Page 68 of Capturing You
“Nobody forced you to talk.”
She pressed her lips together.
Not sure if the darkness hid the way his cheeks burned, he stood and added another log to the fire. Sparks crackled and rose. He used the poker to position the log, keeping his face averted so she couldn’t guess what he was thinking. Telling himself not to ask again. That he didn’t care.
There was a story. There had to be a reason a woman who owned a gallery and filled it with her own art didn’t consider herself an artist.
He shouldn’t care.
The problem was, he did care, and it did matter how this amazing woman saw herself. She thought she was too much.
From what Forbes could tell, everything about her was just right.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Ridiculous.
Ford had called Brooklynn ridiculous, then expected her to explain herself. As if she owed him an explanation. If she told him what she was thinking, she’d only prove what he already thought about her.
Ridiculous.
That pretty much summed it up, didn’t it?
Ford had scarfed almost all the crackers she’d set out, along with most of the cheese, so she replenished the makeshift charcuterie board, wishing she had some grapes, maybe a bowl of olives to make it look pretty.
Ford would probably suggest that made her an artist, as if everyone in the world couldn’t present food on a tray.
Okay. Maybe she was the one everybody in the family insisted put together the charcuteries and set the table for a fancy meal, but only because she liked doing it, and she had experience. And maybe she understood scale and color. She liked making things look pretty. That didn’t make her an artist.
She was smarter than to use that word to describe herself. She knew who she was, what she was, and what she wasn't.
Ford settled beside her and reached for the crackers. But he didn’t take any, just sat back again. “I went to boarding school.”
The words were out of left field, apropos to nothing, but she quenched her surprise, afraid she’d scare him back into silence.
“That’s different.”
“My great-aunt raised me. She came from money, and in her day, all wealthy young men went to boarding school, so…”
“Where were your parents?”
His lip quirked. “They were…busy.”
“Was this an aunt on the Ballentine side of your family?”
“No. Other side.” He grabbed a cracker and the last slice of cheese and ate them, taking his time chewing.
She’d pushed too hard. She sipped her water to keep from pressing him for more information.
“I didn’t like it very much,” he finally said. “Boarding school. It was cold. The buildings were drafty, but it was more than that. It seemed like the kids all knew each other and didn’t need another friend. I wasn’t good at fitting in. Too quiet.”
“Really? I’m shocked.”
He ignored her. “The teachers were strict. The classes were challenging. My aunt expected top grades, and I had to work hard to achieve them. This was a sort of…cream-of-the-crop type of place. Only the smartest were allowed entry, so even though I’m…you know.”
“Super smart?”
He shrugged. “I was born with a good intellect. Like some people are born with artistic ability.” He looked at her, eyebrows hiked. “There’s no shame in knowing who you are, who God created you to be.”
