How Sweet It Is (13 page)

The way his fingers massaged her hair made her melt. Steeling herself against it was the hardest thing she’d ever done. “I thought we’d—”

“I have something for you.” He kissed her, deep and full, so her knees softened and she all but forgot her name.

“Upstairs,” he said, still kissing her, moving her back toward the door. “In my flat.”

Frowning, she shook her head to dislodge his hold. “No. I came here with a purpose.”

“I know your purpose.” He arched his brow as he reached for a shirt. “But I have something special for you.”

She started to tell him that she wanted to state her case first, but then she really looked at him, saw the hopeful expression in his eyes, and couldn’t disappoint him. “I’ll get a moment later to express what I want?”

“I have what you want.” He took her hand and led her upstairs.

He
did
have what she wanted—both professionally and personally—but she knew he was only going to offer the latter. It was easier.

And the professional relationship was what she needed to focus on right now. This was her time, and he was already railroading her into doing only what he wanted. She frowned as she trailed behind him. “Finn, I really—”

But then he opened the door to his flat, and all her thoughts and worries faded when she saw the fabulous paintings adorning the walls. The space itself was sparse, with the barest amount of furniture, but almost every centimeter of wall was covered in unframed canvases in varying colors and shapes.

“This is amazing.” She let go of his hand and went up inspect them. Most of them were similar enough in style that she figured they were the same artist. Finn’s paintings? She peered closely at one, but it was unsigned. So were the next few she checked.

The one over the couch was a different style to the rest, though. It was a bold Impressionist piece of a countryside, in vivid colors. It reminded her of Suncrest Park, their former family manor. Standing in front of the canvas, she could almost smell the grass and hear the bees buzzing from wildflower to wildflower. “Did you do this?” she asked without taking her eyes off it.

“No, but most of the other paintings are mine,” he admitted almost reluctantly as he walked into the kitchen.

She knelt on the couch to read the signature, but it was scribbled. “Who painted this one?”

“Henry, my uncle.”

The favored uncle
.
She looked at it with new eyes. “It reminds me of our family manor. My sister Portia would go mad for this. The country manor used to be her favorite place in the world.”

“Used to be?” Finn asked, setting a cutting board on the counter. “What’s her favorite place now?”

“Her husband’s arms.” Smiling, Viola tugged off her scarf and draped her coat on the couch before joining him. “You loved your uncle very much. Is he why you paint?”

Finn took out a bottle of wine and uncorked it. Setting it aside, he took out paper-wrapped items from the refrigerator and unwrapped a package, revealing a hunk of cheese. “I paint because I have to. Henry taught me technique, but only because I needed to paint. Art is in our blood.”

She nodded. “Your father started the Buchanan Art Collective.”

His expression clouded over. “Because he had no skill for creating. But my grandfather was an artist, and Henry was absolutely amazing.”

“What happened to Henry?” she asked, knowing it couldn’t be good based on how Jasmine had talked about it.

“He died,” Finn said curtly. He took glasses out of the cabinet above and put them so forcefully on the counter that they sounded like they cracked. “My father pushed Henry too far, all for money. He kept asking Henry for more and more. It took the joy out of painting for Henry. When he told my father that he wasn’t going to paint for a while, my father went ballistic.”

She thought of Reginald,
her
father, and how upset he got when he hadn’t gotten his way. “It didn’t go well, I assume.”

“My father forced Henry to keep painting, until Henry had nothing left but suicide.” Finn faced her. “My art is my soul, the same as it was for Henry. I won’t allow it to become commerce.”

“Of course you won’t,” she murmured, nodding. Finn was standing up for both himself and Henry. It all made sense now.

Except for one thing.

She looked at the paintings all around her. “You’re not protecting your soul. You’re hiding it away. Henry couldn’t have wanted that. It’s a crime to hoard and hide away beauty like this.”

“Enough talking about that,” he declared. “Let’s eat.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t come here to eat, Finn. Or to shag,” she added just in case he went there. “I want to talk about your art.”

“I don’t.” He lifted his wine glass and took a long sip, watching her the whole time.

“Then just listen to me.” She put her hand on his, as a way to connect. “You have power in your artwork. What you’re doing here could change lives. I know if I woke up to one of your canvases every morning, it’d change my outlook on my day. I’d be uplifted.”

He stared at her implacably.

Was he hearing what she was saying? She shook her head, not sure, but knowing she had to keep trying. “I understand you don’t want to support your father. I know too well what it’s like to have an overbearing parent. But it wouldn’t be that way if you let me show your art.”

He set his glass down. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“We have to talk about it.” She looked him in the eye. “I’m willing to work with you on the terms. You turned down the offer to show the artwork under a different name. What if we kept them anonymous?”

“It’s not going to work, Viola. I won’t sell my art.”

His words closed on her like a thick metal gate, shutting her out of his world. She rubbed her arms. Then why was she here? She had no reason to stay.

It was the saddest realization she’d ever made, but she had to try again. “What if—”

“What if you just kiss me?” He bent toward her and took her mouth.

She felt a stab of self-reproach before heat flared and ignited her thirst. She ran her fingers through his hair, holding him close, trying to show him that she cared for his wellbeing beyond his artwork.

He moaned against her mouth, his fingers raking through her hair. Then he let her go and handed her a wine glass. “Can’t we just enjoy the meal I put together? It’s your favorite things from L’Avant Comptoir. I even got macarons.”

She put a hand to her throat, touched by the effort he’d made. Except she couldn’t help thinking it looked like the Last Supper.

“Sit?” he asked, leading her to the table.

Nodding, she joined him at the table despite the sadness in her heart—for herself, but mostly for him.

Chapter Fourteen

Hunter Vicks was leaning outside the school entrance, focused on his mobile, when they pulled up in the morning.

Chloe opened the car door before Charles made a complete stop. “Thank you.”

Charles nodded, but didn’t say anything.

He was just happy to get rid of her early today. She picked up her bag and hurried toward Hunter, taking the opportunity to look at him while he wasn’t aware of her presence. He was definitely hot, but she liked him for more than his appearance. He was always happy, and that was the nicest thing about him.

He looked up as she approached, and his smile widened as though he was especially pleased to see her. “Hey, Chloe,” he said when she reached him. “You ready to do this?”

“Yes,” she said, knowing he meant pulling together their science project and not kissing. She could still hope, though.

“Let’s go to the library,” he said brightly.

“That sounds super fun,” she said with fake enthusiasm, following him inside the building.

Laughing, he slung an arm over her shoulder. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

He was touching her.

She stiffened, her heart racing. He was so close, and she could smell his clean scent. He smelled delicious.

She hoped she smelled okay. She’d taken a shower, but what if she forgot deodorant? She tipped her head close to her shoulder and sniffed herself but she couldn’t tell.

They walked into the library and found a table in the back. Chloe looked around as she set her bag down. There wasn’t anyone else around, so if she wanted to kiss him, no one would see.

But Hunter was already pulling out his portion of the science project. “Do you want to take a look at what I did? I made some adjustments to fit your story.”

“I trust you.” Chloe took the seat next to him. “I edited the story one more time, if you want to read it.”

“Nah. I trust you.” He grinned at her. “We make a good team.”

Her chest filled with warmth. “I think so.”

“So do you want to go over some of the stuff that’s going to be on the test? It’s coming up in a few weeks.”

She sighed. “I have no choice, do I?”

“Not if you want to pass. Watley told me the writing program you want to get into is contingent on passing your classes, so we’re going to make sure you get it.”

She stared at him, confused. “Why do you care that I get in?”

“I told you before.” He glanced up, looking at her like he couldn’t believe she was asking. “You’re too good a writer. I read that story they published on the school website.”

“Tell me you didn’t,” she said with a groan.

He nudged her. “I liked it. You have a way of looking at things that’s refreshing.”

“My grandmother is a writer.” She hadn’t planned on telling him, but she felt like she needed to. “And her boyfriend is Declan Maxwell.”

Hunter’s mouth dropped open. “You know Declan Maxwell? I loved
Played Out
.”

“Wasn’t that a great book?” Chloe leaned forward. “I usually only read fantasy or magical realism, but Grandmother gave me that book and I loved it.”

“Science is like literature, you know.”

She groaned. “And just like that we’re back to business.”

Laughing, he pushed her notebook toward her and handed her a pen. “I’m being serious. Science and writing aren’t that different, in theory. It’s about curiosity and finding a story, like you did for our project.”

“Isn’t that a stretch?” she asked, skeptical.

“Not at all. Science has plot and conflict, just like any book. Everything in life has a story.”

“You’re being serious,” she said after a moment studying him.

“Yes.” He opened his notebook. “Look at Einstein’s theory of general relativity. All started with one guy wondering where gravity fit into space and time.”

Chloe pursed her lips. “So you’re saying Einstein asked ‘what if.’”

“
Yes.
” Excited, Hunter launched into a complicated story about space and equations and what kind of thought it took to imagine something so complex as space constantly expanding and the possibility of black holes.

She’d tried to learn it from their textbook weeks ago, but it hadn’t made any sense. Now, listening to Hunter, she understood the arc of the theory and what it meant. She sat up, feeling his excitement rub off.

Maybe there was hope for her after all.

Hunter stopped talking and narrowed his eyes. “I lost you.”

She shook her head vehemently. “You didn’t. I just got distracted by the fact that I understood everything you said.”

He smiled. “It’s not so hard when you think of it like a cool adventure story, right?”

“Right.” She smiled back at him.

“I like it when you smile,” he said softly. “It makes you even prettier than usual.”

She stilled. “You think I’m pretty?”

“No, you’re not pretty.” He took her hand. “You’re beautiful.”

“Oh.” She chewed on her lip. “Should I believe you?”

“Always.”

Her heart did a strange flop. She glanced around and before she could lose her nerve, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his.

Instead of a quick peck, she let her mouth linger on his. She followed the movement of his lips, opening hers just a little. His were warm and a little salty and perfect. She felt her heart race with excitement. She wanted more, but she didn’t know what exactly.

Someone snickered behind them.

They startled apart. Chloe swallowed and looked at Hunter. “Other people come here this early too?”

Chuckling, he shrugged. “They’re just overachievers.”

She touched her lips. They still tingled. “If we ended every study session like that, I’m sure to pass.”

Hunter took her hand. “Anything for the sake of science.”

***

“Grandmother, how old were you when you kissed a boy the first time?”

Jacqueline Summerhill looked up from her laptop. “My first real kiss?”

Chloe nodded. The question had been lurking in her mind ever since she saw her grandmother waiting for her in their favorite café. But she’d waited until after they’d written—their writing dates were sacred.

“Around your age,” her grandmother replied. “Maybe a touch older.”

“Was it grandfather?”

Her grandmother smiled. “It was Declan, actually. Why are you asking? Did you write about a kiss?”

She shrugged. “I’ve just been thinking.”

Jacqueline closed the top of her shiny, new laptop and slipped it into her bag. Fingers entwined under her chin, she focused on Chloe. “What’s his name?”

Flushing, she huddled in her scarf. Of course Grandmother would ask. Chloe knew better than to deny that a boy existed. “Hunter.”

“Is he nice to you?”

“Yes,” she said, closing her laptop, too. “He listens to me, and he doesn’t think I’m stupid or mental or anything.”

“Because you aren’t any of those things.” Her grandmother set her coffee cup aside as though she wanted the space between them to be clear. “Do you like him?”

“Yes.” She liked him a lot. “For a million reasons, but at the same time the reasons don’t matter.”

“Chemistry is inexplicable,” her grandmother said with a soft smile.

“Isn’t science the best?” Without it, she’d never have talked to Hunter. “Hunter’s the one who suggested Schrödinger’s name.”

“Then he’s smart as well as nice. Has your mother met him?”

She cringed. “
No.
Mum doesn’t even know about him.”