Page 104 of If You Give an Artist a Killer Muse

“Do they not have stars where you’re from?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Rurik sighs, “I just never had the time or thought of looking up at the sky and just staring at it.”

Damn. I feel bad for him.

“Maybe I’ll take you someday.” Not a maybe. I will take him someday.

He just makes a dismissive sound, “It’s fine.”

“So what’s your favorite color?” I change the subject. I push a plate of my truffle fries, noticing how he eyes them despite saying he isn’t hungry.

He stares at the plate for a second before giving in with a sigh. “I don’t have one. They change from time to time.”

He bites into a fry and double dips in the sauce. Normally, I would throw a fit and go on a tangent about bacteria, but at this point, we are well beyond being cautious about exchanging bodily fluids.

“Really?” I ask as I greedily watch him lick his hands. God. Fucking sexy. “But as an artist, shouldn’t you have one?”

“What does being an artist have to do with anything?” Rurik asks, shaking his head. “I mean if I have to choose... Black. Black would be my favorite.”

“Same!” I beam, sitting up eagerly. “Only because black goes well with pretty much everything when I’m putting together my outfits.”

“Oh,” he says dryly. “I thought it’s because it matches your soul.”

My jaw drops, and I stare at him. “Wait.”

He looks up from the fries and raises a brow. “What?”

“Was that a joke?” I grin, reaching forward to poke his hand playfully. “Did I die and woke up in heaven, or did Rurik just make a joke?”

“Shut up, or I’ll leave,” he mutters, his cheeks reddening.

I chuckle, leaning back to watch him stuff his face with the fries I ordered. It’s cool, I don’t mind. Which is kind of freaking me the fuck out because I never like sharing my food. Not even to Nat.

Fuck. I must really like this asshole.

“So, how’s it going with your second showcase?” I ask, trying to get him to keep talking.

I love having him here with me. I think this is the longest we’ve gone with him not walking away from me or him orgasming because of me.

He shrugs, “Fine. No set date yet, but I have a few canvases finished.”

“That’s awesome!” I say, nodding encouragingly. “I’m sure you’ll sell out again.”

I know this because I made sure to purchase all of his paintings to have them all.

Who gives a shit if Old Lady wanted Canvas #2 because it would have looked beautiful above her hospice bed? She wouldn’t have needed it in a few months, so that it would have been a waste. It’s mine now.

Alright, I’m not that much of a bitch. I only snagged the paintings. He'd only crafted five of them. But damn… I genuinely adore every single one. They're my solace, especially when I'm home alone.

Which is pretty much every damn day.

Gazing at his paintings eases the loneliness. Especially the painting of his little slice of paradise. His sculptures and photography pictures had sold on their own by other people because he’s just that fucking talented.

See? I can share what’s mine.

Except not Rurik, though.

But Rurik’s face drops, and his shoulders rise as he shrugs nonchalantly. “I think I was just lucky for my first showcase. I doubt it’ll happen again.”

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