Page 106 of The Painter and His Poet

I don’t have the energy to argue, so I sit quietly as he drops to his knees and gently slips off my heels, placing them to theside of the bath. Pushing upright, he takes my hands in his warm palms and helps me to stand.

“Turn around, Harlow, I need to unzip your dress.”

I nod, following his instructions. Ever so gently Sterling removes my dress, cupping my elbow as I step out of the material. Then his fingers trace over my skin as he unclasps my bra and removes my panties. Completely naked before him, he brushes past me and turns on the shower.

“You okay?” he murmurs, pulling off his tie then unbuttoning his shirt.

“I’ve been better,” I reply, giving him a shaky smile.

I watch him as he removes his clothes, and places them on the vanity. My gaze traces over his bare chest and his growing erection. Heat climbs up my cheeks.

“Apologies, I can’t help how my body reacts to you. Please ignore it, Harlow,” he says, giving me a rueful grin as he takes my hand and leads me into the shower.

Warm water cascades over us both, and I heave out a tremulous breath. “Thank you for looking after me,” I whisper. “It’s not something I’m used to.”

Sterling frowns before gently tugging me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me as he presses a tender kiss against my forehead. “I’m here for you, Harlow.”

“I’m going to miss this,” I mumble against his neck.

“Miss this?” he questions, drawing back slightly.

“On Monday I’m travelling to London with Robert and mom for that interview they’re going to do for a magazine article. Robert gave it the go ahead, and I finalised the details just yesterday. We’re going to be away for a few days, maybe even a week as we’ve tacked on a meeting with her agent and another newspaper.”

“A few days? Can’t you get out of it?”

I shake my head, feeling my heart sink at his disappointment. “I’d love nothing more than to spend that time with you, but this is my job. I have to go.”

“Fuck, Harlow. I’m going to go crazy without you,” he replies, pulling me back into his arms.

“Believe me, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than with you. You make me feel wanted, cared for. You make me feelsafe, Sterling. Thank you for looking after me tonight.”

Neither of us say another word, and as we stand beneath the shower, wrapped in each other's arms, I push away the thought of my stalker, allowing the rhythmic sound of the water to drown out the unease creeping in. In Sterling’s arms I do feel safe, but deep down, a small, unsettling voice whispers that I’m anything but.

TWENTY-NINE

STERLING

Placing my paintbrush on the table, I take a step back and look at the canvas before me. It’s another rendition of Harlow, the one I started the night we returned from Bandits Bar a few weeks ago. Ordinarily I don’t stop painting once I start, my synesthesia usually forcing me to work on the painting until it’s complete, but this piece has taken me weeks to get to this point, and that in itself is an anomaly.

When Harlow left for London with our parents a week ago, I returned to the studio, needing to lose myself in my art to escape the emptiness I felt in her absence. I haven’t left since. The only breaks I’ve taken were to eat the meals Stephanie insisted I have, to relieve myself, and to grab a few hours of sleep when exhaustion finally caught up with me. The blisters on my hands, the paint on my skin and in my hair—it's all proof of how much I've missed her. In a couple of hours, she’ll be home, and I’m nearly frantic with the need to see her again, to hold her, to kiss her, to lose myself in her.

Tilting my head to the side, I study the vibrant colours in the soft morning light. The brush strokes are still fresh in some places, if a little haphazard, as though I can't quite decide howto capture the lightness that has slowly crept into my life since Harlow’s been in it.

“Beautiful,” I mutter, letting my fingers trace the contours of Harlow’s face. The same face I’ve memorised in the quiet moments when we’re together, when the world outside falls away. I think about the way she laughs, the way her eyes soften when she looks at me, how completely free she is when she sings. I think about the way her body reacts to my touch as though every brush of my fingers against her skin ignites a fire within her, something I feel only too keenly myself.

Her absence these past few days has made everything feel off-kilter. The silence in the studio, the emptiness I feel—hell, even the light feels different without her.

I pull my hand away, taking in a deep breath. The air smells of paint and sweat, a scent I’ve always associated with creation. But today, it’s tainted with the gnawing ache of impatience. I need her back. I need her in my arms where she belongs.

Behind me, the door creaks open, and I turn, half-expecting to see her standing there, as if my thoughts alone could summon her here. But it’s just a draft, and I let out a short laugh at myself, shaking my head. I’m losing it.

My amusement is interrupted as my phone buzzes on the table, and I glance at the screen, seeing Ben’s name. It’s been a while since we last talked. He’s been busy with the bar, and trying to get a record deal for Princetown Bandits, and I’ve been busy painting in my studio distracting myself until Harlow’s return.

Snatching it up I answer. “Ben, what’s up?”

“I’ve got some bad news,” he instantly replies.

My spine stiffens. “What kind of bad news?”

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