Page 82 of The Painter and His Poet

“Fine. How was the engagement party?” I ask, treacherous heat building in my core.

“It would’ve been a hell of a lot better if I had you by my side. But we both know that would’ve been a mistake because, apparently, Ican’tkeep my hands off you,” he says, his fingers flexing against my thigh. “Next question.”

“What’s your favourite colour?” I blurt out, hoping to move on to safer topics.

“I told you before, berry red.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Right now I’m pretty sure my cheeks areberry redas I recall the intimate part of my anatomy he likened to the same colour that night we slept together. A smile pulls up his lip as he notices the stain of colour creeping across my skin.

“Anything else you’d like to know?”

“How long have you been best friends with Ben?” I ask, clearing my throat and rapidly changing the subject as I look down at him.

“Since we were toddlers.”

“And what about Drix and Dalton?”

“They're older than us both by about five years so we didn’t really start getting close until Ben and I were in our late teens. We bonded over whisky and fast cars, whilst our dad’s bonded over business and the billions they had in their bank accounts.”

“And how long have you lived in New York?”

“I don’t live there anymore, Harlow. I live here,with you.”

“You can’t just drop everything for me, Sterling. You’ve built a life there–” I begin, but he cuts me off with a shake of his head.

“I’ve beenlivingin New York, that’s not the same thing as having alifethere.”

“What do you mean by that? You have friends, right? What about your work colleagues? Your apartment? You can’t just not go back.”

“I told you I was a loner, and I meant it. I can count on one hand the friends I have, and all of them are here in Princetown. Besides, my apartment is on a year’s lease. It has three months left. I have no desire to return there.”

I huff out a breath, hating that he’s been so isolated, so alone. “And your work?”

“I can do that wherever I live.”

“What is it that you do exactly?”

“I told you, I’m in the arts.”

“That’s very non-specific.”

He shrugs. “I deal with paintings.”

“So you’re an art dealer.”

“Pretty much,” he agrees.

“So why choose New York?”

“It was as good a place as any.”

“Sterling,” I warn, sensing that he’s keeping things from me. “Why do I feel like you’re hiding something?”

“Would you prefer it if I said what’s really on my mind?” he counters, his gaze heating dangerously.

“Perhaps not,” I mutter, trying to ease myself out of his hold, but he just stands, the stool toppling over behind him from the force as he braces his hands either side of my body on the lid of the piano.

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