Page 89 of The Painter and His Poet

No, of course it wasn’t.

I bite back my retort and push down my disappointment, not wanting to start an argument. All I want to do is have a shower and go to bed. I can’t deal with my mother right now, and I certainly don’t think that I can stay in this room a moment longer trying to pretend that Sterling didn’t just eat me out on top of the baby grand piano whilst I screamed out his name.

“Harlow?” Robert insists.

“Mom called in the middle of the night. I must have misheard because I was so tired,” I lie.

“Exactly,” my mother says, her shoulders dropping with relief.

“Besides, I’m sure I wouldn’t have been missed.”

Sterling opens his mouth as though to say something, but then changes his mind. Instead his mouth snaps shut and he throws me a heated look. My cheeks warm from the tension between us, at the way Sterling then glares at my mother. I told him what she’d said, and he believed me. Right now he looks like he’s about to call her out onherlie.

“It’s getting late, and I still have a headache. Would you mind if we catch up in the morning?” I quickly ask, hoping that everyone will decide to go to bed too.

My mother waves her hand in the air. “Yes, that’s fine. I’m rather tired from all the travelling anyway.” She turns her attention to Robert. “Darling, are you coming?”

“In a moment, there’s something I need to discuss with Sterling,” he says, leaning over and pressing a kiss against her cheek. “I’ll follow shortly.”

“Very well,” she replies, striding past me without so much as a look, let alone wishing me a goodnight.

I watch her leave, suddenly feeling like I should stay. I don’t like the way Robert is glaring at Sterling. Is he always this frosty towards him? Sterling had told me as much, but this is the first time I’ve truly experienced it, and it’s horrible.

“Did you enjoy your honeymoon?” I ask Robert, trying to temper the growing tension and draw his attention towards me and away from Sterling.

“It was lovely, thank you for asking, Harlow,” he replies, his gaze softening as he looks at me.

“I’m glad.”

“However, I do really need to speak with Sterling…”

His voice trails off as he gives me a pointed look, and I know when I’m being dismissed. Even so, I cast a look at Sterling for any kind of sign that he wants me to stay, because despite feeling out of sorts, I will pull myself together so that he doesn’t have to face his father alone. Besides, unless Robert is able to read our minds, there’s no way he’s aware of what’s transpired between us. At least I hope not.

“Sterling?” I question, noticing a muscle feathering in his jaw.

“Goodnight, Harlow,” he retorts, turning away from me and striding over to the bar in the corner of the room, dismissing me as well.

Sterling

Knocking back the generous glass of bourbon, I wait for my father to tell me what’s on his mind, because I sure as fuck am not about to open the conversation and give him any ammunition to use against me. I know him too well—he’s the type of person who waits for someone to hand him the rope, then stands back and lets them hang themselves with it.

“You’ve gotten over yourself then, I take it?” he asks, picking up the bottle of bourbon and pouring himself a glass as he eyes me with a neutral expression. I don’t trust his intentions, not one fucking bit.

“If by gotten over myself you mean accepting Harlow into this family, then yes, I guess I have,” I reply evenly, refusing to rise to the bait.

He nods, swilling his bourbon before taking a sip. His expression relaxes, and to the untrained eye you’d be fooled into thinking he was content with my answer under the guise ofwanting ahappyfamily. But I know better. The subtle tightening around his eyes, the way his jaw ticks just slightly—it’s all there, a carefully masked tension that warns me to tread carefully.

“I didn’t expect you to still be here. Why haven’t you returned to New York?” he asks, changing tactics.

“One of my closest friends is getting married in a few weeks. What would be the point?” I throw back. It’s the best excuse I have, and it’s the one I’m sticking with because I’m not about to tell him the real reason I’m staying. Not yet, anyway. He’s not the only one who can play this game.

“Are you going back?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“I see.”

The sheer fact that he doesn’t push the subject has me on high alert. This conversation isn’t about me returning to New York, this is about something else entirely. I wait, refusing to give him any rope to hang me with.

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