancy as what you’ve got at home, I’m sure, and I wasn’t sure you’d be in the mood, but—”
I don’t let him finish.
I’m instantly alive again, flying out of my chair, closing the space between us as I throw my arms around him.
He reminds me of hugging a redwood tree.
This mammoth, unmovable, larger-than-life presence who somehow has the self-awareness to dothis.
The kindest, most thoughtful gesture any man has ever delivered.
He clears his throat, folding his arms around me, hiding me from the cruelest world.
“If it’s too much—”
“No!” I say, craning my face up to look at him. “It’s perfect. It’s really thoughtful. It’s... I love it.”
And I do.
I just wish I didn’t have an inkling of something as scary as love flaring for the man who brought me this wonderful gift.
But how the holy hell do you ever get over a crush who kills for you?
12
Slate Grey Heart (Chris)
“Finish that up so we can eat, princess. You need your strength. You’ll feel like shit tomorrow if you don’t.”
I stare at her, hating that putting her back together isn’t as easy as I thought.
At least she’s smiling again. We’ve spent the whole evening together at the easel.
She patiently tries to explain her stuff while I give her endless jackass comments. Everything I learned about art ended with finger painting.
Bob damn Ross would’ve lost his patience with me.
But Delia never does. She just giggles at my brown smear of a horse that could be bested by a kindergartener.
She’s painting again when I wake up from a dead sleep the next morning.
With her mood lifting, I order half the room service menu, and they haul it up to us on two huge carts.
Delia nurses her lobster bisque, taking tiny bites of bread and setting them down every few seconds like she’s about to be sick.
“So...was that basically normal to you?” She looks up, her amber-brown eyes rippling. “I mean, is that what it’s like to be a SEAL and mercenary man? Killing without hesitation?”
“No room to hesitate when the stakes are that high. They could’ve killed you or dragged you off to fuck knows where.”
Her cheeks redden and she nods sadly.
“Delia, every man who’s ever been a SEAL makes a pact with the universe, God, whatever you want to call it. We don’t make the rights and wrongs in this joke of a world. We just deal justice and try to mitigate the pain. That’s what Enguard does, too—what we all had to do when the Feds contracted us to save those girls.”
I throw a glass of wine down my gullet and cut into my steak, slathered under a pile of mushrooms and garlic butter the way I like.
I hate how fragile, how wounded she looks.
