Page 100 of How to Get Even

‘No!’ Bella cried out.

‘Admit it,’ he demanded as he tickled her even more.

‘Okay, yes I admit it,’ she cried with laughter.

‘Say it,’ he demanded, pinning her with his gaze.

‘I did.’

‘No, say it,’ he stressed.

And she pressed her lips together to stop herself, but he only tickled her more.

‘Say it.’

‘All I want to do is fuck you senseless,’ she cried out, a flush across her cheeks and heart.

And he laughed, victorious. ‘I love it when you talk dirty, Carmichael,’ he said, taking her mouth with his before tossing her to the other side of the bed playfully.

He slapped her bare ass, hard, and told her to get up.

Shock, delight and the brief sting of pain short-circuited her brain and he, unknowingly, left her panting in surprise on the bed as he started the shower.

‘Come on!’ he called from the bathroom. ‘We have places to be.’

* * *

‘Places to be’ turned out to be a six-mile Saturday-morning run, followed by breakfast back at the diner that he’d taken her to before. The waitress smiled, remembering them, and they had exactly the same order, even though Bella complained about the calories, but not hard enough to keep her from the chocolate milkshake, the burger, the fries or the onion rings.

That was followed by a trip to the Met and even though it should have seemed like a working holiday, they browsed exhibitions that spanned hundreds of years, art, architecture, installations, ceramics, and cultural exhibits, relishing the sense of hushed awe and appreciation. They avoided crowds who ignored the ban on photography and snapped pictures like strobe lighting. They smiled at pieces they liked, argued over pieces they didn’t, and she enjoyed watching Chase take in art, but felt the distance between him and the work. As if he was taking a step back from it, from allowing himself to have it, or be near it.

‘Are you in here?’ she asked impulsively.

‘I am standing here, so technically, yes.’

She slapped his arm. ‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Are you, yourpaintings, in here?’

He closed his mouth, trying to keep the smile – she could tell – but the light had gone from his eyes. He nodded.

‘Can we go see it?’ She didn’t need his permission, but it felt like something she wanted.

He sighed, checking his watch and she already knew his answer.

‘I was really hoping to get to the market before it closed,’ he said, his disappointment feigned.

‘Another time,’ she said, and he said, ‘Sure,’ pulling her slowly back towards the exit.

As they pottered around the market, picking up bits and pieces for dinner that evening, Bella didn’t forget the way he’d avoided her answer, the urge to fix the hurt, the need to make it better for him growing in her like a flower.

She wasn’t blind to the way he had never talked about his art or his paintings, or how they didn’t fill his apartment. It was as if he, rather than her, had only been there for three months. His apartment was impersonal and undecorated and somehow, for an artist, that struck Bella as so very wrong.

She was still thinking about it several hours later when she was finishing up the pasta sauce she was making for dinner while he poured himself a glass of wine.

‘Would you like one?’ he offered.

‘Please,’ she said, nudging an empty wine glass toward him. He filled it and passed it back, leaning against the countertop to watch her.

‘What?’ she asked.

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