Page 26 of Brooklyn Cupid

“I don’t know much about art,” I say apologetically.

“We’ll change that.” She nods cheerfully.

Yes, let’s change that.“Can’t you just photoshop it?” I ask.

She laughs. “Sure! But then it’s easy. This”—she gracefully points at it with an open palm—“is fine art, Jace.”

I feel stupid. Of course, it is.

I look around, wondering how she sleeps here amidst all this mess, the strong smell of paint, and stacks and stacks of gallery-wrapped canvases. There’s a clear path to the bathroom and the walk-in closet. The rest of the floor is a battlefield.

“Can I see those?” I ask, nodding at the stacks covered by drapes, wanting to see every single bit of her imagination. But to my disappointment, she waves me off. “You need shelves for your art stuff,” I murmur, looking around. Or ten shelves—there’s so much stuff.

“That would be helpful, but it’s an extra expense.” Her smile is almost apologetic.

She is a brilliant artist, yet, it doesn’t give her enough income. Pity.

“I write, too,” she says quieter. “It brings in extra cash.”

“Oh, yeah?” I sort of knew that. Miller said she has a profile on an online writing platform, but I never got to check it out. “What do you write?”

She squints at me. “Spicy romance stories.” Her lips stretch in a grin.

Oh.

“Spicy?” I cock an eyebrow, trying not to look away when our eyes meet.

“Like, explicit.” She cocks a brow, mimicking me.

“LikeFifty Shades of Grey?”

She laughs. She constantly laughs, and I can’t get enough. Every time I make her laugh, I feel like there’s another tiny bond between us.

“Something like that,” she murmurs as she studies the room like she’s new here, but I can tell she’s shy. “Minus S&M,” she adds, biting her lower lip.

I think I just made her blush.

“Can I read them?” I ask.

She gives me a reproachful stare. “That’s a no.”

“What’s your pen name?” I tease.

“Bigno, Jace Reed.” She laughs again, blushes, licks her lips, and looks away.

“So you like writing that kind of stuff?”

I want to get in her head and see what my cute roommate cooks up in her mind.

“Well, it’s money. I get paid by how much time readers spend on my profile reading and how many ads get viewed meanwhile. So I advertise my stories on one of my social profiles.”

“The art one?”

She flicks a surprised glance at me.

Yeah, I gave myself away. Yeah, I checked her out online. Correction, I do it every day. Correction, twice a day, excited about every update.

“No, a different one. It’s too explicit to be mixed up with my art. I’m not a fan of the stories I write, but…”

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