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Because deep down, I’ve known, it’s always been her. And it always will be.
“Turn for me, princess.” I can’t help but run my hands down her arms as she faces away from me, her ass just barely brushing up against my cock. I shampoo her hair, and she lets her head fall back as I massage her scalp. Her eyes are closed, and she sighs the sweetest little hum. It’s such a contrast to the explosive, defensive, and rage-filled Effie, and I feel distinctly honored that she’s showing me this side of her. She may just be too exhausted to push back, but maybe—hopefully—she’s slowly letting down her walls.
She’s been so quiet, that when she asks me a question as we towel off, it almost startles me. “Where did you sleep last night?”
I ruck the towel over my hair. “In the garage. In the bed of my truck.” Though I didn’t get much sleep, haunted by her words.
I don’t want to see your face.
Just get it over with.
I follow her to our bed—herbed—taking particular pride in the new flush of her skin that has replaced the goosebumps that covered her body before. She pulls the quilt back, but instead of getting in, she turns to me. She worries her lip with her teeth and avoids my eyes. I know whatever she’s about to say is gonna hurt like a bitch.
“You don’t have to sleep in the garage, but maybe the couch?”Fuck. Yeah, that stings.
I take a deep breath, tying the towel around my waist. “’Course.”
“Thank you,” she says meekly.
I give her as much of a smile as I can manage and lean forward to kiss her. She turns to give me her cheek, and it feels like an arrow to the chest.
I step back and give her the space she clearly wants. I hope the hurt isn’t evident in my eyes. I don’t want her to feel bad for doing what she feels she must.
“Good night, Finn,” she says as I walk away, and I look back over my shoulder and see her wringing her hands, a sad smile on her face.
“Night, princess.”
“Well, you could go with something like this or like this.” The most unhelpful art store associate says, holding up two canvases that are basically the same fucking thing.
“Will both fit on the easel?” I’m actively trying not to pull my gun on this dude to speed up this process.
“Uh, let’s see…” He tries to place one of the rectangular canvases on the standup easel I’ve picked out and it doesn’t fit between the spacers. “Damn, guess not.”
I grab the canvas from his hand and flip it on its side and it lays perfectly. I fucking hate incompetence.
“Oh yeah, and you can adjust this,” he says, pushing up the top rail.Would you look at that.
“Good. Fine. What paints are right for this type of canvas?”
“Man, you have a lot of good questions.” He chuckles. I’d rather poke my eyes out with a hot fire poker than spend another second with this man.
You know what, google is fucking free. I walk away from him and pull out my phone. Ten seconds later, I’m in the acrylic paint aisle throwing one of every color and the brushes next to them into my basket.
At the register, the man begins to scan every tube of paint at the speed of a ninety-year-old woman and my foot taps anxiously. The only reason I was comfortable leaving Effie alone at the farm was because I thought this would be a quick visit. My skin itches thinking of her on the property by herself. No one would hear her—
The next thing I know my gun is drawn and the man is shaking, hands in the air. I throw my credit card on the counter. “Just charge it for three thousand, that should more than cover it.”
He looks at the card like it’s a ticking bomb and stutters, “I—uh—I can’t—I have to ring each item.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I groan and pull out a wad of hundreds from my wallet, at least a couple thousand, and drop it on the counter. Then I toss everything back into the basket, card and all, hike the easel and canvases under my arm and leave before I fucking kill someone.
Though the store owner would probably thank me for taking out his incompetent ass.
When I get back to the barn, a mouthwatering smell fills the space. My heart squeezes, seeing Effie cooking on the wood stove, in tiny shorts that disappear almost completely beneath a long sweater. There’s soft music playing in the background, and she sways ever so slightly, I doubt she realizes she’s doing it.
I’m frozen in the doorway soaking her in, she looks good here. Like she was always meant for the slow life. She starts singing along into the spatula, and my heart goes from being squeezed to being crushed as I realize why she looks so good. It’s because she looks happy.
I’m mesmerized by her hips, rocking back and forth, making her sweater rise and giving a little peak of her perfect ass in tiny black shorts. She twirls with her spatula-microphone and jumps with a scream when she sees me.
