Page 16 of Not Catching Love

But he’s also seen me at my worst, and here he is, choosing to spend time with me anyway.

Because Derek is my real-life Prince Charming.

Now, if only he’d do that part where he sweeps me off my feet.

Chapter Six

Derek

Well, this is the stupidest thing I’ve done in a while, but I was not expecting Xander to show up while I was dancing half-naked in a cage. It’s the first time I’ve seen him outside of the pharmacy, and apparently, I wasn’t prepared, and my mouth got carried away.

But we’re celebrating. We can have one drink. For … my birthday? That we’re seeing each other during a time when he doesn’t think he’s dying?

Whatever feeble excuse there is, I’ll find it. I have one chance to enjoy being in his presence, so I’m going to shamelessly take it.

I grab our drinks and turn to hand Xander his, keeping my eyes firmly on his face. Not that it helps. Xander is an inhumanly pretty guy.

He’s got some kind of white, glittery powder over his cheeks, his dark blue hair is messily styled, and his pink lipsgive an illusion of innocence, but I’ve heard some biting remarks fly from them.

Those same lips curl into a smile, head tilted back slightly to look up at me. “See? You don’t see me like this much, but I’m normal most of the time.”

“I’m not a therapist, but I’m confident you’re not supposed to talk about yourself that way.”

Irritation flits across his face. “I can talk about myself however I want. I can’t hurt my own feelings.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

His purple eyes take on that slightly deadened look they get when the conversation isn’t something he wants to be talking about, and I remind myself that it isn’t my place. Xander isn’t my responsibility, no matter how I might have rearranged my life for him, and if he wants to get help, he will. Constantly pushing it when I’m practically nobody to him isn’t going to do a thing.

“But enough about that,” I say before he can get annoyed. I tap my glass against the one he’s holding and force myself to meet him on a level he’s comfortable with. “Tonormal.”

He lights up from the inside out. “To normal.”

I take a long sip of my water, realizing that I’m not sure what to say. We’ve never had a conversation outside of work, and there’s so much about him that I don’t know and so much Iwantto know. Honestly, it’s probably for the best that nothing changes.

I’ve never been good at doing what’s best for me though, so here I go, walking into a brick wall.

“You’re an artist, aren’t you? You do paintings?”

“Primarily.” He turns the glass in his hands. “But I play with a lot of different mediums. I’m not good at any of them though. I’ve been lucky.”

“What do you mean, lucky?”

“I sell enough to get by. Have some savings. Nothing special.”

Savings? I chuckle. “In this economy, that does sound special.”

He scowls, and it’s a skill how quickly he yo-yos between annoyed or frustrated and sweetly happy. “There are people way more talented than I am, but for some reason, the algorithm pushed my stuff, and it turns out people like horrible art. Who knew?”

“Considering I haven’t seen any of it, I’ll have to take you at your word that it’s horrible.”

“Smart.”

“How did you get started with this horrible art?”

He shrugs, and it draws my attention to his shoulders—which is a whole neck lower than my gaze is supposed to go. “I always had that itch. When I’m creating, I’m not thinking about anything else. It helps when … it just helps. I’m self-taught, which is why my work isn’t great.”

I’m sure that’s not correct at all, but I let it go. Talking to him is like a minefield. “How do you self-learn something like that?”

---