Page 27 of Unresolved

I jerked my head up.“Don’t pretend you care now.”

His eyes narrowed, a muscle in the side of his cheek moving convulsively.“Does it sound like I’m pretending?”

I threw my brush onto the bed.“I-I don’t know anymore,” I admitted in a small, hollow voice.

“La mia Gemma, come here,” he said throatily.

That I stepped into his arms like it was as natural as breathing was my own fucked up fault.And yet, I took great comfort in his physical touch.

More fool you.

I forced myself to step back.“Since we missed breakfast, I assume lunch is on offer?”

He nodded.“Of course.How does lasagna and salad sound?”

“Delightful.”

“Good, because you’ll be helping to make it.”

I couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across my face.“Are you sure that’s wise?Last time I cooked for you I turned our food into charcoal.”

“You can dice the vegetables and herbs, I’ll cook them along with the mince and the béchamel sauce.”

It was kind of nice to sit on an old wooden stool at the kitchen bench and chop up the onion, celery, garlic and herbs for the lasagna.While he cooked those along with the mince, I chopped up the salad ingredients, which included lettuce, tomato, cucumber, radishes and grated carrot.

I tossed it all into a bowl and wrapped it up before I put it into the fridge while Evander assembled mince, lasagna sheets and béchamel sauce in layers in a baking dish, topped it with cheese, then shoved it into the oven.

He straightened, looking approvingly at the bench that I’d wiped clean.“I think we should check your landscape painting now, see if it’s salvageable.”

I nodded, though it was the last thing I wanted to do.No artist in their right mind would treat their work with such callous indifference.I followed him outside, Rembrandt joining us as far as the porch where he scratched the decking to sharpen his claws while we continued out onto the grass.

I followed Evander to where my painting lay face-up and seemingly unharmed.“I think it’ll be fine,” he said as he picked it up with a satisfied nod.“There’s no damage done to the actual picture itself.”He lifted his eyes to mine.“You were lucky.”

I shrugged, sheepish now.“It’s not like it will ever hang on anyone’s wall.”

“Says who?”

I huffed out a breath.“Not everyone can be the mysterious Chase Holland and enjoy a meteoric rise.”I blinked at him.“Speaking of whom, how did you manage to convince him to paint us together?”

That the artist had captured the essence of our intense passion without ever seeing us together still blew my mind.Though nothing had really been shown in a physical sense, I’d felt compromised and exposed, the intimacy on the canvas far too personal.

He blinked back.“Is that what you—“

He shook his head as if to clear it.“You really haven’t put two and two together.”

I narrowed my eyes.“If only I’d known I was here to solve an equation!”

He carefully placed my landscape back onto the easel, ignoring my defensive outburst as he informed, “I’d like you to paint a canvas every morning.”

“Thank you, butnothank you.”

Never mind that the idea held too much appeal, I refused to obey his every whim and command.

He crossed his arms, his stance unyielding.“Either that or stay chained to my bed.It’s your choice.”

“That’s blackmail,” I breathed.

“It’s a choice.Yourchoice.”

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