Page 118 of Look, Don't Touch

“Yes.” The corners of his lips kick up.

“And you came, just like that?” Before the words have fully fled my mouth, I realize the error in them.

He’s a gentleman and doesn’t smirk at what could be construed as a double entendre. My cheeks heat anyway.

“Arlo asks. I do.” He shrugs as though it’s the easiest equation in the world.

My head tilts, curious but a little too befuddled to speak.

Hotaru stands with a dancer’s grace and moves to the crate. He hefts it, turns, and sets it at my feet.

“He wanted to give it to you this evening, but he’s suddenly the most impatient man I’ve met.” Hota produces a small pry bar from his back pocket.

Realization dawns. “Oh, the painting for the auction.”

Shrewd eyes meet mine. There’s a smirk on his face. “That one will be delivered to the venue Saturday morning, along with the rest of the silent auction items from storage.”

My mouth falls open. I snap it closed and narrow my gaze.

“Boss’s orders.”

I stare at the stunning man standing before me. There’s nothing meek or mild about him. “You strike me as the type to give orders, not take them.”

“Don’t be fooled, Hailey. I’m very good at taking orders, if the person giving them is worthy of dispensing them.” He winks.

My cheeks go hot once more. “Are you a sub?” I whisper the words, scared of their impact.

“I’m whatever I need to be.”

“You’re a chameleon.”

His shoulders bob. He slips the metal in the seam of the wood, shoves and pries. The top groans. He shifts the pivot point and repeats the process. Still, my eyes stay on his face. When the top comes off, he finally looks at me.

A person who finds they need to shift and mold themselves a great deal depending on their surroundings, usually learned this trait out of necessity. An alcoholic father or an emotionally abusive mother. My heart pinches, but I don’t let an ounce of pity show. He wouldn’t appreciate it.

I wonder what brought Hota to that boarding school all those years ago. I wonder where his family is now. I wonder what connects Hota and Arlo beyond being roommates once upon a time.

“Even chameleons have a true color. Do you know what yours is?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Good.”

“Now pull,” he demands, tipping the contents toward me.

I reach inside and do as I’m told while he wrenches the crate away. My wide eyes blink at not one but two wrapped canvases. I let my gaze jump to Hota’s. He points back at the contents.

With eager fingers, I slip the first from its wrapping. My gasp is loud in the quiet room. The haze of tears is back. I blink furiously, so I can clearly see the Lovers, negative space painting by Jarek Puczel. The painting I confessed in front of. The painting that depicted us just a few short months ago.

“Keep going.” Hota holds the first painting where I can see it and jerks his chin toward the second.

I rip the paper from the second painting.

“Oh my God!” I slap one hand over my mouth and stare at a second painting, clearly by the same artist. Only in this one, the lovers press their foreheads together. Their eyes are level, as well as their noses and mouths. They are mostly complete, save for the definition of each feature. Most importantly, they are touching.

“It’s called Lovers Connect.” Hota takes both paintings, props them up against the coffee table, then hands me a familiar envelope with familiar writing. I take it, and then he gathers the crate and heads for the door.

“Thank you!”

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