When I finally looked up after a noise splintered my attention, the sky outside was dark, and paint covered not only my journal and three canvases, but also my skin.
Scott stood in the doorway to my art room with his arms folded across his chest and his feet planted wide. “Have you been in here all day?”
I blinked, disoriented. Frowning, I asked, “What time is it?”
“It’s just after seven.” His gaze shifted to take in the room; to take in the mess I’d created. My art supplies were strewn across the floor and over my desk.
I hardly remember making this mess.
Standing, I stepped over my supplies and walked to where he stood. Placing my hand on his chest, I apologised, “Sorry, I haven’t even thought about dinner yet.”
His hand caught mine as I shifted it off his chest. Not moving his gaze from mine, he said, “Sweetheart, I could give a fuck about dinner.”
Guilt filtered through me. Even though he didn’t care, I did. I wanted to be the woman he needed, and I wanted to look after him as well as he looked after me.
Before I could say anything, he placed a finger under my chin and tilted my face to his. “What are you thinking?” His voice was firm but gentle as he guided me to give him what he wanted.
I blinked again. “I know you don’t care about dinner, but I do. I should have cooked us something.”
A look crossed his face. If I had to take a guess, I would have said it was frustration. His jaw ticked and I waited for him to let his frustration loose, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “I’ll cook dinner while you get cleaned up.”
His tone held no room for argument so I nodded. “Okay.”
He let me go and stepped aside to let me through. As I exited the room, he added, “And Harlow?” I turned back to see what he had to say. “When you’re finished cleaning up, I want you in the kitchen with me while I cook. I don’t know what the fuck is going on in your head tonight, but what I do know is that it needs to stop. I’ve gone easy on you over the past few months and I’m done with easy.” And there was the Scott Cole I knew well.
My bossy man.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, I joined Scott in the kitchen. I’d had so much paint on my skin and in my hair that I’d decided to shower. He looked up from the vegetables he was slicing to give me his attention.
I slid onto the stool across from him and leant my elbows on the kitchen counter. “What are you cooking?”
“Steak and veggies.” His gaze roamed over me and butterflies fluttered in my belly. When he finally gave me back his eyes, he said, “Start talking, baby.”
I sighed. “Can we talk about this later? I want to know about your day.”
He shook his head and squared his shoulders in the way he did when he was settling in for the kind of discussion where he intended to be forceful. “No.”
We watched each other intently and my heart beat a little faster. Admitting you felt lost and like a failure to the man you loved was not an easy thing to do. I never wanted Scott to look at me in any way other than the way he always had, and I worried that if he knew I wasn’t all he thought I was, he’d look at me differently.
“Harlow, start talking.” His words came out almost as a growl and I knew my time had run out. I had to give him something.
Shit.
My head buzzed with dizzying lightness, but I pushed on and started talking. “I’m not where I thought I would be by now…” I faltered on my words and swallowed back my nervousness. At his frown, I continued. “I mean, my life hasn’t gone the way I thought it would.”
He raised his brows and placed the knife he was holding down. Resting his hands on the kitchen counter, he said, “Go on.”
God, I was making a mess of this. “That came out wrong, Scott. I don’t mean you – you’re the best thing in my life. I never want to lose you and I never want our relationship to change. It’s important to me that I don’t mess us up.” My words were coming out fast and I stopped to take a breath.
His chest rose as he also took a breath – a long, deep breath that signalled the frustration he was holding back. “Where did you think you’d be by now?”