Page 22 of Wicked Little Secret

“You think so?! I wasn’t sure if it was too on-the-nose.”

“Not at all.”

“It’s supposed to portray the duality of love,” she explains. “Physical touch but also… the emotional aspect of what it means to be touched by a lover.”

“And sometimes how that love can be so close but so far,” I finish for her.

She nods. “Physically. Emotionally.”

“It’s great work. I’m sure most experts would agree. Though, admittedly, I’m no expert myself.”

“It means a lot anyway. But you seem to know about sculpture. I wouldn’t have pegged you as an art enthusiast.”

“There’s a joke there somewhere. What field do people who failed out of art school pursue?”

“Law,” she laughs.

“Would that be the case for you?”

She shakes her head so that her tight curls bounce. “Oh… no. Art school was never even an option.”

“You would be good enough.Morethan good enough.”

“Babe!” calls Samson Wicker suddenly. The brawny blond lumbers through the crowd with his heavy footsteps and letterman jacket like we’re not in the middle of a conversation.

As he shoulders his way into the small space Nyssa and I have created for ourselves, her smile loses its luster. It becomes more pained than anything.

“Samson,” she sputters. “What are you doing here?”

“Being a good boyfriend like you complained about. You know you’re always nagging me… saying I don’t show up to your stuff,” he says gruffly. “When do you go on break from this thing anyway? Let’s go do something fun.”

“You’re kidding, right? I can’t leave my art booth unmanned.”

“So, uh, have this guy watch it. You can do that, right, Professor?” The oaf acknowledges me for the first time, flashing a toothy grin.

Tension screws shut my jaw. Normally, I’m able to censor emotion from bleeding into my expression. Now is not one of those times—my glare darkens as it zeros in on Samson Wicker and Samson Wicker alone.

Hot irritation rises from the inside. Boiling and white hot.

It must come across clear as day, because even an idiot like him catches on.

His grin falters and he turns to Nyssa instead. “I’m sure you can get somebody else. I saw Macey around here somewhere. Or Katie…”

“I’m not leaving my booth,” she snaps, folding her arms. “So if you really do want to spend time with me,you’ll have to stay here with me. You know, like a good, supportive boyfriend would.”

He blows out a sigh, his sour expression lacking subtlety. “Fifteen, twenty minutes tops, babe. That’s the best I can do. I’ve got practice later.”

It takes me several more seconds to talk myself down from the ledge. The heat that has spread fast like a raging fire recedes, cooling off for the usual withdrawn, aloof mask I wear. I clear my throat to force their attention while ignoring the oaf and focusing on Nyssa.

“I should get going. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Miss Oliver.”

Nyssa frowns like she wishes to protest, though she remains silent.

It would be useless for me to try to make sense of Nyssa’s reaction as I turn and walk off. Yet I do so anyway, as I cross through the crowded festival and make my way to my car. For a minute or two to come, I sit behind the wheel and mull over the look she’d given me. The kind of look that said she wished I could stay. She wanted our conversation to continue.

Before doucheface interrupted.

How could that oaf be her boyfriend when she could barely stand his presence?

---