Page 66 of The Truth of Loving You

He dragged the easel at a sloth’s pace, as if prolonging the moment. His magnetic stare held me in its grip, and I had no desire to retreat.

He answered each of my questions thoughtfully and honestly. But it was all theoretical. An actual future with me would press the same wounds as his relationship with Paxton. My head swam, trying to integrate his declaration of love into our narrative. It had to be the trauma bonding. He wasn’t thinking straight.

All the breath whooshed out of my body as his painting assaulted me. It was too much to take in all at once.

“Beautiful,” I whispered as my eyes tracked over a figure evoking an angel of death. The background was awash with black and dark blues in contrast to white wings and a blood-red scythe. Water was dripping off his lean muscled body, and it looked like he’d started to paint a tattoo on the chest.

The face was... “What the fuck? That’s me!”

Cole’s face had gone expressionless, and he remained silent, watching my reaction.

My heart rate skyrocketed, and I rubbed the center of my chest to ease the ache. The me in the painting looked deadly, destroyed, but also beautiful. I’d never experienced a painting the way his made me feel. I hated the sight of it, yet my eyes were glued to it. The pain leapt off the canvas straight into my abused heart.

I wanted to burn this building down, destroying us both so the painting would meet its fiery death. The rage I felt was all-consuming except for the sliver of my mind that understood what I was seeing.

He was showing me a piece of his heart.

“That’s after—”

“Yes. It’s you in the shower. After...” he confirmed, interrupting me.

“Is that how you see me?” In my peripheral vision, I saw Cole nod his head.

It was incomprehensible that Cole had painted such a beautiful version of me.

The canvas depicted a superhuman I’d never measure up to. I wasn’t that beautiful or fierce. Staring at the painting was the equivalent of standing in front of a freight train bearing down the tracks and waiting for the impact. Everything was hazy aside from a two-dimensional me.

Next thing I knew, Cole was crouched next to the bed, grasping my chin. “Look at me, Pretty Boy. Breathe with me. In and out. In and out.” His other hand placed mine over his hammering heart, then his warm palm covered my heart, trying to beat out of my chest.

“I got you. Keep breathing with me. In and out.” The torment on his face reflected the agony wracking my body.

Cole remained in the crouched position far longer than most men could handle until the tightness in my chest released, and I inhaled deeply. Then he collapsed to his knees. “I never would have shown you if I’d known what it would do to you. Fuck. I’m so sorry.” His chin dropped to his chest.

Everything in me screamed to reach out and touch him, but I couldn’t do it. “I don’t understand.”

Nothing had made sense since meeting Cole. My whole life had been turned upside down, inside out, and then blown to bits.

“Art isn’t logical, and neither is my heart or my feelings.” Cole’s hand stretched toward me, but it fell with his sigh. “I pushed my feelings for you into a box. I thought it would be simple. Mutual physical attraction, not an emotional connection. I’ve been lying to myself since the day I met you in your office. I deluded myself into believing if I set up rules that I could keep you at arm’s length. But I hated every day I wasn’t with you.

“I lived for our time together while pretending it was only physical,” he continued.

I’d known all this, but hearing Cole say it out loud hurt more than it should.

“You fascinated me with your lack of filter and perspective. The more time I spent with you, the more I wanted to knowyou. No one else makes numbers and spreadsheets sexy. Your patience is immense, and you amaze me every single day. You care so much that you wiggled your way into my heart before I understood what was happening.” Cole stood and backed away, maintaining our eye contact.

My heart lapped up every crumb he fed me. An addict scrounging for the last scraps.

“I lied to myself, but I picked up a paintbrush after nearly a decade. Art doesn’t lie, but sometimes we don’t understand what it means.” He turned his back and began picking up the canvases. “My heart bled onto my canvas for you, begging me to see the truth.”

He meticulously turned over canvas after canvas of me. It seemed to be the progression of our relationship laid out before my eyes. The first painting had an ethereal quality, so my features weren’t sharp.

The portraits became sharper in detail, and I had less and less clothes until in the last couple, I was naked. But the very last one laid out wasn’t of me but of the New York night skyline on display from inside floor-to-ceiling windows.

“You hate that apartment,” I blurted, realizing it was the view from his Greenwich home.

Cole shifted his feet and scrubbed a hand over his face. “But you loved that view, and I thought... well it doesn’t matter now.” He tried to keep his voice casual.

“You painted it for me. Because I said I wanted art in my living room.” I didn’t have to ask; I knew.

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