Page 41 of The Player (Close Quarters 5)

I blink. “How can you say that? It would be like saying I’m not a baker and then you find my kitchen cupboards are full of flour and chocolate chips and muffins and things.”

Rowan looks at me long and hard. I’m still holding the coffee he made me and suddenly things feel very awkward. I’m stuck in this weird middle ground. I’m attracted to him and yet I know it’s a bad idea. We both have baggage. But he’s let me in and now I’ve messed it up by being too opinionated, like always.

“I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.” I shake my head and press the coffee back into his hands. “Thank you for the coffee and...”

“The sex?” he offers. His charming, cocky expression has slid right back into place. Looks like I’m not the only one who’s good at putting on a front.

“Yes, that, too.” I duck my head and try to think about how to get out of here without putting my foot into it any more than I already have.

I do the only thing I know how to do: retreat into my shell. I make it all the way to the door before I realise he hasn’t tried to stop me leaving this time.

It’s probably for the best.

But even as I tell myself that, I hear the little voice in the back of my mind disagree. I’ve underestimated Rowan, and now I’m more intrigued by him than ever.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Rowan

One week later...

THEONLYEXCHANGESEmery and I have had in the past week were via email. The show is coming together quickly. Between her contacts in the gaming world—who are thrilled about the opportunity—and my many art connections, my mother’s anniversary show is coming together better than any I’ve done before.

But I’m distracted. Usually, putting on a show like this, especially with such a tight deadline, would haveallmy focus. I live for the thrill of being so invested in a project that I lose myself in the work. It’s like when I paint. I get into a mental state that makes time disappear. That makes my worries disappear. That makes all the heartache and bullshit disappear.

Now all I can think about is her. About that amazing night we spent together. About the fact that I showed her the deepest, darkest side of me.

What was I thinking showing her my paintings?

I don’t show those to anybody. Ever. I know Dom stumbled across them once while he was looking for something in my place but I snapped at him when he tried to ask me why I don’t put them in the gallery. He doesn’t seem to understand why I’ve sacrificed those dreams. Why the gallery is more important than my own art. And putting my paintings on display is only going to invite questions from more people. Questions I don’t want to answer.

But Iwantedto show Emery. I wanted to let her in.

And that’s a big fucking red flag.

Shaking my head, I push up from my desk and head down into the gallery. Kylie calls out my name the second she hears the footsteps. Her short hair is spiked up and she wears a chic dress in a dark purple that’s loose and belted at her waist.

“Ro?” She’s holding the gallery’s phone in her hand. “Your dad called again.”

Shit.“Yeah, yeah. I’ll call him back.”

“It’s the fourth time this week.” Her eyes bore into mine. She might be an employee, but I’ve known her so long she’s practically family. “He sounds sad.”

“Twist the fucking knife,” I mutter.

“I know it’s not my place to comment on your family. But if I’m forced to listen to how lonely he sounds every time he calls, then I’m going to say something.”

“What about Dom, eh? Do you give him the same shit you give me?” I know I shouldn’t be mad at Kylie—it’s not her fault Dad started calling the gallery every few days because I won’t pick up my phone.

It happens every year as the date of my mother’s death approaches. He reaches out more and I retreat, and Kylie gets stuck in the middle.

“Dom spoke to him yesterday. But he’s calling foryou.” She shoves the phone into my hand. “Call him now. You can fire me later.”

Empty words. Kylie is as much a part of this place as my brother and I, and she knows it. I scrub a hand over my face and stalk into the back room of the gallery. I know I have to get it over with, but every time I hear his voice, all I can think is...

Them arguing. The night before she died, she’d warned him the sculpture was too big. She’d called it out as Dad was working on it, knowing it was going to be a challenge for installation. But Dad was swept away with creativity and he wouldn’t ever listen to a word anyone said when it came to his art. They’d yelled at each other. He’d accused her of trying to stifle him. She’d called him a stubborn old man.

They’d gone to bed on a fight, and the next morning she was gone.

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