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“Sure.” I force down the lump in my throat as she moves toward the hallway, and I follow her. There were many summer days and nights spent tangled together in the sheets of that room.
Leaning against the doorframe, I notice not much has changed in here. She still has the same headboard and dresser with framed photos of her, Everleigh, and Katie. I wait until she waves me forward. A pair of panties and bra are crumpled on the floor, and she kicks them to the side. “Sorry. I forgot about those.”
“Not like I haven’t seen them before,” I say with a chuckle, moving closer to the painting. The morning glories are so detailed they almost look real. Bright purple and pink stand out among the green grass. “Wow,” I mutter. “Just as beautiful as I remember.”
“I wish I could paint like her—or rather, I wish my mother was here to teach me,” she confesses.
“You can still learn,” I encourage. “It’s not too late.”
She cocks a brow. “I’ve tried many times, and they look like something a four-year-old made. It’s embarrassing, considering I should have her creative genes, but obviously don’t. Just imagine if Bob Ross’s son was a terrible painter!”
I laugh. “Is he?”
“No! He’s brilliant, just like his dad was. The mountainscapes he creates…it’s ridiculous. Then you have me, who can barely paint a sun—the simplest thing ever, and I still managed to screw it up.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
“Ha! I’ll show you,” she says and opens her closet. That’s when I notice the orange dress hanging in her closet, bringing back memories of her letter. She still has it, after all. Up on top is an old Converse box, and I’m curious what’s inside. Gemma pulls a canvas from the back and hands it to me, stealing my focus.
It takes everything I have not to lose my shit at the blob of paint. I tuck my lips into my mouth, but it’s impossible to hold back a smile.
“See!” she exclaims and points at me.
“What is it?” I ask, tilting it.
“It’s supposed to be a nest on a tree branch. Inside are baby birds and different colored eggs.”
“Ooh, sure, I see that.” I nod, but she sees through my lie and playfully smacks me.
“Hey! Picasso’s art was strange and is still extremely popular.” I throw her a wink.
She rolls her eyes, and I hand her the painting, which she shoves to the back of her closet.
“What’s in that box?” I ask, curious.
“Um. All your letters.”
“Really? You saved them even after all these years?”
She nods. “Every single one.”
We’re frozen in a heated gaze, and while I’m happy my words meant as much to her as hers meant to me, it somewhat saddens me too because when I moved away, those were all she had left of me. No telling where we’d be right now if I hadn’t. I wouldn’t have met Victoria or gone to prison, but then Maddie and Liam wouldn’t be in my life either. She notices the somber mood and swiftly changes the subject.
“Are you hungry?” she asks, walking toward the doorway.
“I’m starving. I’ll be happy to make something,” I offer as I follow her to the kitchen.
“No, no, no, you’re my guest of honor and have cooked for me several times already. It’s my turn.”
I take a seat at the marble island. “Okay, fine.”
It’s hard not to think about the last time I was here when we both lost control. Just imagining her soft moans in my ear as she rode her release has my dick getting hard, but I try to think about something else. We cannot cross the line right now, regardless if she’s single and she’s all I think about.
She opens the fridge and glances inside. “Hmm.”
I chuckle at her uncertainty. “Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”
She pulls out cheese slices and butter, then sets them on the counter. “How about a grilled cheese sandwich? It’s been a while, but I think I can make one,” she asks.
“I just hope you’re a better cook than Everleigh,” I tease. “Because the look on your face has me worried.”
She chuckles. “My cooking isn’t as bad as my painting skills.”
“Thank God for that,” I mock, and she rolls her eyes.
“Joke’s on you, though,” she says, grabbing a skillet. “Because you’ll eat it even if it sucks. I know how nice you are.” She turns on the burner, and I watch as Gemma scoops a gigantic spoonful of butter and slaps in down on the skillet.
I cringe because she’s already screwing this up. “Let me help.”
She turns and points the spatula at me. “Not happening. Want a drink while you wait?”
The butter sizzles, and I’m convinced it’s burning. “Sure.” I might need one to swallow down her food.
She quickly reaches inside the fridge, then hands me a Whiteclaw.
