I grimace, and Pen laughs, her laughter lightening my mood.
“Don’t poo-poo what you haven’t tried. It might surprise you.”
I nod, unconvinced, as Pen sits down on the sofa by my feet.
I wince as the movement jars my ankle.
“Oh shit, sorry.” Pen’s face wrinkles when she realises what she’s done.
“Please don’t apologise. I’m going stir-crazy sat here. Mum is on the warpath. Doctor said rest, and that to her means I can’t move. I feel like I’ve got ants crawling all over me. I need to move that badly.”
Pen inclines her head in sympathy.
“Try the painting. It might surprise you.”
“I will. It can’t be any worse than this,” I say, motioning to my current place of rest.
Pen never foundout how that one paint-by-numbers set opened my mind to another world. I spoke to my therapist about it, who recommended art therapy when he realised how enjoyable I found it. Art therapy then turned into a hobby. I look at the number of completed canvases. It may be a trifle more than a hobby.
I stare at the outline composition that now covers the canvas. I love this part, where big sweeping shapes form what will become something. I grab my cloth and begin rubbing out and smudging the paint. My brush and cloth move over the canvas, and before I know it, a picture is taking shape.
By the time I leave my studio and lock the door, I feel calmer, more myself. That was one thing Pen got right. Art is good for my mental health. The room I chose for my art studio floods with light during the day, and I had specialist lighting installed for nighttime painting. It is, and always has been my sanctuary, like Gabriel has his tech man-cave.
My private room, somewhere only Lottie knows about.
Darra never lived here, and to Lottie, it’s always been Dad’s room, somewhere we paint together. Lottie joins me, and it’s been our time, our thing to do together. My heart clenches. Imiss her. She messages every day, but it’s not the same. My protective instincts are in overdrive. She may be almost fifteen, but that makes it worse. She’s growing up before my eyes, and my fear grows that one day soon, she’ll no longer need or want me as her dad anymore. She’ll realise I’m broken.
CHAPTER 35
PEN
It’s been two weeks, and instead of feeling settled, I’m finding myself more and more restless. I’ve not contacted Elijah, although I’ve kept myself abreast through online UK newspapers and news outlets. He looks tired, but then who wouldn’t be?
I’ve blamed my unease on pre-wedding nerves, but somewhere deep in my gut, I know it’s more than that.
I bash the cushion on the sofa next to me and let out a growl of frustration.
“Hey, what did the cushion do to you?”
I jump, my heart rate picking up.
“Shit.Kris,you scared me. I wasn’t expecting you home,” I say, looking up and forcing a smile at the man lounging in the doorway.
He inclines his head and looks at me, his eyes softening, as they always do.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Nothing to talk about,” I say, shooting him another smile while busying myself with the real estate options I have in front of me.
“Then come here,” he says, stepping into the room.
I take a deep breath, my chest tightening before I stand and make my way across the room. I stop before him, and he stares at me.
His hand comes up and cups my cheek, his thumb brushing my skin.
“Talk to me,” he says. “You always have before.”
I look up at him, trying to stay neutral, but my eyes must reflect the devastation crushing my chest because he pulls me into his arms. I go willingly, resting my head against his shoulder. Kris has become a close friend, but where my head is currently, I can’t confide in him.
