Page 100 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

The last time we were in this room was the day I walked in on his dad beating the shit out of him.

It was the day I wished Mr. Wilder would disappear from Kane’s life.

And then, he did.

I turn away from Kane, continuing to gather my things. I don’t know what’s gotten into him or why he’s acting decent all of a sudden, but I’m too exhausted to care.

“What are you working on?” His breath slides along the side of my neck, and I jump, flicking my head to see him standing way too close to me, looking at the painting over my shoulder.

The only light in the room originates from the night sky, the stars’ glow invading the space through the windows covering the walls.

The moonlight hits the left side of Kane’s face, gliding along the curve of his jaw and casting an aura on his godlike features.

My throat dries at his proximity, and I have to force myself to stare ahead before he notices me ogling him.

“That’s… depressing,” he comments on my work.

I gesture to the tubes of paint next to my plastic palette. “I didn’t have much of a choice. I could only get dark shades.”

My comment piques his curiosity. “Why?”

“Not everyone’s loaded, remember?” Venom drips from my voice, and I try to lessen the blow by adding, “They were on sale. I grabbed what I could.”

Sometimes I wonder if he can even recall what it’s like to be broke. The only time Kane didn’t live a luxurious lifestyle was during the first few months following his father’s death.

Back when his mom couldn’t afford to get him a phone and he’d lost a bunch of weight from skipping two meals a day.

Kane nods, distancing himself from me and dropping onto the bench in front of the piano.

My lungs fill with relief, the tension in my shoulders easing the second he walks away.

He starts tinkering on the piano with one hand. “Is that why you stopped painting? Because of money?”

I raise a brow. “Who says that I stopped?”

He looks up, staring right at me. “I don’t know, maybe the fact that you’re in school, majoring in communications, instead of a famous artist selling your paintings for a fuck ton of money?”

How does he even know what I’m majoring in?

I snort. “Like that would’ve ever happened.”

The frown on his face tells me he disagrees, but he digs his teeth into his bottom lip as if to stop himself from arguing. “Did you even try to put your work out there?

Shame taints my cheeks. “I was going to. My junior year of high school. I even bought a domain, but… let’s just say it wasn’t the right time.”

He nods, showing more understanding than I thought he would. “What? Did life just get in the way?”

I wish I could say none of the above, but it’s a little bit of everything. “Gray got murdered, for one.”

The reminder seems to cut him to the bone, a shadow descending over his beautiful face.

“By the time Mom and I managed to come up for air, it was time to send out college applications. I had to start thinking about the future and getting a real job.”

“And you don’t think painting could be a real job?”

“I used to,” I say, my voice just above a whisper. “But I wasn’t being realistic. I’m fine with it just being a hobby.”

“Why?” he says bluntly.

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