Page 64 of Billion Dollar Vow

He shrugs. “My cleaner has tried before, but the paint won’t come out.”

“I could get it out at home.” My lips slam shut.

We lock eyes, and it’s like an elephant in the room.Home…

“What will I do when you leave?” he says, playfully poking my arm. The thought of walking away from this house, from him, creates an unexpected hollowness in my chest.

“Find my replacement,” I joke, but it dies on my tongue when he speaks.

His expression shifts into something more vulnerable. “You’re irreplaceable.”

Is this still part of our act, or something else? If I let myself believe it’s the latter, it would make leaving so much harder when the time comes.

I pretend his words didn’t make me shudder and focus on the task; otherwise, we’ll run late.

“I’ve chosen a painting for you to save time,” I say, turning to face the setup.

“Is it easy? I need easy,” he says from behind me.

I twist to face him, lifting my eyebrow. “Oliver, when the hell have you taken the easy option?”

He points to the floor. “Now. I need to be good at art.”

“Everyone is good at art.”

He crosses his arms. “Not according to Warne.”

“Art isn’t about perfection; it’s about feeling.” I walk to the canvas I’ve prepared on the easel in the corner of the classroom, where I’ve sketched the outline of a tree similar to the one hanging in his bedroom. He walks over to get a better look. “How does that make you feel?”

“It makes me feel like everything’s going to be okay.” He straightens, and I face him with a small smile.

My heart is trying to jump out of my chest. Not from anxiety or fear, but from the realization that Oliver might be seeing me in a way few people ever have.

“Good.” I clasp my hands together to hold back my excitement.

He exhales heavily, looking around at the brushes. “Tell me where to start.”

I point to the chair. “Take a seat, and I’ll explain.”

He does and so do I. Then, grabbing the pencil, I hand it to him. “I would outline the tree first.”

He takes the pencil, and just as I think he’s going to begin, he lowers it and twists to look at me. “I can’t have you watching me. It's adding too much pressure.”

“Alright, I’ll start setting up for the class. Would that make you more comfortable?” I’ve always hated when people hover while I paint; the pressure and judgment. But another part of me is curious to see his process.

“Yes. Thank you.” He brings the pencil up, and the scratching along the paper has a calming effect on me. I move around every now and then, glancing over to see him. Finding his lips parted, head close to the paper, and his eyebrows pinched. I snap a picture for him before returning to my task.

“Done,” he announces a little while later. I walk over to check it out, and he’s done a pretty good job.

I give him a genuine smile. “Nice. Now it’s time to paint.” I point to the tray full of different colored paint.

“You can stay for this if you want,” he says so quietly I almost miss it.

Of course I want to see, so I quickly take my seat before he changes his mind and watch him dip the brush into the green paint. I get lost in his strokes, and I don’t know how much time passes, but when he’s done, I feel like I was suddenly woken up from a trance. The tree is technically not perfect, but there’s heart in it. I take a picture of his work and then one with him and the painting. Then he snaps a picture of us with the art to put online for Mr. Warne to see.

“Can I take it home?” He looks at the canvas, then back at me, his eyes searching, as if my answer matters.

I lean my elbow on the table, holding my head in my hand, feeling content in this shared moment. “Yeah, you can. Just be careful for a few hours while it dries.”

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