Page 33 of The Painter and His Poet

Deep reds tumble into velvety purple. Vibrant greens roll into decadent blues. Golden hues of orange and sunburst yellow morph into deep browns and indigo, coal black and star-glittering silver.

All whilst she sings.

The woman I’ve been so desperate to find is here, at my father’s goddamn wedding.

I can’t fucking breathe.

I

Can’t.

Fucking.

Breathe.

And to make matters infinitely worse, she’s singingThe Roseby Bette Midler, mymother’sfavourite song.

“You piece of shit,” I growl, digging into the anger roaring inside of me, holding on to it with all my might, because withoutit I’m done. I can already feel the darkness setting in, and I grind my teeth, willing myself not to pass the fuck out.

“Her voice is beautiful, isn’t it,” my father says, leaning in close, his breath cloying against my face.

“Whosevoice?” I manage to grind out as a bead of sweat trails down my temple, fighting against my body’s desire to end the torment.

“Melody’s daughter,Harlow,” he smirks, before dropping my arm and turning to greet his bride.

And at that moment, as I glance past my father and his bride, my eyes settle on the cause of my pain, the reason for my torment, my inspiration and my obsession.

Friday Love is Harlow Richards, and in just a few minutes she’s about to become my fucking step-sister.

Somehow I make it through the ceremony, my attention focussed on Friday, or should I say, Harlow, as sweat glides down my spine and sticks my shirt to my back. I function on autopilot, passing the rings to my father when asked, nodding in all the right places, barely fucking breathing.

She’s even more beautiful than I remember.

Different somehow, but still just as beautiful.

Her hair is hanging loosely in soft waves just above her shoulders, and this time a decadent purple floats within the strands, a colour my brain has concocted to match her strappy silk dress that clings to her figure in all the right places. Her shoulders and arms are bare, the sheen of her skin sparkling as though doused in glitter. She looks thinner than I remember, and I can’t help but notice the stress around her eyes.

My gaze dusts over her profile that I’ve painted dozens of times over the past few months. Long dark lashes fan against her cheeks as she casts her gaze downwards momentarily, the bridge of her nose, turned up at the tip, already embedded into my memory. Her glossy lips are parted slightly, the colour a deep pink, and only serving to remind me of all the kisses we shared that night in my apartment.

Utterly captivated, I watch as she smiles softly at something my father says, and a mixture of anger, jealousy, and lust fires through my blood, making my pulse pound in my ears, and my cock harden.

Did she know who my father was when we fucked? Of course she must have, otherwise she’d be as shocked as I am. What the fuck is going on?

But despite feeling like the ground has been ripped out from beneath me, despite feeling anger and sharp disappointment curling inside my chest, I can do nothing but stare at the gentle slope of Harlow’s shoulders, the soft curve of her breasts and stomach, at her shapely legs, the hem of her dress gently floating across her knees.

She’s so fucking beautiful.

I want to stride across the aisle, pull her into my arms and kiss the breath from her body. I want to shout and rage about the unfairness of it all. I want to punch the air and shoutI’ve found you.

Yet, I do none of those things. Instead I fight the lingering effects her voice has had on my body. Forcing myself to breathe, I remain rigid, my jaw muscles screaming at me from gritting my teeth so hard.

Her cheeks pink up, aware of my intense stare but refusing to acknowledge it as her slim fingers fiddle with the white ribbon hanging from her bouquet. If I didn’t know her better, I would assume that she’s just enjoying the moment, but I can see howtensely she holds her body, how her breath is slightly laboured, snagging the material of her dress over her pert nipples as she takes each breath.

She’s as aware of me as I am of her, and I’ve no idea if that’s a good or a bad thing.

How the fuck can this be my reality?

She’s the daughter of my dad’s new wife.

---