I chuckle, wrapping my arms around her.
Fuck, I don’t want to leave. But staying wouldn’t be right. Staying would imply I’m emotionally available.
Rose—if she even stays in town after the summer—deserves more than some patched-up version of the man I used to be.
The one who will always question where her heart is. If it’s with me, some dream she’s chasing .?.?. or another man.
It already feels too much like playing house.
But fuck if it isn’t a happy one. Waking up with a beautiful woman, making her breakfast, calling in sick, and going through half a box of condoms.
“I should go.”
She sits up, pulling the throw blanket over herself like she heard it coming. The tightness doesn’t ease in my chest as I pull on my jeans and watch her.
Rose has got her eyes on an empty canvas resting against the back wall, like she’s picturing her next project.
We haven’t talked about anything personal the entire time I’ve been here. And I wonder if human interaction isn’t how she expresses herself.
“You gonna paint somethin’ tonight?”
“Thinking about it.”
“You mind if I stay and watch?”
She lifts her chin to meet my gaze. So much unspoken in those eyes. “I’ve never done it with anyone watching.”
I reach for her hand. “Then let me be your first.”
With her one hand in mine, she stands, fisting the blanket infront of her. It’s the first time she’s shied away from me since last night, and I feel like an ass for nearly walking out on her when things were .?.?. so damn good.
After Bonnie, I swore to never get so attached to someone that I forget friends and family come first.
The ranch second.
Doesn’t leave much interest in a relationship that would just end up in flames.
Rose is a direct contradiction to the friends I put first and the relationships I avoid.
But hell if I give a damn about any of that right now.
She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. It takes me a while sometimes. I’m still pretty new. And I don’t want to rush it.” She smiles playfully. “You need your sleep too.”
“I’d like to stay and watch you. Even if it takes all night.”
She hesitates, eyes drifting down like she’s weighing her options. Finally, biting her bottom lip, she looks up and gives me a small nod. “All right. I just need to get dressed.”
Before long, Rose is cross-legged over the tarp with a full set of paints, brushes, charcoal, and paper towels.
I’m sitting on the floor against the wall. I can’t see the canvas, but I can see her face, which is all I care to watch at this point.
She’s in that oversized T-shirt I found her in last night when I came banging on her door. Her hair is bunched up over her head. Her full lips quirk every time she glances my way. There’s warmth and teasing in her eyes, but her focus is undisturbed.
“This why you don’t drink? So your strokes stay even?” I ask, breaking my unspoken rule of no personal questions. The less I know, the less protective I become. The easier I can let her go.
So far, like she can’t help herself, Rose has been like an open book with me. And I wouldn’t trade her trust in me for the world.
But since it might be related to her focus on art, it’s not that personal. It’s not like I’m here asking if she had a drinking problem. Somehow, I don’t think that’s it.
