Page 69 of The Painter and His Poet

“Harlow, wait. Talk to me,please,” he begs, rounding the counter, reaching for me. But there’s something in his eyes, something that makes me shudder. It looks a hell of a lot like guilt. His touch sends me spiralling, the cool feel of his palm seeping through my jumper and into my skin as I flinch from his touch.

“Don’t touch me!” I hiss, taking a step back. He takes another step towards me, the guilty look on his face turning to concern.

“Harlow, what is it?”

“I…” My voice gets caught in my throat as he takes another step closer, crowding me against the kitchen island. The bottom of my spine hits the marble countertop, and I let out a frightened yelp as his hands rest on either side of me.

“Is this about the other night in the pool?” he questions, but there’s something careful about the way he asks me, as though he’s trying to gauge my reaction.

I shake my head. “Who were you texting?” I blurt out.

“Texting?” he asks, cocking his head, something close to relief fluttering across his features.

It confuses me. If he was my stalker, if it is him sending me those messages just now, and I caught him in the act, why would he be reacting this way, as though relieved?

“Yes, who were you messaging a moment ago. Who, Sterling?” I bite out, my heart pounding so loudly that I can barely hear myself think.

“Dalton,” he replies immediately.

“Dalton?” I parrot back.

“Yes, Dalton. He texted me about his engagement party coming up.”

“To Daisy,” I reply, frowning now. My head is all over the place. I know that isn’t a lie given my conversation with my mother, but I was convinced it was him sending me the messages.

“That’s right, to Daisy. You know then?” he asks, something flickering across his face as his eyes drop to my mouth, and my teeth buried into my bottom lip.

“My mother called me in the early hours of this morning and told me about the engagement party, and the wedding, and the fact I haven’t been invited to either,” I reply, and then before I can stop myself, because I need to know if he’s telling the truth, I say, “Can I see?”

“See?” he replies, a sudden rash of anger written across his face.

“The messages. Can I see them?” I insist, forcing myself to ask once again. His anger is warranted because who demands to see someone’s phone like this? But I have to know.

He hesitates briefly before nodding. “Sure. Here,” he replies, pulling out his phone and holding it up to his face so it opens, before passing it to me.

I take it from him, his fingers brushing over mine briefly, my skin tingling from the contact. I’m still afraid, still having lingering doubts, but my body doesn’t seem to react in the same way at all. Pressing on the messages icon, I scroll to the first message which is clearly from Dalton.

The engagement party is this Saturday evening. 7pm. Black tie. You’re welcome to bring a plus one. Harlow perhaps?

My cheeks heat as I read his response, aware that Sterling is studying me as I do. His head is tipped down, and his hand has crept closer to my side, his thumb brushing against my hip with the movement.

I’ll be there. I’m not sure bringing Harlow as my plus one would be a good idea. I’ve been keeping my distance.

A whole dose of relief, a shedload of guilt, and a sharp pang of disappointment hit me all at once. He isn’t my stalker. He doesn’t want to take me as his guest to his friend’s engagement party. And worse, he’s been avoiding me. That hurts. It shouldn’t, but it does.

“I’m sorry,” I apologise, not knowing what else to say. Because I am sorry, for believing that he could be my stalker, that he’s even capable of scaring me like that, for making him feel like he has to tiptoe around me. This is his home, not mine.

He takes his phone from my hand, slipping it back into his pocket. “Harlow, do you want to tell me what’s going on?” The anger before has disappeared, replaced instead with concern.

“Nothing’s going on. I just…” I begin, feeling so embarrassed that I can barely look him in the eye. “Like I said, my mom called to tell me last night, and I guess… I just thought that maybe… Sorry, I’m just feeling a little…” My voice trails off, I don’t have a good excuse as to why I demanded to see his phone, other than the truth, and that’s not something I wish to share right now, or ever.

“Hey, listen. I know how that text might sound, but I–”

I tip my head down, more heat creeping into my cheeks as I avoid his gaze. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me, and you have every right to be angry. I haven’t made things easy. This is your home and I’ve made you feel like you have to keep your distance. It was also incredibly rude of me to ask to see your phone. My mom just got into my head a bit…” I mumble, and whilst that’s partly the truth, it’s not the whole truth.

“I’m not angry at you, Harlow,” he says roughly.

“You’re not?”

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