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I pushed past him, feigning irritation. But as I ran my fingers over the fresh canvas, feeling the pull of creativity itching beneath my skin, I realized that he might just be onto something. Not that I'd ever admit it to his face.
"Get settled in," Nash said, backing toward the door. "Dinner will be ready soon. The caretakers are excellent cooks."
"Thanks for the heads-up, Gordon Ramsay." I waved him off, already reaching for a sketchbook. "Now shoo. Genius at work."
"Of course." He inclined his head mockingly before disappearing out the door, leaving me alone with my traitorous thoughts and the unsettling knowledge that, despite everything, I felt safer with him nearby than I'd care to acknowledge.
Chapter 26
Celeste
Istepped back, a ragged sigh escaping my lips as I gave the canvas one final scrutinizing glance. The vineyards sprawled across it, serene and bountiful were way different from the chaos of my inner world. The hues of purple and green melded together in a dance of color that somehow calmed the storm inside me. For a heartbeat or two, I actually felt some goddamn peace—a rare commodity in the mess that was my life.
"Fuck, that's not half bad," I muttered to myself, tipping my head to admire the brushstrokes that spoke of a tranquility I hadn't known in ages. It was like I had bottled up all the serenity of those fields and trapped them on canvas—my personal genie that wouldn't grant shit but at least looked pretty.
Then came the knock. I wiped my hands on my already paint-stained jeans, leaving fresh streaks against the denim, and ambled over to the door. I knew who it was before I even yanked it open.
Nash stood there, all broody stalker vibes with his too-perfect face and eyes that were an emotional cocktail—equal parts intensity and tenderness. He had that look like he was going to either save me from a burning building or throw me into bed and set my world on fire. Maybe both. I hoped both.
"Hey," I said, my voice coming out softer than I intended. Where the hell was my usual bite?
"Hello, Celeste." His voice was smooth like aged whiskey, and it did things to me that no voice should. "May I come in?"
"Depends," I shot back, leaning against the doorframe like my knees weren’t threatening to give out. "You planning to kidnap anyone tonight? Because I might have a list.” I stepped aside to let him in, my mind racing with a million questions—and maybe a few illicit fantasies. But hey, who was keeping track?
As Nash passed by, his scent—a mix of leather, pine, and some dark spice—hit me like a freight train of inappropriate thoughts. I pushed the door closed, trapping us both in my tiny room that suddenly felt way smaller. Or maybe it was just him, filling up the space with his presence, making the air thicker and my breath shorter.
"Your painting," Nash said, nodding towards the canvas like it wasn't just a bunch of grapes and leaves. "It's peaceful."
"Peaceful, huh?" I snorted. "That's one thing I'm definitely not."
"Maybe not. But it's in you. I can see it," he insisted, and damn him, his sincerity punched right through my defenses.
"Let’s not get deep, Nash. You’re standing in my room, not my psyche."
But, as he stood there looking like every dark fantasy I'd ever entertained, I couldn't help but wonder if maybe, he could handle the depths of both.
Ifollowed Nash out onto the terrace like some lovestruck idiot, except I was no Juliet and he was far from a Romeo. The scene that greeted us could've been torn from the pages of a sappy romance movie—candlelit dinner, soft music whispering through the air, all of it set against the Italian backdrop. It was disgustingly picturesque.
Nash pulled out a chair for me with that predatory grace of his. He had the kind of presence that made you want to run away or maybe closer, depending on how crazy you were feeling that night.
"Classy," I muttered, sinking into the seat. "You planning to wine and dine me before the killing begins, or is this considered part of the thrill?"
"Can't it be both?" His smile held a darkness that did funny things to my insides. And not the ha-ha kind of funny. More like the 'holy hell, I'm in over my head' funny.
As we ate, the silence between us stretched tight, filled with unspoken questions and the weight of our own brand of fucked-up desire. I poked at the food, trying to ignore the way the candlelight played across Nash's features, turning him into some Greek God.
"Look, Nash," I said finally, tossing my fork down with a clatter. "Why the hell are we doing this dance? You don't do pity fucks, I get it. So why start this... whatever this is?"
He leaned back, studying me like one of my paintings, seeing beneath the layers of brushstrokes and colors to the raw canvas beneath. "I started this little game thinking I was saving you from your dark fantasies," he confessed, his voice low and rough around the edges. "But fuck me if I didn't fall for the chaos of your soul, Celeste."
"Chaos, huh?" I snorted, but the word echoed inside me, resonating with a truth I hadn't admitted even to myself. "You make it sound like you're reading poetry, not talking about stalking me."
"Isn't it the same?" he challenged. "Both are about baring your soul, stripping down to the truest parts of yourself. And you, Celeste, have a soul that screams in colors and darkness. It's fucking beautiful."
I wanted to laugh, toss his words back in his face, but they clung to me, sinking their claws in deep. This man, this creature, saw right through the bullshit facade I'd carefully constructed. And the worst part? I liked it. I liked that he saw me—really saw me—and didn't run for the hills.
"Careful, Nash," I warned, my voice barely above a whisper. "Keep talking like that, and I might start believing you're not the monster my brain thinks you are."
