Page 111 of Reluctantly You

He’s silent, and I let out a slow breath. “Fuck you, Gideon. Fuck you. You can’t just… you can’t…”

“But I can and I did.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and feel something shift inside of me. “Come over. Come the fuck over. Right. Now.”

He’s silent a moment longer and then I hear him murmur, “Be there in five.”

When he arrives, I’m fucking pissed, my chest heaving, my fists clenched. He can’t fucking do this. He can’t make me hope, make me dream.

Dreams only get crushed, destroyed. Spat and shit on.

Painting is for pussies.

“What the fuck is this?” I growl and stare at him as he strides inside my house, his eyes landing on the canvas he painted that I hung on my wall, near my entrance. Just like he did for me.

“You can’t just buy me shit,” I say and his eyes move from his painting to me once more.

“I can buy you whatever I want.”

I scoff and turn my head away, feeling my cheeks flame. This asshole. He can’t…he just can’t.

“I can. And I did. Now, let’s set it all up. I think in your living room would be a good place for the easel. Lots of light.”

I glower at him. “I’m not setting up shit.”

He smirks at me. “You are.” He loosens his tie and starts to unbutton his shirt.

“I’d like you to paint me first.”

“I’m not fucking painting you. I’m gonna start with a bowl of fruit or something.”

He chuckles lowly and pulls his lower lip between his teeth. “Fruit. Hm? A banana? A peach?”

I scowl. That asshole.

“I’ll arrange something. Hold on.”

My eyes follow him as he traipses into the kitchen and a moment later returns with a bowl stuffed with fruit. An apple, a banana, and a zucchini.

“Not all fucking fruit,” I murmur.

“It works.”

He sets it down on the table and then walks away, shucking his shirt off as he goes.

“I’m going to read in the bedroom. When you’re done, come join me.”

I watch him go, my heart thundering in my chest.

Fuck him. I’m not painting a thing. Not a fucking thing.

Chapter Nineteen

Gideon

Hours later, he enters the bedroom, fingers dark from paint, his hair a mess.

“Did you finish?” I ask, and he nods, swallowing roughly.

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