Page 33 of The Art of Scandal

They rounded a corner, and Nathan pulled her into a grove of fruit trees. They weaved through oranges and lemons until they reached the garden shed near the back. He pulled her inside. Moonlight briefly illuminated her face before the door shut and they were both covered in darkness.

There were no footsteps or sirens. Nathan heard yelling, but it sounded far away. Rachel’s eyes caught the light, and they were all pupil, black and glittering. He touched her cheek. “Are you okay?”

She pressed against him and exhaled a soft “Nathan” on his lips. He’d never liked his name. Nathan, Nathaniel, the shortened Nate everyone insisted on using. But he’d never heard it that way: whispered like a prayer. Lust flooded his body like the tide dragging him beneath the ocean. Maybe they were both drowning. But instead of doing the right thing, and pulling back, he dove deeper, drinking her in until there was no saving either one of them.

Their kiss was rough and greedy, as if at any moment she’d be snatched away. Everything else receded until there was nothing but the wet glide of her tongue, the press of her fingers against his neck, and her warm breath against his lips. Rachel made the sweetest sounds, little gasping moans, that made him hard enough for her to feel it. Blood rushed through him, plummeting so hard and fast that he felt high, or drunk, or both. She broke the kiss to catch her breath, and the loss of her mouth made him dizzy.

The voices outside were louder and the faint wail of a siren too close for comfort. “Come with me,” he whispered, and kissed her palm. “Let me take care of you.”

CHAPTER NINE

Rachel had a habit of picking at loose threads. It was something she’d done since childhood. She would pick holes in furniture, pry apart dress seams, ruin the stitches on crocheted hats—all because she couldn’t stand the sight of a dangling string. She could never shake the hope that she could fix something broken without it unraveling.

But she had gotten arrogant. The dress, the taunts, lying her way into a position she wasn’t qualified for—pick, pick, pick. But Matt had won anyway. He was always two steps ahead in the twisted game they were playing. And she was the one who unraveled. When Nathan found her standing next to Matt’s car, she might as well have been those glass shards scattered beneath their feet.

Rachel didn’t get a good look at Nathan until they were in the car. He was dressed in a white shirt, unbuttoned enough for her to see the tattoo on his throat. His clothes looked expensive and tailored. Dry-clean only. When she was his age, she washed everything with cold water and prayed the colors didn’t bleed.

He was quieter than usual. Both hands were glued to the steering wheel. Had he decided she was more trouble than she was worth? Or maybe it was the kiss.

No. That wasn’t a kiss. Kisses were questions. Kisses started tentatively and gradually intensified, with plenty of time to draw conclusions in between. What happened in that shed was a demand. When Nathan pulled away, she thought it was because of the sirens. But now, in the safety of the car, he still wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“What were you doing at that party?” she asked. Sofia’s big events were very exclusive. Distant maybe-cousins weren’t usually on the guest list.

He kept his eyes forward as he pulled into the parking lot. “Someone invited me.”

His studio apartment was bigger than she’d imagined. A large kitchen with stainless steel appliances took up one corner. The living area was filled with dark wood tables and brown leather furniture. A king-sized platform bed took up the rest of the room, covered in white linens he’d tucked into hospital corners. She remembered how in the garden shed he’d pitched forward, both hands gripping her waist as if he was seconds from lowering her to the ground. Nathan caught her staring at the bed, and their eyes connected for a blistering moment before he looked away.

The whole place was neat—bookshelves arranged by color and size, open kitchen shelves with identical plates. The only clutter was a pile of sketchbooks scattered over the kitchen counter. A large wooden drafting table sat empty against the wall.

“You’re an artist.” It came out like an accusation and she tried to soften her tone. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Nathan tossed his keys into a small bowl near the door. “Because I’m not an artist.”

He moved to the counter and gathered the sketchbooks into a neater stack. Watching his slow, methodical movements made her want to throw something to reclaim his attention. “That is a five-thousand-dollar drafting table.”

He shoved the sketchbooks out of sight. “How do you know how much it costs? Areyouan artist?”

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

She raised an eyebrow. “That.Answer a question with a question.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“Yes.Or are you only this way with me?”

He stared at the table. “It was a birthday gift from my brother. I’ve never used it.”

“But you kept it.”

“It was a gift.”

The table obviously had history, which was none of her business. Despite shoving her tongue down his throat thirty minutes ago, she needed to remember that she barely knew this man. Nathan had an entire life she knew nothing about. He was entitled to keep some things private.

“I studied art history in college,” she said. “Black American portraiture. One of my professors owned the same table.”

“So you’re a photographer.”

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