His laugh spluttered out of him, his body collapsing against the pane, tattoos catching in the warm light spilling from his window. “No, you dope. He just holds it outside his ex’s window to win her back.”
My head tilted and I mirrored him, sitting along my window frame. “I did not have you pegged as a rom-com boy.”
His head pulled back. “Something wrong with that?”
I shook my head, hand cupped under my chin. “No, it’s just… adorable.”
“You don’t think I’m capable of being adorable?”
I let my head flop to the side, my face flattening. “Marcus, you carry a gun everywhere you go. Does that sound adorable?”
“Depends on how you look at it. Protection is adorable to some.”
This man had an answer for everything, but not one part of me was sick of it. It was that back and forth that I’d never found with anyone before.
I shook my head. “You wanted me?”
He sat up, slipping out of his window a little. “You said you needed inspiration. And in the aim of not having that photo circulate the internet… I thought the real thing might be easier.”
I laughed. “I was kidding, you know. Weren’t you busy?”
“You needed me.” He nodded his chin at me. “So, you letting me in or what, Holland?”
I rolled my eyes, pretending like I really didn’t need him right now. “Fine.”
He then, rather coolly, climbed over the fire escape and made his way into my room.
I stumbled back as he emerged, his tall frame looking comically large against my tiny window as he squeezed through. Giggles racked me as I sat down on my stool, right as he shut my window with a tug and sighed as he turned around, making himself look at home on my window seat.
“How’s it going?” His eyes were on the canvas. The very, extremely blank canvas.
I deadpanned my face. “Fab. I think I might just submit this and call it a day.”
His sarcastic smile made my stomach drop as he wandered behind me and crouched, his head level with mine, hovering slightly over my right shoulder.
I don’t know why I stiffened, we’d been closer than this before. But his presence just had a way of making me numb, but in a way I craved more than feared. Like when you watch a thunderstorm getting closer.
“The palette is nice.” He offered, his voice softer. “You could take something else and spin it into your own.”
I stared back at the canvas. “That’s called copying.”
“It’s taking inspiration.”
“And that’s a fancy way of saying ‘copying’.” I spun a little to face him, my eyes drifting down only aninch. “I need something new. The committee won’t be impressed if they see someone else’s painting but in my style. They’ll go, ‘Wow, she couldn’t even be bothered to try. Why did we invite her again?’”
I shifted back around and sunk my hands into my head, my fingers pulling lightly at my hair.
Marcus moved a little closer, pulling my other stool from behind him and sitting behind me, his legs open, my back almost flush against his chest. “They’ll be impressed with whatever you do, Cor.”
I shook my head. “I don’t even think it’s that.” I turned to him. “But I don’t know what’s holding me back. It’s like there’s a wall between me and the canvas and no matter how many times I knock it down, it’s always gonna find a way to rebuild itself.” I turned back to the canvas. “And I’m tired of knocking it down.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “You can do it again.” My eyes were back on him. “That morning after we… kissed.” I didn’t miss the way his pupils dilated. “Something made you paint again. Something helped.”
Something did help, but I couldn’t just tell Marcus that I’d thought about his hands on me, his mouth claiming mine, his breath warming my neck. I just couldn’t.
I shrugged as nonchalantly as I could, my eyes falling from him. “I guess.”
A beat passed before he said, “So? What was it?”
