Page 37 of Second Shot

“The walls still need to be painted. Haven’t really used this room, so it’s prettybare.”

“It’s perfect.” Uneasiness settles in my chest, and I don’t know why. Maybe because I know I’ll never be able to give all these things toNoah.

“There’s more. Come on.” He takes my hand and pulls me to the next room. “I had it made up for a guest room, but I don’t have a lot of guests. It’syours.”

I don’t go into the room. Can’t. I can barely breath as I take in the sleek furniture that’s been decorated with silvers and purples. My favorite colors. Everything about it is –me.

Overwhelmed doesn’t even begin to describe the way I feel. It’s too much. Tooquick.

“Kane-”

“Before you say no, take a look at this.” Again, he takes my hand and drags me to another room, this one with floor-to-ceiling windows with a view overlooking thecity.

Weights and workout machines line thewalls.

“A workout room. Now that is a bonus,” I say sarcastically, since he knows full well I’ve never exercised a day in mylife.

He chuckles. “It’s yourstudio.”

I try to keep my expression neutral, but it’s hard to hide the way my heart beats a million miles a minute. I didn’t expect this. Any ofit.

“My studio?” My voice cracks on thewords.

“I’ll have my people put this stuff in storage, and you can move your supplies in.” He leans against the doorframe, watching me. “What do youthink?”

What do I think?That everything is moving at warpspeed.

“I don’t know. It’s…alot.”

He leans closer, and I can smell his aftershave, the tang of mint on his breath. His eyes, clear and blue, stare down at me with an intensity that goes straight to mycore.

Badidea.

“We can make this work, Brynne. Move in withme.”

I hold his gaze, while he waits for ananswer.

Noah’s cry savesme.

“I’ll get him.” Kane reaches out and brushes his thumb along my jaw, already breaking his own rule. But I can’t help but lean into his touch, to cravemore.

Yeah, really badidea.

“Stay here and think about it.” He disappears down the hall, towards the now desperatesquawking.

A few seconds later, Noah’s stopscrying.

I glance around the large room with its hardwood floors and bare walls. Even when I lived with my dad, despite the enormous house and multiple rooms, I never had anything like this. Nowhere other than my bedroom to work on my paintings andsculptures.

My father did everything he could to crush my love of art. I didn’t understand it then, and I still don’t now. When I’d asked to sign up for art classes, he’d put me in hockey, then soccer. And when it was clear I wasn’t a team-sport person, he registered me for gymnastics, then ballet, and finallykarate.

I did them all. Never complaining, but never really enjoying them. My fingers itched to create, to draw andpaint.

“You need to keep your body active,” my father would say whenever I’d grumble about going to whatever activity he was dragging me to. “All that artsy stuff just makes your mind weak. Are you weak,Brynne?”

That was one of his favorite questions to ask Sam andI.

“No, Daddy.” I shoved back the tears, never understanding why he wouldn’t look at my drawings, or why he got mad whenever he caught me doodling in mybooks.

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