Page 11 of Scoring Grey

“Where is this so-called surprise, Cal?” I say to my empty condo after I’ve showered and dressed. Don’t tell me I shoved my egg sandwich down my throat instead of enjoying it with a cup of coffee for nothing. I hate rushing to eat my food. It may not look like it, but I actually love food. I’ve just always been thin. I spin around my condo again, scouring every surface for a note, only to come up short. I anxiously tap my thumb on my phone. The last text he sent was his threat to correct my mouth. I consider replying with a sarcastic remark about how his nonexistent surprise sucks, but then it hits me. “It’s not here.”

I look down at my outfit. My high-waisted jeans, knit sweater, and flats aren’t enough to shield me from the cold outside, but they should suffice to walk across the hall. Cal has made it clear he doesn’t care for the fact that I’m across the hall instead of at his place, but temptation aside, I had other reasons for not staying at his place. For starters, it’s his bachelor pad. I pull the door to my condo closed, only to fall back against its front and stare at Cal’s door across the hall. However, it’s not the women who may have frequented his condo that give me trepidation. It’s Lucas Balfour.

“He’s not here, Lou.” I push off the door and enter the code to Cal’s condo. The second the door opens, the anxiety I felt washes away when I see what awaits me in the corner of the room. My condo has a view, but he has a corner view showcasing the lake and the city. It’s wondrous. A painter could sit here for hours, days, weeks even and never run out of inspiration. The view is constantly changing, the colors in the sky, the seasons, and the people below. There are limitless stories to capture from this very spot. My phone vibrates in my hand.

Callum: You found it.

Eloise: I did.

I slowly step around to the stool in front of the easel, and the second I do, I know exactly what I want to paint. Painting frees my mind, and though I escape with a brush in my hand, I’m not painting my dreams; I’m painting my reality. I didn’t have a bad life. I grew up beyond privileged, with two loving parents, one softer than the other, but the weight of my birthright felt heavy the older I got, and that’s when I picked up a brush. When most people look at art, they see a pretty picture, but to the artist, it’s a diary, a reflection of our souls, or at least that’s what it is to me. Perhaps that’s why I’ve never cared to share it with the world.

Every brushstroke I leave on the canvas feels like a thinly veiled-looking glass tethered to my innermost thoughts. When I was young, I threw out many paintings for that reason. I didn’t like staring at the dark. The problem is when I’m creating, I don’t see light or darkness; I let the brush guide my way. Art is getting lost as much as it is getting found. My father is a craftsman using his hands to build boats, my brother is a writer, and I am a painter. Getting lost runs in the family.

“I love it,” the man I used to spend hours getting lost with says, startling me from my painting as he squeezes my shoulders. “If this is the piece you were making for the charity auction, you will have to make another.”

“What’s wrong with it?” I snap my head back and try to see what he sees but come up short.

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it.”

I spin on my chair and slightly regret my choice to face him. He just got back from the rink, and it’s clear once again he skipped his shower there because his dark blond hair is still damp with sweat, and the gray shirt he wore under his practice gear is still partially saturated in all the right places, only highlighting his stacked physique. There’s no way to look at him that doesn’t twist me up inside.

“Do you care to elaborate on what it is about this painting that won’t be suitable for the auction?” He knows I had reservations about sharing my work at all, so the fact that he’s planting a seed of doubt is perplexing.

He crosses his arms and rubs the stubble on his chin. “Yep, if anyone gets to keep the painting of the spot where we shared our first kiss, it’s me.”

I turn back to the portrait. “That’s not… What are you talking about? You couldn’t know that from what I have on this canvas. I’ve merely started shading the background.”

“That wasn’t a no,” he counters as he reaches in front of me and points to a shadowed object I have in the foreground. “And that’s a bench.” Again, I stare at the picture. Art is subjective. That’s the beauty in it. Everyone sees something else. But a bench? I stare harder and envision the park and the spot where we did indeed share our first kiss. There weren’t any benches. We walked through the woods until we reached the beach.

“You’re thinking too hard, blondie.”

“Well, for one, you couldn’t know what I’m painting, considering I don’t even know what I’m painting, and secondly, there were no benches.”

“You’re right. That’s not a bench.”

I turn in my chair, ready to deliver a smart-ass remark about him remembering a first kiss with the wrong girl, only to catch him smiling like a Cheshire Cat.

“But now you’re thinking about our first kiss. Which means you’re thinking about my lips on yours.”

I roll my eyes at his antics. I should have seen that coming. “Tell me, do women actually fall for these cheeky one-liners?”

The childlike smile that graced his lips is gone, replaced with a furrowed brow and a frown. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve only ever said them to you.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to call him out. There’s no way Callum Balfour has been celibate since the last time we were together, but something in the way his face dropped and the tone in his voice tells me his words are true. I leave it alone. I’m not trying to hold him to the fire; for years, we haven’t been together.

“I’m going to shower,” he says, stepping around my chair.

I watch his retreating form as he crosses the living room, and I can see the tension in his shoulders. This thing between us is wearing on him as much as it is me. It would be so easy to fall into our old ways. To let his swagger and playful quips whisk me off my feet until his lips are on mine and my body is beneath his. But a warm bed doesn’t fix a broken heart.

“You’re still here?” Cal questions, walking back into the living room, and I look up from my painting just in time to catch a glimpse of his chiseled stomach and perfectly manicured happy trail that dips below the belt of his jeans as he pulls on a V-neck.

When his hands land on his hips, I realize I’ve stared too long. “Did you expect me to leave?” I question as I clear my throat.

His amber gaze narrows as he pulls his bottom lip into his mouth before saying, “I didn’t know if you’d stay.”

I rub my hands on my jeans, uneasy about broaching the topic but wanting to clear the air. “Callum, I know you’ve been with other women. Acting like you haven’t is insulting.”

He crosses the room to where I am, his imposing size dwarfing me as he stands in my space. “I’m sorry you felt insulted. That wasn’t my intent, but I wasn’t lying. I haven’t chased another woman. It’s only ever been you.”

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