Page 88 of Branded Hearts

He holds my gaze, his expression serious. “What have I said about apologising?” I offer a half-hearted smile, but before I can respond, he continues, “And trust me, you could make anything look good.”

Well, flip me sideways. His words make my heart skip a beat. I look away, feeling shy under his steady gaze. The room seems to shrink around us. Despite literally spewing my guts out, my body still knows how to react to his touch and his words. I shiver slightly, not from cold, but from the sensation of his hand on my skin and the warmth of his presence.

Another wave of nausea hits me, and I grip the toilet, feeling disgusted with myself. Bradley quickly grabs my hair with both hands, sweeping it away from my face and holding it at the nape of my neck. My mind starts wandering—imagining his hands running through my hair in a more sensual way, his touch sending shivers down my spine for a completely different reason. The contrast between the reality of this moment and the fantasy playing out in my head is jarring.

If there was ever a time to feel even more embarrassed, it would be right about now. Yet, oddly enough, I don’t feelso embarrassed anymore. No, what I’m feeling is far more intense. I feel his strong palm at my back, rubbing soothing circles, attempting to calm me.

Wiping at my face with my hands, I flush the toilet quickly—locking eyes with the most incredibly caring man, who just held my hair and rubbed circles on my back while I most likely look absolutely horrid. He’s watching me, his gentle movements still ongoing, his eyes softening. I can feel mine starting to well up.Why?I haven’t got a clue.

“It’s okay, Mills. I’m here,” he says, his voice smooth, deep, and… sexy. “I’ve got you.” Sexy? Yeah, at this moment, it’s most definitely not supposed to feel that way, but it does.

I’m here.

I’ve got you.

Such simple words, yet they ignite a kaleidoscope of butterflies inside.

“You should shower. It’ll make you feel better,” he suggests, leaning casually against the door frame, his arms crossed and biceps straining through his t-shirt.

“Is that your subtle way of telling me I reek?” I tease, grinning playfully.

He chuckles softly, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Well, I didn’t want to be the one to say it…”

“Gee, thanks,” I quip, rolling my eyes with mock indignation.

He raises an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Hey, you said it, not me.”

“Mhm,” I reply with a playful nod. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’llgo rescue my reputation from the clutches of potential stinkiness.”

“Take your time,” he says, his voice low and teasing. “I’ll be waiting inside.”

As he turns away, I feel a rush of butterflies fluttering around in my stomach. I can’t help but giggle at myself inwardly.

29

Never Been In Love - Lauren SpencerSmith

Finally recovering from a bad case of food poisoning, I’ve sworn off sushi for good.

On top of that, my period decided to make an appearance later that night when Bradley came over, which explains all the heightened emotions. It hadn’t occurred to me in the moment, when I was tearing up at little things, but now it all makes sense. Although, calling Bradley coming over to look after me a ‘little’ thing, is a stretch. It waseverything.

Liv had called and sent some texts to check in, and it’s safe to say that we have now resumed our early morning coffee runs.

After a long, stressful Thursday wrangling kindergarteners, I retreat to my study, seeking solace in painting. Today has been one of those days—kids testing my patience to the max. But now, brushes in hand and my palette of oil colours at the ready, I can finally release all that pent-up frustration.

I mix the oil colours carefully, each stroke a deliberate expression of my feelings. As I apply the paint to the canvas, my mind wanders to my quest for exhibition opportunities. Local galleries don’tquite match what I envisioned. Then my sister suggested Sydney’s art scene. A few applications later, I was accepted to showcase my series at a well-known gallery there. It’s thrilling, but also adds a new kind of pressure. For now, though, painting lets me lose myself in the colours and shapes, finding peace in creating. Oil paints are great—they practically blend themselves. Their slow-drying, creamy consistency makes blending a breeze. I manipulate the colours on the canvas, effortlessly creating smooth transitions and soft gradients.

Beside the canvas, clipped to the edge, is a candid photo of Bradley. One I took without him noticing. That night at dinner, walking to his car, I sneaked my phone out and discreetly snapped a picture before he could catch on. There’s something about capturing the moment that feels more intimate than posed pictures. In this painting, he’s turned away, his strong jawline and furrowed brows giving away his deep thoughts. Bradley in all his grumpy glory. I chuckle to myself, thinking of how he’d react if he knew I’d painted him like this. My phone buzzes on the table beside me, and I see Kat’s name flashing. Without missing a beat, I answer the call, tucking my brush behind my ear. She’s supposed to land around six fifteen-ish, she’d said.

It’s only five twenty-eight now. I swipe to answer the FaceTime call, wondering why she’d be calling right now, and her face fills the screen, with our parents peeking in the background.

“Surprise!” Kat exclaims.

“Oh, my goodness. Are you here already?” I squeal, excitement bubbling up.

“Yep! Early flight,” Kat says, grinning from ear to ear.

“Hi, sweetheart!” Mum’s voice chimes in from behind.

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