Rosa’s hand tightened around the spool so tightly that the plastic edges bit into her skin as a hot rush of powerlessness rose up inside her again. Unbidden, Drake’s voice sounded in her head, as if to provide a counterpoint to her shame, to how painfully vulnerable she felt.
Something about you makes me want to break all my rules. You make me want to risk the very thing that completely destroyed my parents. That’s how strong you are. That’s how much power you have. The power to do, to achieve, to have absolutely anything you want.
She didn’t know how he saw what he saw when he looked at her. Couldn’t even begin to figure out why he felt what he felt when he was with her.
All she knew was that she wanted so badly to go back to him, to his cabin that had seemed like a refuge in the storm howling all around her.
She wanted to keep looking at the sketches he’d drawn, where she actually looked strong and powerful, until she somehow started to believe it could actually be true.
And, most of all, she wanted to rewind to the moment when they’d almost kissed in the kitchen, just be able to close her eyes and forget about everything but how good it would feel to press her lips against his.
But if she went to Drake and used him to bury her pain for a few blissful hours in his arms, wouldn’t that be proof that she was all the horrible things people had called her over the years? Rosa didn’t want to be that woman. Couldn’t stand the thought that Selma Laskey might be right about her.
Which meant that instead of rushing out the door and over to Drake’s cabin to lose herself in him for a few sinfully hot hours, she needed to pick up her Montauk sweatshirt, thread a needle, and take a few stitches.
She wasn’t going to be able to stitch her life back together anytime soon—especially not when she was still reeling from what she’d seen on TV and in her email. But she could at least make a start by not ripping anything or anyone else to shreds.
Because the only thing that could possibly be worse than what she was already dealing with would be falling for a man whom she already knew was too good for her...and then ending up with a broken heart when he figured it out too.
Chapter Ten
Drake was beyond captivated. Miles past enthralled.
He was full-out consumed.
Painting as darkness fell outside his windows, he kept painting until the sun rose again. He didn’t stop to eat. Didn’t need to sleep.
Not when all the inspiration he’d been lacking over the past months was hitting him in a hard, fast rush. His hands and shoulders began to ache, and Oscar was looking at him as if he’d lost his mind, but Drake couldn’t stop. Couldn’t focus on anything but working out the different tones of Rosa’s skin—paler when she was scared, darker when she was mad, rosier when she was laughing, and a beautiful combination of all three when she’d been looking at him with barely suppressed heat.
As long as he was painting, Rosa was still there with him. But if he stopped, even put down his brush for five minutes?
He’d be in his car before he could stop himself, driving to her motel, slamming down the door to beg her to come back. To come sit in the leather chair again so that he could keep memorizing every line of her face, the slope of her nose, the curves of her ears, the hollow at her throat.
And, most of all, so that he could kiss her breathless. And just keep kissing her until neither of them remembered why they shouldn’t.
When it started raining again, the hail hitting the roof and the porch louder than he’d ever heard it, he immediately saw Rosa sitting on the cliffs in the rain, strong even as she buried her head on her knees. Yanking another canvas up onto the easel, he painted even faster, more consumed than ever despite having worked for nearly twenty-four hours straight.
But when the hail continued to come down harder and harder, he finally realized it wasn’t hail. Someone was outside knocking on his door.
Rosa.
He dropped his brushes and lunged for the door, throwing it open. But the woman standing beneath an open umbrella wasn’t the woman he’d been obsessing about.
“Suzanne.”
His sister’s eyebrows rose all the way up under her bangs. “Holy crap. You’re a mess.”
He hadn’t looked in a mirror, but he had no doubt that she was right. He hadn’t slept, eaten, shaved, or changed his clothes. And he’d been painting so fast that splatters of color covered his hands and arms, clothes and shoes. His hair too, probably.
“I’ve been working.”
“That’s good.” His sister smiled. “I know you’ve been hoping inspiration would strike. Looks like it finally has.”