Page 9 of Beautifully Deranged

I grab my keys and head for the door. Not even ten minutes have passed since I arrived when there’s a knock at my door. Light. Playful. Predictable. I wrench it open to find her beaming at me. “Dinner,” she announces. “You’re coming over.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Come on, big guy. You’ve got to eat.”

I arch a brow. “You suddenly care about my diet?”

“Always have.” She winks at me. “But mostly, I just don’t want to eat alone.”

I should let her go before this gets messier than it already is. But I don’t. “Fine.”

She does a little happy dance before dragging me into her apartment. “Make yourself at home,” she quips, moving toward the kitchen. “Oh wait. I forgot—you don’t do ‘homey,’ do you?”

I ignore her. Her apartment is very similar to mine, but she’s added touches that make it hers. The first thing I notice is the paintings. A shit ton of them. It’s like a gallery in here.

“You cook?” I ask.

“Wouldn’t call it that. More like… experimenting.”

“Sounds promising.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re so encouraging.”

I watch as she hums to herself, pulling open a drawer. Then she pauses, noticing how I’m focused on the paintings.

“I painted them, you know.”

I’m thrown for a second. But it fits; her hands are always moving, her energy spilling out in a thousand directions.But shit.Painting means art. And art means something very specific to my family.Forgery. My stomach knots. If my brother catches wind of this, things will get even more complicated. He’d try to exploit her little talent. He’d think that if he got her in it, I’d follow.

“All you paint are pretty little sunsets?” I grumble.

“Naked men, actually.”

“Of course you do.”

If she actually does, I’ll hunt down every subject she’s ever had.Fuck.I’m already too involved.

“Ever want to model, big guy?”

“You don’t want me sitting still long enough for that, sweetheart.”

Her eyes glaze over, but she pushes whatever she’s feeling away and goes back to work.

“You want help?” I ask.

She tosses me a look over her shoulder. “Oh? Mr. Broody wants to help? How domestic of you.”

I roll my eyes. “Forget it.”

She grabs something from the counter before walking up to me, holding out a cutting board with a bell pepper on it. “Chop this.”

I stare at it, unimpressed.

“Scared of a little knife work, big guy?”

I take the board from her and grab the knife. “Just don’t bitch if they’re uneven.” We work in tandem. She stirs something in a pan while I dice the pepper.

“So,” she says while washing her hands, “do you always make a habit of helping random women cook, or am I just special?”

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