Her eyes widen, and her lips part slightly before she slams them closed.
“That’s why I took you to Emma’s the other night, but she’s home now so . . . I wanted to invite you over to see how it feels to have someone in my place. I figured with tonight’s situation . . . seemed like the perfect opportunity.”
She’s still staring at me with what looks like even bigger eyes, if that’s possible.
“My life is chaotic, and having my place all to myself makes me feel grounded. It’s not healthy, and I’m working on that, but until—”
“No problem.” She reaches down and removes one boot before moving to the other. Holding her boots in one hand, she shifts her chin up and gives me a soft smile. “Anything else?”
That’s it? No problem? She doesn’t seem fazed by my confession, outside of her initial shock.
“No.” I lick my lips to avoid the grin that’s pushing its way to the surface. “That’s it.”
I turn back to open the door and slide my shoes off before stepping inside. I feel the heat of her body at my back, and it sets off my internal alarm. I’m not alone in my house. I breathe past the panic and move to the light switch. With a click, the entire living space lights up.
My head jerks toward the sound of Mac’s gasp. She’s standing inside the doorway, her head swiveling from one side of the room to the other, mouth agape, eyes wide.
So much for her not seeming fazed.
*
Mac
No walls. The interior of Rex’s condo is completely open. From his kitchen to his bedroom, all of it exposed. Nothing like his neighbor’s tiny place filled with personal items and photos, this feels more like a museum without the artifacts.
“Just drop your shoes at the door and come in.” His voice sounds strangled, as if he had to force out each word against his will.
My heart cramps violently at what he must be feeling. Those who don’t know his history might think he’s simply a germaphobe with impeccable cleaning skills, but not me. No, I know this is part of him. I’m standing at the threshold of a bi-product of his abuse.
I set my boots down neatly next to his black Chucks and step further into the room. My peripheral vision clocks him standing off to the side, watching me, so I force myself to smile past the wave of unease that comes with knowing why he never allows anyone in this space. He’s protecting himself.
“Rex, this is amazing.” I allow my eyes to settle on his for a split second, non-threatening and brief, and catch the glint of relief. I go back to studying the room and can’t help but feel something familiar in it.
What is it? The furniture is sleek and modern, streamlined leather couches and tables without anything on them. Not a knickknack or personal touch in the entire place.
To the right is a modern kitchen, all stainless steel from the appliances to the countertops. Even his bedroom is nothing more than a low bed and two end tables with nothing but a single and very simple lamp.
It’s industrial. All the walls are painted in the same pale shade of gray, and the treated concrete floor is also gray but a shade darker. My eyes are drawn to the one bold splash of color in the whole room.
Hanging above the block fireplace is a painting. It’s big, over two feet wide, probably four feet tall, and like everything else it’s simple. Orange, like the color of the fire that would burn in the space beneath it. The broad strokes cover the canvas in a diagonal pattern, not so much like the sharp flickers of a flame, but more like the soothing flow of waves. The color pops against the steely expanse of the room. I step closer, feeling drawn to its familiarity.
“I love this painting.”
He clears his throat. “Thanks, I did that when I first moved in.” His voice is still distant, detached, but not as nervous as it was before.
He did it?
My head whips in his direction. “You did it?”
He shrugs and a slight pink colors his cheeks. “Yeah. Thought the place needed a little something.”
A slow smile pulls at my lips at the thought of him painting. It makes sense. A guy who writes music would be creative in other areas. How did I not know this about him? “Do you have others?”
He takes a few steps toward me, looking up at his work. “Nah. Just the one.”
I follow his gaze and study the piece, and the more I look at it, the more I can see that the large orange waves are multi-faceted, comprised of many tiny strokes and over a dozen variations of orange. Remarkable. It almost looks like . . . hair.
Orange hair, gray . . .
Recognition slams my chest, robbing my breath. My stomach lurches into my throat and my legs go numb. Eyes fixed on the painting; it grows fuzzy as my vision blurs. Heat flushes my cheeks, and I’m overcome with the burning desire to run out of here, something I’d do if I could feel my damn legs.
It couldn’t be . . .