She slid the glass in his direction. “How do you usually get inspired?”
He swirled the bourbon around and watched the light filter through the liquid. “Read the Phoenix books again.”
“Right. But you were drawing before you read those. What inspired you then?”
Nathan hesitated. “Not much. I bought into that toxic, macho bullshit in boarding school. Paints were for girls. Real men didn’t know indigo from violet. I joined the wrestling team in high school, and I don’t even like sports. My coach hated me. And I was angry all the time. It came from that.”
One night, after losing a match, he’d picked up a chair and slammed it against the wall until it splintered. It felt good enough to scare him. “I quit the team, bought a sketch pad, and drew a bunch of raging, fucked-up shit that I burned as soon as it was finished.”
He took a drink and tried to clear it from his head. He hated going back there. He wasn’t that guy anymore, but he had been once, which meant that he could be again.
“I don’t want to have to be angry to make something real,” he said. These days, she was his only inspiration. Her laugh. Her smile. The dark glisten of her sweaty skin against his sheets. He could trace it all from memory onto his canvas.
Nathan drained his drink. She topped off her own glass, eyes moist with pity, like she’d discovered a limping puppy.
“Hey. It’s fine,” he said. “Ancient history.”
“Right. When’s the last time you saw an exhibit?” She snatched up the glass he just put down and returned it to the kitchen island.
Jesus, she was wound tight; the glass didn’t even have a chance to sweat. “Never.”
She stopped to stare at him. “Not even a museum?”
“No.” He paused, thinking back. “Maybe on a field trip once. But I’m pretty sure it was dinosaur fossils, that kind of thing.”
She set the glass on the island. “Are you seriously telling me you’ve never been to MoMA? The Met? The Portrait Gallery? Nothing?”
“It’s not really my thing, Rachel.”
“How would you know? The walls of those places speak to you. It’s impossible not to be inspired.”
He disagreed. There wasn’t anything inspiring about random paint splotches dribbled on a canvas. But just talking about those places had her glowing. Visiting one would probably make her radiant. Two hundred miles from Oasis Springs, he’d be free to enjoy it, uninterrupted. “So, let’s go!” He threw out the suggestion, watering the faint hope of being alone with her until it sprouted and bloomed. “We can drive up to New York and you can show me around MoMA.”
The glow dimmed. “I can’t—” She paused, and chewed her lip for two agonizing seconds, before nodding to herself. “You know what? Yes. Let’s do it. How’s this weekend?”
“Good!” Nathan said, trying to rein in his enthusiasm, even though his greedy heart was still spinning. “It’s great. It’ll be fun.”
She nodded and touched an empty glass. “Would you like another drink?”
He glanced at a clock. “It’s five thirty. I should probably slow down.”
She blinked and shook her head. “You’re right. It is early, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” She poured the rest of her drink down the sink, flipped on the faucet, and chased everything with an aggressive wipe-down using a dishcloth that she threw in a small basket next to the refrigerator.
“What’s wrong?”
“What?” She blinked like he was shining a flashlight in her face. “I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay.”
She touched her ponytail. “Excuse me for relaxing in my own home.”
“I’m not talking about your hair. I like your hair. I like—” Every inch of you. “Did Matt—” The name was acid in his throat. “Did he do something to you?”
“No. I’m fine.” She inhaled sharply. “Could you move that back, please?”
Nathan frowned, realizing that he’d been absently fiddling with a porcelain bird figurine. It was part of a collection that lined the table beside him.
“Sorry.” He put it down.
She shook her head. “Not there.”
He looked at it again and realized how ugly it was. It was a robin redbreast, covered with a glossy sheen that gave off Flowers in the Attic vibes. “Are these yours?”
“They belonged to Matt’s dead aunt,” she said. “His mother looks in on them whenever she stops by.”
Nathan nodded. “Got it, right.” He took the bird, walked across the kitchen, and set it on the counter. “You should throw that thing in the trash.”
A startled laugh burst from her throat. “Why?”
“Because it’s ugly. It also stresses you out. Who gives a shit if it’s a millimeter to the left?”
“I like things a certain way.”
“I think need is more accurate.” He pointed to the figurine. “I dare you to leave it right here. Or at least two millimeters away from where it should be. All night—don’t move it, don’t even look at it.”
She walked around the counter to face him. The top of her ponytail barely reached his chin. He looked down and got an eyeful of bright red toenails. What would people think if they saw her like this? Barefoot and tipsy. Vulnerable.
“You’re making fun of me,” she said.
“Never.” He grinned. “A little.”
“I don’t do dares.”
“You mean you don’t win them.” He tapped the bird’s head with one finger. “That’s surprising. I thought you were a low-key suburban badass.”
Her lips twitched as she fought a smile. “Now you’re trying to provoke me.”
Her fingers darted toward the bird. He snatched it away, laughing, and grabbed her wrist. “Cheater.”
Her eyes fell to his lips. He wondered if she realized how often she did that—stared at his mouth like she was desperate for him to kiss her.
“I’m not playing a game,” she whispered.
Nathan tugged her closer and brought her hand to his chest. Her fingers splayed against his heart. She had to know what being this close to her did to him.
“Neither am I.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
That second drink was a mistake. It was working inside her, alchemizing with the lust rushing through her veins. She was warm, but Nathan was burning. He cradled her neck, thumb to her pulse, then gave her a look that was yearning and haunted, like an ache.
Rachel knew what falling in love felt like. The beats were as instinctual as holding a camera. She could go months without taking a photo, but her hands would know what her mind had forgotten. Just like her heart. Last night, she’d tossed and turned, rehashing all her choices. Love wasn’t a free fall, it was surrender.
“Why did you bring me here?” Nathan whispered.
She pulled his hand away and stepped back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Nathan swayed, unsteady. “Rachel—”