Page 62 of Not Catching Love

Derek doesn’t even look at me as he picks up his empty plate and then stacks mine on top. “It was delicious, and I’m glad we finally got to know each other.”

“Me too.”

I makeback offeyes at Molly’s enthusiasm.

“I think I need to give Xander my attention now though,” Derek says, and my bad mood evaporates.

Seven takes the plates from Derek. “I got this.”

“You sure? I feel bad not cleaning up.”

“Trust me.” Seven’s eyes flick my way. “We only have so long before he turns needy.”

“Noted.”

Well, fuck them both very much. I’m notthatbad.

Derek stands up, and I hurry after him. It’s not until we’re out of the room that he looks at me, and thankfully, he looks amused. “Next time you want my attention, just ask. Don’t get annoyed with your friends.”

“I wasn’t … annoyed.” Even I don’t believe that, so I drop the lie. “Fine. Molly’s very pretty and nice and sweet, and I’m none of those things, and clearly, you were enjoying that.”

His eyes light up as he steps closer. “Were you jealous of Molly?”

“No. I love Molly. But did you need to show himthatmuch attention?”

“Yes.” Derek reaches up and gently tucks my hair behind my ear. Soft fingers skim against skin, and all the annoyance drains out of me. “He means a lot to you, so one day, he might mean a lot to me.”

I’m trying very hard—and failing—not to read into those words. “And … doImean a lot to you?”

He avoids the question. “Time for you to show me your art.”

Urg.That. “I can show you my room instead.”

His lips twitch. “Art.”

“Fine.” I take his hand and pull him after me. “Might as well lose all respect you have for me up front.”

“I’m not worried.”

“You should be.”

“I can barely paint a tree. I’m confident anything you can do will blow me away.”

That’s not the compliment he thinks it is, but I open thedoor to my studio and lead him inside. The room is as chaotic as ever, but I try to see things from his point of view.

Admittedly, it probably looks even worse like that.

There’s a paint-stained couch next to my abandoned stack of canvases, tables with half-finished busts and pots and metal works. All things I dabble in and have no real clue about. There’s a whole workstation of paints and paintbrushes, random jars of dirty water, and the heavy curtains over the window are about the only surface in here that hasn’t been attacked when I’m freaking out and spiraling and need to paint something. The floors and walls hold too many of those stories.

“Wow.” Derek swallows. “This is … wow.”

“Yeah, I maybe should have cleaned up first.”

“No, I love it. It’s like … beautiful chaos. Like I can feel you in here.” He points at the canvas propped on the easel by the window. “Is this what you’re working on?”

“Unfortunately.”

He walks closer, and I wish I could tell him to stop. That it’s not a big deal and we can go literally anywhere other than here.

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