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His cane clacks against the kitchen tiles, and the painter takes the nearest coffee mug. “Thanks,” he mutters again, then limps from the room. I watch his back muscles shifting beneath his shirt, then he’s gone.

I cling to the counter until my drink is cold. When I finally blink again, my eyes are bone dry.

* * *

The day is soft and quiet after the storm, with every closing door and gurgling pipe echoing through the hotel. For hours, I drift around like a ghost, clearing up Mr Grangemoor’s various studios and ordering new supplies, and the whole time it’s like I’m detached from my body. Floating up above my head, watching my numb self bumble around. When I knock my elbow on a door frame, I feel nothing.

He doesn’t ask me to model for him again, even though yesterday’s painting is only part-way done. I don’t offer.

God. What was I thinking?

A dull ache pulses between my legs as I move through the haze, a cruel reminder of what I’ve done. I gave myself to a man who doesn’t want me. Who won’t even look at me the next day.

And I fell in love with a complete bastard.

White static fills my brain for most of the day, but by the time we’re sitting in our armchairs by the fire after dinner, my sense of logic is creeping back. There’s only one real path when you fall in love with your boss, and he sleeps with you then discards you.

I need to leave or get over it. And Ilovethis job; where else will I get free room and board and tons of time to draw, and the chance to learn from one of the world’s greatest artists?

Damn this man.

“We’ll go down to town on Thursday.” Mr Grangemoor frowns at the hearth, firelight dancing over his craggy face. Hisbeard looks blacker, thicker, in the glow. He’s talking to me like everything’s normal, but he still won’t meet my eye.

Strong fingers drum against his arm rest. His chin is propped on one fist.

“For deliveries?” I ask, as if it matters.

My voice is thin. Since the icy cold slap of reality in the kitchen, I’ve struggled to breathe. Everything hurts. This won’t last forever, will it?

“Yes. Order yourself something for your own work, Helen. Charcoals or paints. As a treat.”

I press my lips together to keep from crying. “Okay.”

Finally, after a full day of distance, my boss glances over. Dark eyes rake over me, then narrow in on my exhausted face. His concern is palpable, and I hate that. “Helen? Are you alright?”

How dare he act like he cares? It’s just guilt.

Ugh.

“I’m going to bed.” The armchair screeches against the floor as I lunge to my feet, half-drunk cocoa sloshing in my mug. Why the hell did I come in here after dinner? Playing along like nothing’s changed?

Well. I wasn’t thinking. Just drifting along on horrified autopilot.

“Is something—?”

His gruff voice makes me ache. Such a bastard.

“Goodnight, Mr Grangemoor.” I flee.

Because maybe I’ve been the biggest dumbass alive—but I won’t play along. I’m no good at these games.

And when I reach my own room, the first thing I do is snatch the Valentine’s Day roses from my nightstand, yank open the nearest window—and toss them into the night.

Six

Rufus

It’s almost a relief when Helen pulls away. When my sweet assistant stops laughing with me in the kitchen; when she no longer sits by the fire with me in the evenings. Almost a relief. Almost.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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