Page 20 of The Painter and His Poet

“You spaced out there for a bit,” she says, turning to face me, strands of her hair falling across her face as she moves.

I reach up, brushing my knuckles across her cheekbone as I push her hair behind her ear, tracing the shape with the pad of my thumb. For a moment my attention is on my forefinger and thumb as I gently massage the lobe of her ear. It takes me a few, deep, even breaths before I can meet her gaze once more.

“Sterling, you seem… Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks, frowning a little.

“I’m good,” I lie, because I’m far from good, I’m fucking wrecked in all the best and all the worst possible ways.

“That was intense,” she whispers, shifting closer, brushing her lips against mine.

“It was…” I agree, my muscles liquify, my body becomes heavy as an overwhelming exhaustion pulls at my consciousness, but I refuse to let it drag me under. I don’t want to sleep just yet.

“Was it okay for you?” she asks quietly, looking up at me from beneath her lashes.

“It was more than okay, Friday. It was…” I pause, unable to find the right words.

She smiles softly, nodding in understanding. “It was the same for me too.”

Because we both know that this was more than two strangers seeking release in each other’s arms. This was more than just sex. This is the start of something.

“What’s your full name, Friday?” I murmur after a while, realising that I don’t actually know.

“Love. My name is Friday Love.”

“Friday Love,” I repeat with a smile, my eyes drifting shut as my body finally relents, and I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, her name echoing in my mind.

A sleep that I wake up from hours later, alone, with a note left on my pillow that simply says: “Thank you for seeing me. Goodbye, Sterling.”

SIX

HARLOW

One month later

“Take a seat, Harlow. Robert and I have something we wish to discuss with you,” my mother instructs as she reaches for Robert’s hand, curling her perfectly manicured fingers around his.

He’s been staying at our home in Beverly Hills for the past week, and their laughter, overt displays of affection, and very loud fucking has made my stomach roil on more than one occasion. To be fair, Robert’s a good looking man, tall and broad, with silver streaks in his dark brown hair, and penetrating steel grey eyes, so I can see why my mother’s attracted to him, but as much as I want my mother to be happy, I know where this is heading. It’ll only end in another nasty separation, and given the sizeable engagement ring now glinting on my mother’s finger, divorce number four, no doubt.

I sure hope Robert has a prenup in place.

Grabbing my glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, I traverse the kitchen island, and take a seat at the table, flicking my gaze to Robert who smiles at my mother adoringly. He’s gotit bad. Maybe I’m just jaded when it comes to love, or rather when it comes to my mother being in love. I’m honestly not sure she understands the concept.

“What is it?” I ask, feigning ignorance as I take a sip of my drink before placing it onto the table. My gaze flits to the view out of the french doors behind them, fat droplets of rain hit the manicured garden beyond as thunder rumbles overhead, and I have the sudden urge to rush outside and let the September rain wash away the anxiety bubbling in my chest. Of course, I remain seated.

“Robert and I are very much in love. He’s my soulmate, darling,” my mother begins, giggling as he nuzzles his face in her hair.

“I see,” I reply evenly. I realise my response isn’t what she wants to hear, but this isn’t the first time my mother has made such a statement, and I doubt it will be the last.

“And we’ve decided to get married,” she adds, eyeing me as she flashes me her engagement ring.

There’s caution in her stare, a warning if you will. I know that look, it’s the ‘keep your opinion to yourself’ look that she’s given me on countless occasions in the past when she knows I disagree with her choices, but doesn’t want to listen to reason.

“When?” I ask, deciding that I don’t have the energy to give her my opinion, knowing this will happen whether I like it or not.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate us?” she questions, her eyes narrowing at me.

“Congratulations.”

“Harlow…” she warns, and Robert, picking up on her tone of voice, decides to pitch in.

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