I stare at it for a few short seconds, a smirk playing on my face as I meet his eyes. Because I realize it doesn’t matter who’s behind me.
Wilder Thorne is leaving with me.
When the hostess tried to stop us from leaving, Wilder looked about as interested in staying as I was.
So he hooked his arm in mine, thanked them for helping him find his soulmate, and we walked out of there laughing.
Well, I was laughing. He seemed annoyed. “You’re turnin’ me into a liar,” he grumbles.
“Oh stop, you enjoyed that,” I tease.
He doesn’t say another word, but I catch him in another lie as we cross the street. My cart is parked where I left it.
But I don’t call attention to it. Just like I don’t call attention to the fact that my arm is still tucked under his.
He skims my outfit once more. “Startin’ to not believe you had art supplies in two of those suitcases.”
I decided against that outfit I told Willow I’d wear. It was too uptown city girl. Instead, I’m wearing a long black skirt with a slit up my thigh and red top. My makeup is minimal, mascara with light shimmery eyeshadow and pink gloss.
“You’d be surprised how many clothes I can fit into one suitcase. Shoes tend to be the problem.” I lift my burgundy boots. “And I only brought one pair. Well, and slippers.”
He’s quiet as we walk along the street, and I wonder what he’s thinking. A million things go through my head at the possibilities.
How to fire me without hurting my brother.
How to let me down gently since I’m failing miserably at hiding my attraction.
The best route to Bones, since that’s where Wesley and his friends are. There, he’ll tell my brother where he found me tonight.
Feeling like a bother to him, I start to slip my arm out of his, but he holds tight, keeping his eyes ahead.
“So, when do you paint?”
The question throws me off, but then I see his thought process. “You think I stay up late painting?”
“When you’re not sneaking out, stealing vehicles, caught in a bar fight, or dating random strangers for six minutes at a time, I imagine you might have an actual hobby.”
“I used to paint at night. It’s how I started actually.”
“Now?”
“Now, I .?.?. paint whenever, I guess.”
“So it didn’t start as a hobby?”
I get a flashback to a therapy session where I told Dr. Sandraabout my art. Which she explained was my outlet. A way to escape stress and overwhelming feelings.
I shake my head. “It was a way for me to focus, help calm me, and keep my head in a better state of mind.”
“Wesley says you gave up becoming a doctor for art.”
My heart constricts. “Therapists don’t heal,” I correct.
“Then what do they do?” he challenges, but answering that question will tell him more about me than anyone needs to know.
“Did you know over seventy percent of graduates don’t end up in the field they studied?” I deflect.
A smirk touches his lips, his eyes flicking to mine. “I suppose that sounds accurate.”
