“You’re watching me quite critically so I can only assume you’re solving a chemistry problem.”
“I don’t think we have a chemistry problem.” My voice is soft as though it’s evaporating in my dry mouth.
He runs his thumb over my lower lip. It pulsates a little under his touch. “No, I don’t think we do, either.” He kisses my lips gently. “I’m afraid I bit these too hard,” he says, running his tongue over them like a balm.
Oh no, do I have morning breath? Oh, who cares! “You can bite them again if you want.”
He blows on them lightly and pulls away with a sigh. “Maybe you should eat your breakfast first. I already deprived you of dinner last night.”
I’m about to say food is overrated but my stomach growls. Embarrassed, I lean against the headboard and pick up the tray. Eggs, bacon, scone, orange marmalade, Cornish clotted cream, a flute of cranberry juice and a glass of water. But the best part is the apple slice and the Baci chocolate.
I laugh. “How did you know I liked Cornish clotted cream?”
“Your roommate mentioned it when she was berating you about Colin Firth.”
“Wow! You have a good memory.”
He shrugs.
“Well, thank you! This is beautiful. Especially the Baci. Did you do all this?”
“No, Cora did. But if it redeems me in your eyes, I placed the order and sent Benson to hunt for the rose. I did give him a picture of the Elisa look-alike.”
“You’re redeemed.” I laugh, tucking the rose behind my ear and taking a bite of my eggs.
“You’re stunning,” he says, almost under his breath. I look up ready for a joke, but his lips are parted and for an instant, I believe my own beauty. Then I remember I have my mouth open and fork in hand. I chew the eggs, lest they drop all over the bed and ruin my new image and his silk sheets.
“Your blush is making the rose jealous,” he chuckles.
“Occupational hazard of working with rubidium and bromine vapors.” I feel awkward so I change the subject to much more important matters. “So, will you tell me something that’s not embargoed?”
The turquoise depths still. “It’s kind of early for that, isn’t it?”
He’s probably right. Besides, I have all day. “Okay, so what would you like to do today?”
“Well, I was thinking you could pose for your painting and then this evening, we can be together.” He looks like he has spent endless thought on this plan.
My fork drops on the tray. “My—my painting?” It feels like the eggs are hatching in my stomach.
His face remains impassive. “Yes.”
“I don’t want to pose for the painting,” I blurt out. The flute of cranberry juice rattles a little. “I want to spend time with you.”
He smiles without his dimple and caresses my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “And we will. Tonight.” He picks up the fork, loads it with eggs and shoves it in my mouth, which has popped open for reasons having nothing to do with eating.
I chew and swallow as soon as I can do so without choking. He loads the fork again but I stop his hand.
“Aiden, we had a deal to spend the day together. I share something, you share something.” I try to keep my voice in calm territory, rather than in wailing land where it naturally wants to go.
Aiden’s jaw flexes as though he is clamping his teeth shut. He lowers the fork slowly on the tray. His left hand claws into a white fist in the comforter. A jolt of fury flashes in his eyes.
“Elisa, we can spend time together after you’re finished. This isn’t very complicated.” His voice is even, so even that I can only conclude it’s hiding a storm underneath. And he left out the “sharing” part.
“I don’t understand. Why is this painting so important that it can’t wait a single day?”
He shakes his head and stares at the paintings on the wall. I’m about to say I quit, but there is a helplessness in the way he regards them. Then, his eyes zero in on mine like a focal lens.
“Because I told you, Elisa. In a painting, you can always belong to me.”
Oxygen stops in my airways. Always. If “always” is what he wants, I cannot give it to him. But there is something else about his answer that terrifies me just as much.
“Do you like the image better than the real girl?” The question fires from my lips of its own volition. My stomach clenches violently at the thought—more violently than I imagined. I look at the breakfast tray, the twenty-nine remaining days fueling me to run, last night compelling me to stay. Overnight something changed for me. Something subtle, yet bold. Now, I don’t want to be just a portrait.
A small intake of breath interrupts my mental dirge. My eyes fly up to his. There is no trace of fury there. The tectonic plates shift and still and shift again, as though something is burning at the core. He cups my face, his long fingers reaching into my hair.
“Call Mr. Solis. The painting is off today.” His voice is soft.
I nod, my insides churning. “Are you sending me home?”