Page 63 of The Painter and His Poet

“Fuck,” I whisper, taking a few steps back, making sure I’m completely hidden within the darkness and nowhere near the rectangle of light spilling across the lawn.

I watch her with interest as she throws open a window, the cool breeze lifting her hair from around bare shoulders. “This could’ve waited until morning!” she says.

“Who are you talking to?” I mutter, feeling a pinch of jealousy, my cock stirring as I catch sight of her simple white nightie, her nipples peaked from the cold. Fuck.

“And I should care because?” she continues, completely oblivious to the fact I’m standing in the dark below her window and staring up at her with a semi. Whoever’s on the other end of the line is doing a spectacular job at pissing her off, and going by the tone of her voice, and the completely unreasonable timeto receive a phone call, I can only determine that it’s her mother. My suspicion is confirmed when she goes on to say, “Robert’sfriends, you mean?”

“Of course,” I say, fuming on Harlow’s behalf, not to mention mine given my plans have been thwarted.

Rightly or wrongly, I need to see Harlow tonight, and whilst it’s not in a way that’s deemed socially acceptable in any fucking universe, it’s the only way I can give her the space she appears to need without compromising my sanity. The logical, un-stalkery, level-headed part of me knows that what I’m doing is wrong, that I’m breaking every level of trust there is, but the obsessive, possessive, compulsive parts of me are far too loud to ignore.

I’m in deep. So fucking deep, it’s scary.

So I don’t leave like I should. Instead, I watch as Harlow sits on the window ledge and presses her cheek against the glass, and something about the way her shoulders curve inwards has my heart thundering in sympathy.

“I’m sure they’ll understand. So, is there anything else you wanted…?” she asks after a moment, pressing her hand against the foggy glass. The fucked-up, stalkery part of me lifts my hand, fingers spread, as I imagine her palm pressed against mine.

“Who is he marrying?” I hear her say, and my hand drops as it dawns on me that her mother must be telling her about Dalton and Daisy’s upcoming wedding.

News sure does travel fast, though I shouldn’t be all that surprised given Carl and Robert are close. Well, as close as any man can be without a beating fucking heart.

“Daisy? Are you sure?” Harlow asks as she stands, and right before she steps away from the window, I see the confusion on her face.

“Fuck,” I grumble, agitated not only because Melody has interrupted Harlow’s sleep, but because tonight she’s interrupted my plans too. But that doesn’t stop me from waitingfor Harlow’s light to go out, and it certainly doesn’t stop me from creeping into her room an hour later either.

SEVENTEEN

STERLING

As quietly as I can, I slip inside Harlow’s bedroom, shutting the door behind me with a gentle click, my heartbeat pounding so loudly in my ears that I press a hand to the middle of my chest, willing it to calm down. For long, agonising moments, I stand with my back pressed against the door, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Fortunately for me, Harlow didn’t close the curtains after her call, and the room is illuminated by moonlight that dusts her sleeping form in a silvery glow, only serving to make her even more beautiful.

"Christ," I murmur, watching her as she sleeps, completely unaware of my approach.

With each step I take toward the bed, a profound sense of relief washes over me, a calming kind of warmth that seeps into my body and quiets my restless mind. Her hair spills across the pillow, the silky strands shimmering like threads of spun gold.

Pausing at the edge of the bed, my gaze lingers on the gentle rise and fall of her chest, and the way her lashes rest delicately against her cheek. Her peacefulness shifts something inside of me, and all the stress of the past few days slowly lifts from my shoulders.

“I’ve missed you,” I whisper.

Reaching out, my fingers graze the duvet that barely covers her hip, my artist's gaze absorbing every detail of her sleeping form. There’s a softness to her features that makes her look innocent in a way I’ve never seen before.

Fuck, how I wish I could press my mouth against hers and awaken her with a kiss. Instead, I settle on tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, the softness of it sending a rush of warmth through my fingertips and straight to my cock. She shifts onto her back, but doesn't wake up, and for a moment I stand there captivated by her. She’s so damn beautiful. So fragile in this quiet moment. So completely unaware of my presence.

That fact shouldn’t turn me on, but it does.God help me,it does.

I glance away from her sleeping form briefly, if only to calm the urge to touch her again, and notice a glass of water and what looks like a bottle of sleeping pills beside it. That might explain why she’s so soundly asleep, and I can’t help but feel a little envious that she can find such relief when I’ve found it almost impossible.

The drawer of her bedside cabinet is partially open too, and I notice a leather bound notebook tucked inside. Intrigued, I carefully slide open the drawer the rest of the way and pull it out, before closing it again. The leather is soft to the touch, and I open up the notebook to find pages and pages of what appears to be poems, or perhaps even lyrics. I walk towards the window so that I can use the moonlight to read.

Flicking it open to a random page, my eyes fall to her neat cursive.

One night of passion, a chance to be me,

I stripped myself bare to reveal,

The person others never see.

He touched me like I was precious,

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