Page 81 of The Painter and His Poet

“Not really, no,” I agree with a light laugh. “What about Robert?”

He shakes his head, his smile dropping “Definitely not. To be able to play a musical instrument you need to be able to feel a variety of emotions, and my father is only capable of hate, loathing and disgust.”

“That sounds ominous.”

Sterling scrapes a hand through his hair and lets out an even breath. “I could lie to you and say that the issues I have with my father are mine alone, but I’m not going to do that, Harlow. He hurts people, and he gets a kick out of doing it.”

“Are you talking about your mom?”

He nods, and without thinking about it, I reach for his hand and place mine over the top. It’s meant to be an affectionate gesture, one to show solidarity and support, but the second our hands meet that spark that always lingers between us burns brighter.

“Not just her,” Sterling replies, turning his hand beneath mine so that we’re palm to palm.

“Has he hurt you very badly?” I ask, my breath catching as he weaves his fingers with mine, and brushes his thumb over my knuckles.

“Put it this way, Ben’s dad has been more of a father to me than my own over the years,” he replies. “I’ve always been a disappointment, and I’ve certainly never lived up to my father’s expectations. He has gone out of his way to make sure that I know exactly how he feels about me, and none of it is good.”

“I’m sorry, Sterling. I didn’t think he was that kind of man.”

“Believe me when I say, my father is adept at manipulation, at making himself look the pillar of the community when deep down he’s a master of deceit. He uses charm to mask his cruelty, playing the role of the perfect father and husband in public, whilst behind closed doors he’s cruel and unyielding. It’sexhausting to navigate the facade he maintains, and even more exhausting to constantly question my own worth in the process.”

“I had no idea. I’m so sorry,” I repeat.

“You’ve nothing to apologise for. Just,please, be cautious when it comes to trusting my father.”

“Should I be worrying about my mom?”

“I wish I could tell you that he’ll make her happy, but truthfully there will come a time when he’ll break her just like he broke my mother. Just like he breaks everything he touches.”

“That doesn’t feel good to hear,” I admit, because whilst my relationship with my mother is far from perfect, I don’t want her to get hurt.

“From what you’ve told me, she hasn’t been the best mother to you either. Perhaps they deserve each other.”

I know he’s right, and I hate the fact that despite everything she’s done and said to me over the years, I still miss the mom I used to have. I wish I didn’t care about her the way I do, but I can’t help it. Instead I ask, “So why are you still here? Why haven’t you returned to your life in New York?”

“I thought by now I’ve made that pretty obvious, Harlow. There’s only one reason that I’m staying, and that reason is you.”

“Sterling, no,” I reply as firmly as I can muster whilst withdrawing my hand from beneath his. “You need to go back to your life in New York, to your job…” I pause, realising that I don’t even know what he does for a living. There are a lot of things I don’t know about Sterling.

“Don’t tell me no,” he counters roughly, catching my wrist as I stand, deciding that it’s probably time I left before things get too heated between us.

“We’ve been through this already,” I reply, looking down at him, and resisting the urge to run my fingers through his hair. “Besides, even if our parents weren’t married and we could betogether, I still don’t really know anything about you. So what does that tell you about us?”

“It tells me that we’ve been wasting time avoiding each other when we should’ve used this time to get to know each other better.”

“I don’t even know what you do for a living!” I blurt out, my voice rising in pitch as I struggle with my conflicting emotions. One minute I want to throw myself into his arms, and the next I want to put a stop to this once and for all.

“I work in the arts,” he replies. “Next question.”

“I’m not playing this game,” I reply, trying to tug my wrist free from his grasp.

“Next question, Harlow,” he demands, reaching up for me with his free hand, and grasping my hip as he tugs me closer until I somehow end up trapped between his legs and pressed up against the piano, his muscular thighs preventing me from leaving as he looks up at me.

“I told you I’m not playing this game,” I repeat, folding my arms across my chest and turning my face away from him.

“Would you rather we don’t talk at all?” he asks, his hand squeezing my hip before coasting downwards and sliding around the back of my leg, cupping the point where my arse and thigh meet. His fingers wrap around the fleshiest part of my leg, centimetres away from my core. The only material between us is the thin cotton of my joggers, and panties.

Fuck.

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