“Last night shouldn’t have happened. It was nice, don’t get me wrong, but it—or anything like that—won’t happen again.”
“ Won’t or can’t?”
“Both.”
I clamp my teeth together and seal off the argument we should be having. I have evidence she liked it. I
know
she wanted me. And I know I want her. Bad.
I’ll have to work harder, I guess. Show her what she doesn’t realize, that we could blow each other’s minds. “Then what are you sorry about?” I force out.
“This.” She presses her fingers against my chest.
I look down and find pecan-sized patches of red. Welts as fiery as hives. “It’s okay. I didn’t even notice.”
“You winced when I touched you.”
I shake my head. “No I didn’t.”
She reaches over and pats one of the welts. My jaw tenses reflexively and I force it to smooth out. Having her near feels good. Her hand on me feels right. Her voice in my ear . . . heaven.
“You winced again.”
I grab her hand. “Not because it hurts.”
She settles back on her heels, licks her lips as her gaze moves from one welt to another, then without another word, she moves back to her painting. I
know
she felt the little spark when she touched me. Her creamy skin flushed, her eyes turned dark, and her breath quickened . . . just like mine. Just like last night. How can she sit there, painting like she didn’t push her pretty pink lips to mine?
The sun comes out again, forcing her to stop. Forcing her to accept I’m still here. She folds her legs and grabs a sketch pad. She zips the nubby pencil across the page in short ticks. Every now and then she looks up, sees me still here, then drops back into her work. I could get up and leave her to it, but I am curious how long she can ignore me without breaking.
I wait probably fifteen more minutes and can’t take it. It kills me how stubborn she is. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?” She leans her sketch pad against her chest.
“Pretend I’m not here.”
“That’s hard to do.”
“Well you’re damn good at it.” Disappointment creeps through me, mostly because I let myself react when I’m trying like hell not to. “Don’t you feel the least bit guilty ignoring me?”
“When I work, I enter a quiet place. But I’m not quiet in here.” She points to her temple. “Talking slows my work. I can get it done faster if I don’t speak and I wanted to finish this while the sun was out.” She clutches the pad.
“Oh.” I rise to my feet. “Well, the sun looks like it’s here to stay so I’ll leave you to it. Sorry I disturbed you.” I pull my shirt off my shoulder.
“Wait. Don’t you want to see what I drew?”
Is she serious? She’d obviously much rather be drawing than socializing. “I’m sure it’s fantastic and—”
She turns the pad around. I scan it quickly then look over my shoulder at the house up on the hill. The Gentlemen’s Quarters. I drop into a squat and take the pad. She captured everything about the GQ in great detail. The history. The likeness to the main house. But it’s the small details that make it unique, like the arbor Dad and I built for Mother’s Day and the stump Kat used as a stage. The scary part isn’t the memories she unfolded, it’s the vines she scrawled up the columns. My vines. My tattoos. Barbs grown into the columns like they’ve been there for years, like the wood swelled around them making them just as much a part of the house as the columns themselves. My guilt snakes into every recess, every shadow of the house where I locked the last memory I have of Dad.
I drop her sketch pad beside her, stand and circle around. “It’s great. I, um . . .”
I shake my head. Drag my hand through my hair. How the fuck did she do that? I feel dirty. Like it’s me crawling over that house, me looking in the windows and marring its white brick with all this–I claw at my chest—shit.
I break into a jog.
“Quinn,” she calls.
I slow my pace, hating I let something
“ Won’t or can’t?”
“Both.”
I clamp my teeth together and seal off the argument we should be having. I have evidence she liked it. I
know
she wanted me. And I know I want her. Bad.
I’ll have to work harder, I guess. Show her what she doesn’t realize, that we could blow each other’s minds. “Then what are you sorry about?” I force out.
“This.” She presses her fingers against my chest.
I look down and find pecan-sized patches of red. Welts as fiery as hives. “It’s okay. I didn’t even notice.”
“You winced when I touched you.”
I shake my head. “No I didn’t.”
She reaches over and pats one of the welts. My jaw tenses reflexively and I force it to smooth out. Having her near feels good. Her hand on me feels right. Her voice in my ear . . . heaven.
“You winced again.”
I grab her hand. “Not because it hurts.”
She settles back on her heels, licks her lips as her gaze moves from one welt to another, then without another word, she moves back to her painting. I
know
she felt the little spark when she touched me. Her creamy skin flushed, her eyes turned dark, and her breath quickened . . . just like mine. Just like last night. How can she sit there, painting like she didn’t push her pretty pink lips to mine?
The sun comes out again, forcing her to stop. Forcing her to accept I’m still here. She folds her legs and grabs a sketch pad. She zips the nubby pencil across the page in short ticks. Every now and then she looks up, sees me still here, then drops back into her work. I could get up and leave her to it, but I am curious how long she can ignore me without breaking.
I wait probably fifteen more minutes and can’t take it. It kills me how stubborn she is. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?” She leans her sketch pad against her chest.
“Pretend I’m not here.”
“That’s hard to do.”
“Well you’re damn good at it.” Disappointment creeps through me, mostly because I let myself react when I’m trying like hell not to. “Don’t you feel the least bit guilty ignoring me?”
“When I work, I enter a quiet place. But I’m not quiet in here.” She points to her temple. “Talking slows my work. I can get it done faster if I don’t speak and I wanted to finish this while the sun was out.” She clutches the pad.
“Oh.” I rise to my feet. “Well, the sun looks like it’s here to stay so I’ll leave you to it. Sorry I disturbed you.” I pull my shirt off my shoulder.
“Wait. Don’t you want to see what I drew?”
Is she serious? She’d obviously much rather be drawing than socializing. “I’m sure it’s fantastic and—”
She turns the pad around. I scan it quickly then look over my shoulder at the house up on the hill. The Gentlemen’s Quarters. I drop into a squat and take the pad. She captured everything about the GQ in great detail. The history. The likeness to the main house. But it’s the small details that make it unique, like the arbor Dad and I built for Mother’s Day and the stump Kat used as a stage. The scary part isn’t the memories she unfolded, it’s the vines she scrawled up the columns. My vines. My tattoos. Barbs grown into the columns like they’ve been there for years, like the wood swelled around them making them just as much a part of the house as the columns themselves. My guilt snakes into every recess, every shadow of the house where I locked the last memory I have of Dad.
I drop her sketch pad beside her, stand and circle around. “It’s great. I, um . . .”
I shake my head. Drag my hand through my hair. How the fuck did she do that? I feel dirty. Like it’s me crawling over that house, me looking in the windows and marring its white brick with all this–I claw at my chest—shit.
I break into a jog.
“Quinn,” she calls.
I slow my pace, hating I let something
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