Page 53 of The Painter and His Poet

But then again, what if heisdangerous? What if he somehow finds out who I really am and makes an attempt of following through on his threats…?

“What a creep,” I mutter, taking a sip of my coffee as I push those thoughts aside and wonder what the hell I’m going to do about Sterling and this situation we’ve found ourselves in.

“Is there anything you need, Miss?”

I let out a yelp of surprise as a middle-aged woman enters the kitchen holding a tray loaded with dirty plates. She’s dressed in the same uniform as the rest of the staff, a dark blue pinafore dress with the Blade family crest embroidered onto the sleeve.

“You startled me,” I say, my hand flying to my chest as I turn to face her. I don’t know her name, but as far as I’ve gathered she’s the head housekeeper and has worked for the Blade family for over twenty years.

“Apologies,” she replies, giving me a soft smile as she places the tray on the counter beside the sink. “I was just about to put supper together for Sterling, are you hungry too? Can I get you anything?”

“He’s home?” I ask.

I mean, I was pretty certain he hadn’t gone anywhere, but admittedly there was a small part of me that had convincedmyself he’d returned to New York, hoping that would explain his absence and not the fact that he has been avoiding me as much as I’ve been avoiding him.

“He is, yes,” she replies, frowning a little at my question.

“I’ve just not seen him around, that’s all,” I mumble, my cheeks heating.

She nods. “He prefers his own company.”

“Oh, okay…” My voice trails off as I absorb that information. He’d told me he was a hermit the night we met, so I guess it shouldn’t come as a huge surprise.

“So would you like something to eat?”

“Actually, I was going to take a swim,” I explain, plucking at the strap of my one-piece bathing suit that I’m wearing beneath my joggers and hoodie.

“I can prepare something for you when you’ve finished,” she offers.

“Are you sure? I was just going to make a sandwich anyway. I don’t want to trouble you,” I reply, finding this whole conversation uncomfortable, not because she’s done anything wrong, but because I’m not used to having people catering to my every need. I’ve felt guilty every time one of the staff has brought food to my room.

“It’s no trouble. Would you like anything in particular?”

“Chicken with salad?” I offer.

“Of course. Shall I bring it out to you so you can eat it after your swim?” she questions.

I shake my head. “If you don’t mind just leaving it on a plate, and I’ll eat it here when I’m done. Thank you… Erm, sorry, I don’t know your name?”

“It’s Stephanie, Miss,” she replies with a soft smile.

“Thank you, Stephanie, and please call me Harlow.”

Half an hour later, I’ve swum enough laps of the pool to take the edge off my anxiety and am

lying on my back staring up at the sky, my hearing muffled by the water as I enjoy the cool winter air blowing across my cheeks. Steam rises upwards as I marvel at the smattering of stars glistening above me.

Even though I feel wholly out of place here, I know my mother will enjoy her life here, but me? I’d be happy with a small stone cottage, a log burning fire, and a cosy living space just big enough to house an upright piano. It’s a dream I can’t ever see coming true. Heaving out a breath, I flip over on my stomach and swim to the edge of the pool. As I swipe the water out of my eyes I hear the sound of splashing behind me, and turn around to catch Sterling breaking the surface.

Oh God.

I should get out of the pool. I should return to my suite and avoid all contact, but I can’t seem to move, my gaze is drawn to his strong arms and shoulders as he cuts through the water with powerful strokes towards me. His muscles tense and release as he swims, and my body reacts instantly, heat blooming beneath my skin as I watch him swim. I can’t help but squeeze my thighs together to try and alleviate the throb between my legs that his presence immediately conjures.

I really,reallyshould leave.

Deciding that the best course of action is to do exactly that, I reach for the edge of the pool and attempt to lift myself upwards, but I don’t get very far. One second my stomach is pressed against the hard stone edge, the next, two warm hands are curled around my hips tugging me back gently.

“Don’t leave,” Sterling begs, his voice strained as I slide down his chest and he wraps his arm around my waist, pressing me against the tiled wall. His broad chest is firm against my back, and I can feel the beat of his heart echo inside my own chest.

---