Page 53 of Resisting Mr Black

A white polo shirt fits his upper body like a glove and charcoal grey chinos hang from his waist, fitting snugly around his firm behind. His black hair is slicked back and to the side, and he’s back to looking his usual preened self. I want him.

He flings back the curtains letting the sunlight flood through the windows into the bedroom.

“I’ve been thinking…” He stands staring out at the street with his back to me for a few seconds, rubbing his palms together as if he’s thinking carefully about what he’s about to say. “You should bring some of your clothes and things and leave them here,” he nods towards the wardrobe. “There’s plenty of room in there.

I freeze mid-rub, and my eyes slide to the wardrobe. I’m blindsided. I feel like doing a little dance at what this gesture could possibly mean, but I remind myself that I can’t get carried away. Okay, so maybe it’s not JUST about the sex. It still doesn’t mean it’s going to lead to a happily-ever-after.

“So… we’ll be doing this again?” I ask.

He settles down beside me on the end of the bed. “Yes, and again, and again, and again, and again, and tonight I’m taking you out to that dinner we never got round to having. I’ll pick you up from yours at seven.”

He’s grinning like a fool and so am I.

Have I ever felt this happy?

This stuff is intoxicating.

He squeezes my right thigh. “Come on, we need to get you back home. If we stay here too long, you’ll be naked again.”

Fifteen

Instead of waiting outside in the car like a normal person, Art insists on coming up to the apartment whilst I get ready, like some over-protective bodyguard.

I change into a short-sleeved pastel pink blouse, black capri trousers, and ballet pumps, apply minimal make-up, and pull my hair up into a high ponytail, ready for the day. When I walk out of the bedroom, he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, idly scrolling through his phone. Something’s different. I hadn’t noticed before because I went straight into the bedroom to get ready, but now I’m further down the hallway I can see something’s changed. The space on the wall beside my dad’s painting is normally empty, but today a framed picture is hanging there instead.

I frown and stop in my tracks. “How did this get here?” My eyes swing to Art who’s barely suppressing a smile. “Have you got something to do with this?”

He pushes himself away from the counter and sidles up behind me, sliding his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. “It’s a gift. Look closer.”

I tilt my head and peer at the picture, admiring the skilful flicks of the oil and how the artist has worked the paint to achieve the right effect. It’s an old-fashioned sailing ship caught in a squall out at sea and is all greys and blues and stormy skies. It’s very atmospheric and looks similar to the works of J. M. W. Turner, Dad’s favourite artist. My eyes travel down to the swirly brushstrokes of the artist’s signature on the bottom right edge. I blink, drawing my head closer and my heart freezes mid-beat. It can’t be. It’s impossible.

“That’s not what I think it is, is it?” I murmur unable to tear my eyes away.

“That depends on what you think it is?”

“It’s not a… it can’t be a… a Turner.”

“It’s only a print.”

My mouth gapes open in shock as I stare in disbelief at the large, framed print. The gold Rococo style wooden frame itself must have cost a fortune. “You didn’t have to buy me this. It’s huge and no doubt really expensive.”

He gives a dismissive shrug. “It’s just money. It’s what it represents that’s invaluable. Your dad meant a lot to you, and this meant a lot to your dad. Do you think he would have liked it?”

And that does it. My face crumples at the mention of Dad and hot tears blur my vision and run down my cheeks. His gesture is over the top but so sweet and from a good place and no one has ever done anything like this before for me. He’s lost his dad too, and he gets it. There’s a void in my life that will never be replaced, all I can do is remember him.

He slides his arms around my back and gently turns me around to face him, pulling me close. I sob against his chest as he soothes me and strokes my hair. After a few moments my tears subside, and I tilt my face to his. God knows what I must look like.

Brown eyes, full of concern, hold mine. “I’m sorry I made you sad. I bought you this because I thought it would make you happy.”

“It does,” I sniff. “Thank you. It’s made me very happy; it’s just brought it all back. I’m touched. This is such a lovely gesture. You’re right, Dad would love it, but you still didn’t need to buy it.”

He cups my face in his hands and wipes the damp tears from my cheeks with his thumbs. “Yes, I did. When you look at this you’ll think of your dad and have happy memories. It’s important to have something to remember them by, because that’s all we have left of them.”

Something clicks inside my head and my eyes slide to the leather Rolex on his wrist that doesn’t fit with the rest of his image. “Your watch,” I say slowly. “It’s an older design. Did it belong to your dad?”

His lips twitch into a thin smile. “He wore it every day. When I went to visit him in the hospice the day he died, he took it off his wrist and handed it to me. I wear it all the time. It reminds me where I’ve come from.”

We stand admiring the painting for a few moments in silence. He curls his arms around my back and rests a hand on my shoulder gently stroking his fingertips across the base of my neck. “What happened to your dad?”

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