Page 18 of Taking A Chance

“Or about sixty men weren’t good enough for you. And that’s a pretty low number considering how many truly undeserving people there are in this city alone,” I say.

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to make me feel better or mocking me,” she says, her body still, face holding a confused expression.

“I’m trying to make you feel better, but if you can’t tell, I’d say I failed.” I laugh.

Cora laughs too; it’s small and breathy. Then, her face returns to a melancholy state. Is it wrong to admire the beauty in her sadness? Can I tell her she’s beautiful when she’s sad without it coming off terribly wrong? I consider this for a moment before dismissing the idea of telling her.

Ryan tells me all the time that one of the reasons I eventually strike out with the women I date is because I get weird and tell them stuff like this. Not that I’m trying to score with Cora, but I’m on thin ice with her as it is.

I should leave well enough unspoken.

12

Cora

Time is loston me as I sit here, unable to discern if ten minutes or two hours has gone by. Realistically, I know it’s somewhere between those two figures. More than ten, less than one hundred and twenty, which doesn’t seem all that great in terms of judgment. I’ve made every attempt to sit as still as possible like Declan’s instructed, and I think I’ve done pretty well at it so far. No complaints from him, anyway.

I’ve been filling any silence between us by studying his face as he paints. He’s focused and serious, and while he’s always struck me as a serious guy, this is different. It’s a side I didn’t even know existed.

“I think I’m done for the night,” he says. “Have to let some of this dry for layering.”

“So I can move now?” I ask, making absolute sure I won’t mess anything up.

“Yep,” he says, followed by a small laugh.

I arch my back and stretch my arms up overhead, bending and cracking my neck. Sitting in one position for so long really stiffens the body. I stand and turn, looking behind me to a far wall, and something catches my eye. I tilt my head to the side, taking in the sight and blinking several times.

“Is that me?” I point to the half-finished canvas and stare at him in disbelief.

Declan begins rubbing the back of his neck, like he’s nervous. “Uh, yeah.”

Blinking back in the direction of the canvas, I trace my eyes over the cascade of mascara running down my painted cheeks.He painted me crying?When the hell did—

Wait.“Is this from the other night? When I was practically assaulted?” I question.

Declan nods, not lending an actual audible answer.

“You painted me after I was fucking sobbing? You thought to yourself,wow, I think I will paint her terrified and a complete mess,and that sounded like a good idea to you?”

“It’s not like that,” he says.

“Then what’s it like?” I press.

“It’s hard to explain,” he says, rubbing his neck some more.

“What do you think gives you the right to paint my vulnerable moment like this? And without my permission?” I ask, voice stern.

Declan is quiet behind me for several long moments. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I couldn’t help myself.”

A snort of derision escapes me, unfiltered and loud, and it cuts through the silence abruptly. “I bet the guy who groped me at my door would say the same thing.” I march over to the unfinished painting, tuck it under my arm, and then walk out of his apartment back to mine.

It isn’t until I’m in my apartment and no longer fuming that I realize I’m still in my fucking underwear and his suit jacket. I just walked from his apartment to mine in my panties. Hell, I just yelled at him in my panties.Oh my god. Great job, Cora. Stellar fucking plan.And in true dumbass fashion, I still have his jacket and my clothes are in his bathroom.Awesome.

After I stop pacing and calm myself down a bit, I study the painting more closely, bringing it toward me. I trace over the lines of myself on the canvas—now immortalized in paint—and the black pools, dissecting it all. The mascara streaks are alarmingly accurate. If I wasn’t so mad, I’d be impressed. Maybe it’s possible to be both.

I need to talk to someone about this; someone rational, logical. I can’t talk to Claire. She’ll hear he painted me, and the rest of the story won’t matter. To her, it’ll be the most romantic gesture she’s ever heard of. I can’t call Lyla. She’s been begging me to take Declan up on his offer to come over since the beginning. Of course, that was when we both assumed it was for sex.

I pick up the phone and dial the only person I can think of who might be impartial. Harper—my new sister-in-law—is practical enough to see my side of this.I think. I hope.

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