Page 2 of The Confidant

Meh, some are like that. I’m a little disappointed, though. He’s a fine specimen, and I was looking forward to hearing him speak. You can tell so much about a person by their accent and tone.

Why I want to immediately take apart all his little puzzle pieces at first sight, I don’t know. It’s kind of weird. I’m usually more business-minded when people walk in. Somehow, that went out the window as soon as he walked in. I need that mindset back, pronto.

I try to zone out while he browses. It’s obvious he’s here for a look at the art, not a conversation. I’d rather focus on the magazine than pout.

Sometime later, his hands settle on the counter, forcing me to look up.

His eyes are green with light blue around the edges. I’ve never seen eyes so clear before. There’s a force of personality in his gaze that captures my attention like a snap.

A sensation shivers through me, raising goosebumps along my forearms. There’s a reaction in my chest when our eyes meet that feels like an insistent tug toward him.

I want to draw him. The sharp cheekbones and a lush lower lip that soften his face.

“Do you have a portfolio?” He asks in a low tone. The murmur makes it feel more intimate. We’re alone in here, but he’s speaking like he’s telling me a secret.

This guy has me intrigued all over. Good thing he wasn’t ten minutes later, or I would have missed this. That would have been a damn shame.

He seems like a man who doesn’t need words, so I lean forward, pulling the album in front of him. If he has the patience to look all the way through, it'll be a while.

To my surprise, he has the patience for it. He studies each picture with an attention to detail that proves he gives that intense focus to everything. I’m a little jealous of my portfolio for taking that away from me.

His fingers move over the images as if they’re braille, and he wants to read every single letter. A light touch that lingers over specific colors and designs that show me what he likes without him saying a word. He has a pinky that’s been broken before. The knuckle is stiff, like it healed a little wrong. He has calluses over his knuckles, too. He has to have some muscle under there if he’s got those. A fighter.

He just gets better and better. The more I watch, the more I want.

He reaches the last few pages and spends a very long time studying them. My eyes move to his face instead of his hands to see what he thinks. His expression, while focused, is closed to me. I want to unravel his mystery, and he’s giving me nothing.

I know without looking which pictures he’s pausing over. The freehand flowers I’ve done for reference with notes on their meanings. And my baby brother Asher’s flowers in full, vibrant color.

Most people assume the tattoos are on a woman, which I love telling Ash. The dirty looks he gives me are priceless.

I’ll never regret covering him up in them. It made him feel less ugly and untouchable with every single one. I’d give anything to help him banish the shadows our biological father left behind.

Though none of the photos I picked out for display show his scars, they’re still my best work over everything I’ve ever done. The colors are eye-catching enough to speak for themselves while hiding away the secret of his scars.

“Why flowers?”

I look at the page he’s on. Sure enough, he’s looking at Asher’s shoulder piece. A rhododendron. A flower that means beware, danger ahead, colored the lightest shade of purple with bright white accents. It says, “I may look sweet, but I’ll bite.”

Asher picked that one himself. I cackled the entire time he was on the table for it. I know he enjoys telling people I pick out the lamest tattoos for him, my guinea pig. It’s the subtlest joke with a lot of hilarity behind it. No one thinks to look deeper than that.

It’s always the same question when people see these images. Why flowers? Because flowers are beautiful, and they may not talk, but they scream a message if you know your stuff. I like tongue-in-cheek humor. Luckily, Asher feels the same.

“So he’d feel as beautiful as he is,” I answer with a smirk.

It startles me. I usually give a glib answer to that question. The raccoon-roll brush off about how my best work is in flowers.

This guy somehow gets the raw truth of it by saying two words. There’s something off about all this.

I feel his stare burning into me as I turn away to get myself a drink. Giving out raw truths is not my style. I need to keep my mouth busy with something other than talking. I have a lot of secrets locked up in my heart that will never get an audience. Most of them aren’t even mine.

I don’t like that he can pull stuff out of me so easily. I’ve never had this problem before.

“Boyfriend?”

That’s a personal question. I tend to brush those off, too. But my horrified expression as I spin back to him speaks volumes. He takes it in, and a hint of a smile hits his lips.

“My little brother,” I snap and slam the book closed. He barely has time to get his fingers out of the way.

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