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But even if my feelings for Caden are the same as his for me, at the end of it all, we both want different things, don’t we? If a relationship is something we both want, we want it differently. Caden won’t want to hide it from the world. He won’t go out of his way to announce the end of his bachelor lifestyle, but he will want us to go out on dates, to not keep hiding in the privacy of our own homes. That’s the opposite of what I want. The idea of the world knowing about me as the woman dating Caden Bennett is intimidating, but what frightens me is people turning their attention to my daughter.
Sure, I wouldn’t want to keep the relationship a secret forever—that would be completely impractical, I think. But I have no idea how long it would take for me to warm up to the idea of that kind of judgment and scrutiny that will surely come from being an NFL star’s girlfriend.
A dry, bitter chuckle escapes me. I don’t know why I’m even bothering thinking about all of this. Judging from that conversation with Caden, I doubt I have any of this to worry about now. Things between us might be a little too fucked up to even warrant ideas like this.
I sigh, running a hand down my face. I’m not sure how I’m even supposed to go to bed now, with the kind of weight that now rests on my chest.
* * *
Streaks of lavender color the canvas as my brush glides over it, the strokes steady and sure, keeping my mind occupied as I continue my work. Music plays through my Bluetooth speaker, Taylor Swift’s voice dancing around my apartment as the sky in my painting comes to life. A client had commissioned a sunset landscape of a sunflower field, which I have been working on for the last few hours. It’s coming together, and with the combination of soft pinks, purples, and blues making up the sky and yellow and green to make up the flowers, it might be one of my favorite paintings I have done so far.
“That looks so pretty,” Bianca says from somewhere behind me, and I smile as I glance at her over my shoulder. She’s standing behind the counter in my kitchen, making pasta.
She came over to hang out while I paint, which is something she does often, keeping herself entertained with Elaine or chatting with me while I work. I don’t mind it—I like her company, always. “Thanks,” I say, cheeks flushing with pride. “I’ll be done in a few.”
I still have more details to add in, but I’ve been at this painting for hours, and the client doesn’t expect it for another few days. I’ll finish it up soon enough. “Perfect—lunch is almost ready,” Bianca says.
I hum in acknowledgment, turning back to the canvas and dipping my brush into the pallet on the stand next to me. There is no extra room in the apartment to dedicate to proper art space for myself, but the living room has the best natural light that bleeds through the large windows. So, I have no issue in lugging out my materials from the storage closet dedicated just for my art supplies and setting up shop in front of the windows to get my work done.
It gives me peace of mind as I create an image out of nothing, whether it’s a portrait or a landscape or still life—whatever it may be, it’s calming and a great way to empty my mind of everything except for what I’m making in front of me. For a few hours, this is all my focus is on, especially when I know Bianca is here to keep an eye on for Elaine for me, which she is always happy to do.
True to my word, I finish up a few minutes later, relaxing on the stool with a sigh as I put my paintbrush down. Running my fingers through my hair, I grab my phone to put on the timer for an hour, which is around the time it will take for the paint to dry, maybe a little longer. Once I do that, I find myself going on Twitter, clearing out some notifications that popped up, and scroll mindlessly through the timeline and trending tabs until a tweet catches my eye.
I bring my phone closer to my face, as if it will clear up what I’m seeing, but that’s not the case. My teeth press together tightly as I look at the high-quality pictures in the tweet of Caden leaving a club or bar from what seems like last night. I see his teammate, Reed, in the pictures alongside his girlfriend, Willow. But with them is also a blonde girl, the four of them chatting amongst themselves, grinning and having a fucking blast.
The pit that opens up low in my stomach is fiery and fierce, almost taking me aback with its intensity as I stare at the pictures and the tweet that captions it.
Chicago Rebels’ Caden Bennett and Reed Maxwell seen out with Maxwell’s girlfriend, Willow Burke, and some friends! Click the link for more photos!
I don’t click the link, because I don’t want to see anymore photos of Caden with some blonde girl I don’t recognize. Rationally, I know that the girl could very well just be a friend of his, but it does nothing to quell the seed of jealousy that grows inside.Thatis irrational. What right do I have to be jealous of a woman being pictured with Caden? And it’s not like she’s hanging all over him in the picture, or that they are holding hands or doing anything that indicates any kind of romantic connection between the two of them.
But the fact of the matter is that she is able to be seen out with him without a care in the world, which is the one thing I have been hesitating on long before I ever developed any romantic feelings for Caden.
My throat dries even as I try to swallow the lump that has lodged itself inside. The jealousy burns, and it only spurs to fuel my annoyance—both at me and at Caden, because it’s not enough to just blame myself.Ifhe’s with this woman. . . Was it that easy for him? Days ago, he was confessing his feelings for me. And now he’s out with someone else—possibly?
I tell myself it’s none of my business, but my grip on the phone tightens as my stomach twists, and I can’t bring myself to keep sitting here and act as if this doesn’t bother the shit out of me. Because it does. I have no right to feel this dig under my skin, no right to feel jealous, but feeling irrational is a symptom of having feelings for someone, isn’t it? You stop thinking straight.
Which is why I shove off the stool and pull off my smock, huffing out a breath and catching Bianca’s bewildered expression. “Um, are you okay?” she asks me warily.
I’m already at the door, shoving my feet into my sneakers. “Can you watch Elaine for a few minutes? I need to do something,” I say heatedly.
“Yeah, sure—where are you going?” Bianca calls out as I open the door, not bothering to answer her as I slam it shut behind me and storm towards the elevator.
I’m probably about to do something that is going to embarrass me later, but at this moment, I don’t particularly care. My skin is heated, pulse racing as I jam the up arrow for the elevator with a harsh finger and impatiently wait for the doors to slide open, which they do a moment later, robbing the rational side of my brain to talk me out of this.
Hell, I don’t even know what I’m aiming to do. All I know is in the next second, I’m in the elevator, riding up to Caden’s penthouse’s floor, glaring at the numbers as they increase with the elevator’s rise. My heart thumps, but it isn’t enough for me to back out, and when the doors slide open, I storm out of the elevator and towards Caden’s front door.
It’s like I’m in a haze of my emotions that take over all rational thinking, pushing me to ring the doorbell and wait, impatiently, for Caden to answer. There’s a chance he isn’t home, maybe busy at the gym or practice, which might be better for me and save me from embarrassing myself. But then the door swings open, and Caden is standing right in front of me, wearing a look of confusion, and I exhale sharply through my nose.
His hazel eyes meet my blue, and mine narrow into a glare, suddenly feeling my—perhaps unjustified—anger come back in full swing, stemming from bitter jealousy. I don’t even give him a chance to say anything as I push into his apartment and demand, “If you want things between us to be completely over, I need you to say it outright because I have to know—are we done?”
If Caden is surprised by my hasty words, he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he just shuts the door, faces me, and crosses those tattooed arms over his chest and pins me with a look. “I don’t know, Daria—are we?”
I guess we were about to find out.
12
CADEN
