Page 12 of The Painter and His Poet

“Yes,” I respond, panting at the burning lust, at the frantic way our breaths mingle.

We’re both trembling, fumbling with my buttons, and our heads bump in our haste to remove my jacket. I let out a soft, gasping laugh.

“Shit, sorry.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, stepping back, eyes widening as I reach up and rub my forehead. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. Not at all–”

But as I reach for him again, he abruptly turns on his heel and strides towards the sofa, leaving me quaking, reeling from his absence. My knees buckle, and my hands slap against the wall to steady myself. What is he doing now? I breathe heavily as he takes another step away from me, and another until he twists on his feet, and his arse hits the sofa.

“We should talk first. Get to know each other, yeah?” he offers, flicking his gaze away, looking as overwhelmed as I feel.

Truthfully, I want to say no, that I want to continue kissing him. I want to explain that if we stop now I might lose my courage, but I don’t. Instead I clear my throat.

“Sure, okay. Let’s talk. I can do that.”

Really though, can I? I’m not sure I can string a sensible sentence together right at this moment. I’m a ball of fizzing energy, of trembling lust, and I have to take a steadying breath to centre myself a little.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, jerking his chin towards me, indicating I should remove my jacket.

“Sure,” I agree, slipping it off and draping it over the arm of the sofa as I approach him.

I’m pretty sure that someone with more experience with one night stands would handle this with far more grace than me. Perhaps they’d even ignore his desire to talk and strip seductively. I briefly consider doing just that, but a sudden shyness overcomes me, and I plop down onto the sofa instead. “Do you want to talk about what happened in the club?”

“No,” he replies sharply, tensing up before quickly adding. “I apologise, that came out wrong.”

“That’s okay. I get it. Some things you just want to keep to yourself, right? Are you sure you’re okay?”

He nods. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m good. Can we just concentrate on the here and now?”

“Of course.” I don’t question him further, understanding that when all is said and done I’m someone he’s just met, and whatever caused him to faint, and the pain he seems to carry around, is a conversation that should probably happen when more trust is gained. I’m not even sure if I’ll ever see him again, so why would he open up to me? “What do you want to talk about?” I add.

“You.”

“Oh, okay. So what do you want to know?” I ask tentatively, not sure why, given I already know that there are plenty of things I’m not going to share with him tonight, namely my relation to a famous Hollywood starlet or my real name. The last thing I want to do is think about my mother, let alone speak about her, and if I give him my real name it will lead to a conversation I don’t want to have right now.

I want to remain Friday Love, I don’t want to be Harlow Richards.

“Your voice is incredible,” he says, tipping his head to the side as he turns his body to face me, his muscles tightening andreleasing with the movement. He’s cut to perfection, a veritable Adonis, and yet again I find myself wondering why this man isn’t as arrogant or as self-assured as the men who I’ve met over the years appear to be.

“Thank you,” I reply, pressing my palms against my thighs, not sure what else to say, not sure what to do, even.

“I heard you from the street. Ineededto see who was singing,” he adds, and the way he puts emphasis on the word needed, makes my cheeks flame. “Where did you learn to sing like that?”

“Nowhere in particular. I’ve never taken singing lessons. I just like to sing. It makes me feel…”

I shrug, not sure how I can explain what singing means to me, and my gaze drops to my hands as I try to untangle all these feelings and thoughts he’s evoking in me.

“Alive?” he questions softly.

“Yes.” I lift my gaze back to his, understanding passing between us. “But more than that, atpeace. Singing is an escape for me.”

“I felt that,” he agrees with a nod, then whispers, “I felt more than that too. So much more.”

I honestly don’t know how to respond to that statement. So I don’t.

Reaching for me, he curls his large palm around one of my hands and squeezes gently. “I told you it’s been a long time. I’m sorry if this is awkward.”

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