“Then why mention it?”
“It was my mother’s favorite. . . .” He paused, catching himself at the admission. He hadn’t thought about his mother in a while. “Every movie night at our house, when it was her turn to pick, she’d always choose—”
“Titanic.”
The word struck him directly in the chest. The atmosphere in the room shifted. He could actually feel the air molecules tighten from the tension. As he studied her through hooded eyes, Didi picked up her palette, squeezed a dollop of a flesh tone from a tube onto it, and dipped the business end of the brush into the paint. She considered the blank canvas for a second before the brush landed. Her hand moved with precision and confidence, not a moment’s hesitation. He found himself transfixed. Reluctantly he caught himself admitting Didi affected him more than he’d ever thought possible. It scared him. Yet in the pit of his stomach, a thrill mixed with his fear. What was happening to him?
Watching her work was fascinating. One second she would be smiling at something she had done. Then she would frown, pick out a new tube of color or switch out her brush, and continue. Once in a while she would swipe her thumb against her cheek or chin and leave a streak of paint there.
Every time she flicked her gaze at him, his stomach muscles clenched. It was similar to that moment of suspension before the roller coaster plunged down the first hill. He anticipated her looks, but when they came they still sent a thrill through him.
About fifteen minutes later, Didi’s frown hadn’t stopped. She looked from the canvas to him, then back again. Something must have dissatisfied her, because she removed it from the easel, making sure he hadn’t seen the painting by turning it away, and picked up a fresh one.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
She studied him again. “You’re distracting me.”
He smiled, stretching. “Want me to put my shirt back on?”
Tearing her eyes away from the motion, Didi suggested, “Maybe we just need to talk.” She picked up a thicker brush from the set she had bristles down in a jar. “Tell me something about yourself.”
“I work out at least four times a week. Anything else you want to know?”
“What’s your deal with love?”
His mouth dried up and his throat closed. “You’re not pulling any punches, huh?”
“Well . . .” She squeezed a new dollop of paint onto the collection she already had. “You’re the one who gave me free rein. Next time set parameters.” She pursed her lips at the canvas, then flicked the brush over the center. “So, what’s your hang-up with love? I figure something must have happened for you to make not falling in love your number one rule. What, someone break your heart or something?”
Squeezing the back of his neck, he cleared his throat. “Something like that.”
“Who’s the lucky girl?”
“My mother.”
The brush paused midair. She looked at him for a brief instant, then continued painting. “Oh?” was all she said, and yet that one word seemed to have flicked some sort of switch in him, because he started talking.
“I witnessed firsthand what love can do to a person.” Grabbing the lip of the stool between his legs, he allowed his shoulders to slump forward. He picked a spot on the floor and kept his gaze there, letting himself remember. “My mother killed herself when I was twelve. It was a shock to everyone because she was the happiest person in the world. Never a smile out of place. I think it was most shocking for my father. JJ loved her. It was in the way he looked at her, like she was his entire world.” He swallowed the hard lump that had formed in his throat. “Once, I caught them kissing in the kitchen. My mom had been in the middle of flipping pancakes. The house smelled of cinnamon. I remember waking up to their laughter, and when I got to the kitchen there they were in each other’s arms. Even when they knew I was there sticking my tongue out, because yuck—kissing.” Distantly he thought he heard Didi giggle. “Even after they’d stepped out of each other’s arms, my father kept looking into my mother’s eyes like he was seeing her for the first time.”
“What happened?” came Didi’s whispered question.
“I honestly don’t know. One day she was there, and the next she wasn’t. I tried asking my father about what had really happened, but he refused to talk about it. He still does, actually. He’d rather drown himself in work than face the loss of my mother. And he grew . . . cold. Distant. Not even his brother could get through to him. Trust me, my uncle tried. If it didn’t have to do with work, he didn’t care about it. There were days when we didn’t have anything to eat because he’d fired all the staff, and there was no one to go grocery shopping. That was when I started spending more time at Nathan’s house.”