Page 73 of Art of Sin
I should be able to do it.
Who can’t cook spaghetti and make a salad?
Ridiculous.
Why is this so hard?
Obvious to my squirreling thoughts, Gideon waits for me to finish washing my hands. So fucking patient with me and my insane issues. So accommodating. So understanding.
Spinning to face him, I throw my hands up. “I can’t do this!”
Gideon leans against the counter, arms crossed, relaxed, like it’s no big deal I’m losing my ever-loving mind.
“Finally,” he says with a dramatic sigh. “What should we order?”
“Stop it! Stop being so nice and generous and… and… perfect! I can’t stand it!”
Before he can say anything, I flee the kitchen. Because what other option is there? Stand there as the shame and humiliation slowly kill me? As he tries to be gentle with me, to understand me? Or as he finally snaps?
No one should have to live with the level of messed up I am. No one can live with it. This is borrowedhappiness. A draining hourglass. I need to change, act, reclaim some power—break the glass and let the sand spray everywhere.
Halfway down the hall, I stop, swivel, and beeline for the studio. Knowing he’ll come. He’ll find me. Stop me.
Either save me or lose me.
“Deirdre! Put the paint down.Now!”
The darkness insides me thrills at his loud, cutting tone. Instead of obeying, I spin around, pointing the thick tubes of fancy acrylic paint at him. The caps are off, bright colors already ballooning from the tips.
Gideon blinks. His lips twitch. Slowly, he lifts his hands.
“Are you arresting me, Officer?”
I try to hold onto my anger. I really do. But the anger was a smokescreen for fear, and the fear is impossible to keep when Gideon is being so… so… Gideon.
Grinning madly, he lunges for me.
I yelp, my hands automatically clenching.
He freezes. Lowers his gaze to the orange and purple paint dripping in sludgy rivers down his bare chest.
His gaze snaps back to me, indignant. “I just showered.”
“Uh-oh,” I whisper.
“Give me the paint, Deirdre.”
Shaking my head, I back away. Step by step, Gideon follows. Each mirrored movement makes my blood hotter, my skin more alive. He clears away all the muck and shadow inside me.
He brings my world into focus.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, the glint in his eye promising swift—and not unwelcome—retribution.
“Pfft. I’m not afraid of you. What are you going to do, cover me in paint? Been there, done that.”
Brows lifted, he chortles. “Ohh, the sass! I’m offended, mon bijou. I would think by now you’d know how very, very”—he leaps forward, snatching the paint from my hands—“creative I am.”
The sound the tubes make when they forcefully expel their paint all over my chest makes me giggle, which makes Gideon roll his eyes.
