already.
She turned to look out the living room window at the cityscape she had always loved. But it looked bleak and lonely to her now. As empty as she felt on the inside.
The only other thing she’d done other than huddling under a blanket was drawing—she’d been drawing him all week. The table in her tiny kitchen was littered with sketches in charcoal and pencil. She’d tried to capture the musculature of his big body, the details of his strong hands, the flawless lines of his tattoo. Mostly she’d tried to draw his face. But she couldn’t seem to get the eyes right. And every time she tried she’d start crying again.
Finally she’d set up her easel in the living room close to the bay window and painted, just a series of strokes in burnt umber and highlighted with white. The result wasn’t very good. But it captured him a little better than the flatter sketches did. Still, his eyes refused to come alive for her.
She didn’t think she’d ever feel Adam again, alive and warm and commanding her heart as much as her body.
Never again.
What had happened to forever? Had that ever been more than fantasy? An illusion she’d only ever hoped for in those fleeting moments when she’d dared?
Shit.
She dropped her gaze. She still had paint under her fingernails. She hadn’t bothered to give her hands a good scrub. Hadn’t bathed in a day or two. She wasn’t really sure how long it had been since she’d done anything more than throw on an old pair of paint-splattered jeans and a warm thermal top, twisting her long hair up into a loose ponytail. She felt like a mess, inside and out. And she couldn’t get warm no matter how high she turned up the furnace, no matter how many layers of clothing she put on. The cold came from deep inside her, like an internal stratum of ice.
So this was what a broken heart felt like. She didn’t much like it. In fact, it was fucking awful.
She pulled a pillow to her body, telling herself to pull it together. She had a gallery show next month and she was behind in her work. But she felt completely devoid of inspiration. She could paint nothing but him.
Adam.
She sighed, shook her head, and jumped at the knock at her door. Her heart leaped in her chest as she moved across the living room into the hall, and opened the door.
“Hi…um…are you Skye Ballard? I think I got your mail.” A gawky young man with dark-framed glasses and a Charlie Brown sweater stood there, several envelopes in his hand.
“Oh, yes, that’s me.” Why did her heart drop into her stomach? Had she really expected he would come after her? It would more likely have been Esme trying to drag her out of the house again. “Uh, thanks.”
She took the mail, turned, and swung the door behind her. It didn’t close.
She could smell him. She’d know his scent anywhere. She whirled around, her legs going weak already, and he was there. Adam. She could hardly believe it.
The mail dropped onto the wood floor, but she didn’t care. What could he possibly want? And why did he have to look so damn beautiful, making her head spin?
Oh, God.
She put a hand to her hair self-consciously.
“Skye.”
Even the sound of his voice made her quiver all over. She had to get a hold of herself. “Adam…What are you doing here?”
“I had to see you, talk to you.”
She couldn’t figure out what to say, so she stepped aside and let him in. Her pulse was racing with fear, with a yearning so strong she could hardly stand it. She led him into the living room, gestured for him to sit down, but he went immediately to the painting by the window.
“It’s me.”
She bit her lip. “Yes.”
“You’re very good.”
“It’s awful. It’s not…I can’t get it right.”
When he turned his gaze was full of emotion. Shocking, to see his face like that. She was shaking. “No, Skye. You had it right all along.”
“What do you mean?”
Two long strides and he was right in front of her. He took her shoulders in his
She turned to look out the living room window at the cityscape she had always loved. But it looked bleak and lonely to her now. As empty as she felt on the inside.
The only other thing she’d done other than huddling under a blanket was drawing—she’d been drawing him all week. The table in her tiny kitchen was littered with sketches in charcoal and pencil. She’d tried to capture the musculature of his big body, the details of his strong hands, the flawless lines of his tattoo. Mostly she’d tried to draw his face. But she couldn’t seem to get the eyes right. And every time she tried she’d start crying again.
Finally she’d set up her easel in the living room close to the bay window and painted, just a series of strokes in burnt umber and highlighted with white. The result wasn’t very good. But it captured him a little better than the flatter sketches did. Still, his eyes refused to come alive for her.
She didn’t think she’d ever feel Adam again, alive and warm and commanding her heart as much as her body.
Never again.
What had happened to forever? Had that ever been more than fantasy? An illusion she’d only ever hoped for in those fleeting moments when she’d dared?
Shit.
She dropped her gaze. She still had paint under her fingernails. She hadn’t bothered to give her hands a good scrub. Hadn’t bathed in a day or two. She wasn’t really sure how long it had been since she’d done anything more than throw on an old pair of paint-splattered jeans and a warm thermal top, twisting her long hair up into a loose ponytail. She felt like a mess, inside and out. And she couldn’t get warm no matter how high she turned up the furnace, no matter how many layers of clothing she put on. The cold came from deep inside her, like an internal stratum of ice.
So this was what a broken heart felt like. She didn’t much like it. In fact, it was fucking awful.
She pulled a pillow to her body, telling herself to pull it together. She had a gallery show next month and she was behind in her work. But she felt completely devoid of inspiration. She could paint nothing but him.
Adam.
She sighed, shook her head, and jumped at the knock at her door. Her heart leaped in her chest as she moved across the living room into the hall, and opened the door.
“Hi…um…are you Skye Ballard? I think I got your mail.” A gawky young man with dark-framed glasses and a Charlie Brown sweater stood there, several envelopes in his hand.
“Oh, yes, that’s me.” Why did her heart drop into her stomach? Had she really expected he would come after her? It would more likely have been Esme trying to drag her out of the house again. “Uh, thanks.”
She took the mail, turned, and swung the door behind her. It didn’t close.
She could smell him. She’d know his scent anywhere. She whirled around, her legs going weak already, and he was there. Adam. She could hardly believe it.
The mail dropped onto the wood floor, but she didn’t care. What could he possibly want? And why did he have to look so damn beautiful, making her head spin?
Oh, God.
She put a hand to her hair self-consciously.
“Skye.”
Even the sound of his voice made her quiver all over. She had to get a hold of herself. “Adam…What are you doing here?”
“I had to see you, talk to you.”
She couldn’t figure out what to say, so she stepped aside and let him in. Her pulse was racing with fear, with a yearning so strong she could hardly stand it. She led him into the living room, gestured for him to sit down, but he went immediately to the painting by the window.
“It’s me.”
She bit her lip. “Yes.”
“You’re very good.”
“It’s awful. It’s not…I can’t get it right.”
When he turned his gaze was full of emotion. Shocking, to see his face like that. She was shaking. “No, Skye. You had it right all along.”
“What do you mean?”
Two long strides and he was right in front of her. He took her shoulders in his
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