Page 61 of The Consequence of Loving Me

He tosses something to the ground as I barge through the door. His body flies off the bed so fast he’s basically a blur of motion—a blur with a pretty damn good six-pack. I haven’t laid eyes on those muscles on him for a bit now.

But I shove that out of my mind as I inch my way closer to him, not even worrying about hiding my fury. “You bought my paintings?” I’m so angry that I see red. When I took my pieces to Clementine’s gallery, I didn’t expect anyone I know to buy one of them—let alone all of them.

He wasn’t supposed to intervene. They were my imperfections. Mine.

Even though some of them weren’t my own, I painted them. Labored over them.

Hell, I even cried over them.

He wasn’t supposed to freaking buy them.

His hands go up defensively. “You took them to a gallery to sell.”

I sigh, the air leaving my body in a blast that both of us can hear. “To sell to a stranger. Not to you, Maverick! It can’t be you.” My hands are on my hips, adrenaline pumping through my body. I haven’t been this pissed in a long time. It seems like a betrayal that he bought those paintings without telling me, though I can’t tell why.

“Well, I now own them, Veronica. So, you can be pissed at me, but that won’t change the fact that they’re mine.”

I want to slap him.

God, do I want to fucking slap him.

My fingers itch to strike that perfectly chiseled cheek of his. “I’m so mad at you right now! They weren’t yours to buy! How dare you come in and buy something so personal to me?!” My foot stomps and I know I look like a fucking child—but I don’t care. I don’t know what else to do with all the rage filling my body right now.

“What would you have preferred, Veronica? That some random person hang them up in their house as a fucking talking piece at some boring dinner they’re hosting with their asshole country club friends? The price tags were high. I wasn’t about to let some pretentious asshole who didn’t know anything about you hang those up on their wall as a fucking accent piece.”

My eyes focus on the vein pulsing at his neck—an indicator that his anger is also escalating.

“It wasn’t your decision to make!” I seethe, taking a step closer to him. A step that puts me so close to him I could reach out and run my hand over his abdominal muscles if I dared.

But right now, the only touch I crave to give him is a slap on that infuriatingly perfect sculpted cheek.

I feel violated. Violated that he took it upon himself to buy things so personal to me.

It doesn’t matter that some of the paintings were of him; it matters that he knew how personal they were to me.

He must have been able to tell the morning I put them in my trunk that I never wanted to see them again.

It’s violating, because part of me woke up when Clementine told me who bought them.

If I’m being honest with myself, I’m not pissed that he bought them. I’m pissed at how my heart did an odd, disgusting flutter in my chest when I found out the buyer—of all of them—was him. I’m well aware of the price tags that were on each of them. And now that I know he has them in his possession, it makes me feel completely unhinged.

“Half of them were my god damn face. What do you mean it wasn’t my place?” he yells back.

I can tell he’s pissed now. His dark eyebrows are drawn together on his face, those long fingers of his tap against his thigh so quick they’re almost a blur.

“I never wanted to see them again!” I take a step closer to him, one that would have put me chest-to-chest to him if he hadn’t just taken a step back.

“Then don’t see them again.” His voice is condescending. As if it’s such an obvious answer. He keeps taking steps backward until his back makes a soft thump against the wall.

“I can’t just pretend you don’t have them, Maverick. They are mine. Mine—and only mine! They aren’t something that you come in and buy because you’re trying to save me from myself or help me with money or whatever the hell your motives were behind it.” I put my hands on my hips, focusing on taking deep breaths in and out because the thumping in my chest is too erratic right now. I scan around his bedroom—a room I’ve never been in until now.

It’s surprisingly clean. Boring, but clean.

“I’m not trying to save you, Veronica!” His hands fly up and he yanks at his hair in frustration. His chest dives in and out, over and over again. “Jesus Christ, if you could get out of your own head for two seconds, you would realize I didn’t do this for you. I did it for me. Me.” His knuckles pound against his bare chest. “I was being fucking selfish because the thought of some asshole hanging those up on their wall drove me insane. After I saw the emotion on your face after you spent all night painting them, I couldn’t see them end up somewhere random. Something about the way you looked at me when you allowed me to see your work broke me in half, okay? I didn’t buy them for you. I bought them for me. Because I wanted to look at them and remember the moment I saw a piece of you that you kept hidden from the rest of the world. Are you happy now?” His shoulders sag in defeat.

I don’t breathe a word at first. My head spins with his confession. I want him to look at me right now, so I can read the emotion in the depths of his eyes.

But he stares at something across the room. His eyes look in any direction but mine. He hasn’t looked at me for days now. I’m not the only one that’s been playing the cold shoulder game.

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