Page 98 of Sweet Poison

Half an hour later,we find ourselves in the secluded part of the garden that I adore so much. It’s my favorite spot in the hotel— a hidden oasis filled with vibrant and unique blooms and the gentle rustle of leaves with the scent of the nearby sea.

Madden gestures for me to take a seat on a sun-warmed stone bench, while he sets to work gathering supplies. Where did he find all this? Pots, paints of all colors, brushes— he’s got everything we need. I glance at him, still in awe. I’d only mentioned my love for painting plant pots less than an hour ago. How did he manage to pull this off so quickly? Maybe that text he sent earlier was to order everything we needed from his staff.

Will this man ever stop surprising me?

I don’t think he will.

He’s magic. There’s no doubt about it.

“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got.” He motions to his staff, who start bringing over pots, paints, brushes, and even a few extra plants. I can’t help but laugh at the sight of him looking kind of excited about this impromptu pot painting date.

“You look cute when you’re excited,” I tease, settling onto the bench and watching him with a grin.

“I am not excited,” he mutters, throwing a half-glance over his shoulder. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he picks up a paintbrush and wiggles it in the air like a wand. “Alright, my little Picasso, show me how it’s done.”

I bite my lip, half shy and half excited to share with him something I love. “Well, I usually start with a base color, thenmom and I add details that make us smile. So, go ahead and paint something that makes you happy!”

He looks down at me, his eyes soft with tenderness. “Whatever makes me happy...” Without hesitation, he plunges the brush into a black paint, slathering it onto his pot with exaggerated strokes. I can’t help but laugh at his over-the-top antics.

“How did I know you were going to choose black?” I tease.

He winks at me. “I guess you know me best.”

“I guess so…” I reply, my voice softer now.

We fall into a comfortable silence while the garden around us feels alive. The afternoon sun casts dappled shadows, and a light breeze carries the sweet scent of flowers and sea salt.

I’ve never felt this peaceful before.

This feels like a dream.

Everything feels like a dream.

Madden, fully concentrated on his own painting, slumps down a little, brow furrowed as he works. Meanwhile, I begin painting a floral design using tones of green, pink and lavender paint. The colors that always come to mind when I think of Madden. I paint them onto the pot as if I’m painting him in my mind, because, in a way, I am. He makes me the happiest.

Madden watches me for a moment, then starts adding more colors, his brows furrowed in concentration. “You know,” he says, glancing up from his pot. “I knew you liked painting, but I didn't know you were this good. Is there anything you can’t do, Willow O’Sullivan?”

I shrug, my face flushing slightly as a shy smile tugs at my lips. “It’s just something I’ve always enjoyed doing with my mom. She’s the real Picasso in our family.”

“I remember…” he says quietly—almost too quiet, a hint of melancholy in his tone.

Then it hits me— the reason for the sudden shift in mood. He must be remembering the race track mural she painted for him. She’d started it the day after they met, and before everyone knew it, she’d poured so much love and of herself into it, as though she already knew he would become a part of our lives. As though, in her heart, she already knew he was home.

“Hey…” I touch his hand gently, letting him know I’m here. I’m always here for him.

“I’m glad you had that,” he says softly. “A family.”

I feel the sadness in his words, and something breaks in my chest. My heart. I set my brush down for a moment, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

He glances up, his expression unreadable. “For?”

I hesitate, the words coming out slowly, like they’ve been stuck in my throat for a really long time. “That you didn't get to have the family you deserve.”

He shrugs, his dark gaze steady on mine. “I had it for a little while.”

I frown, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Yours.”

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