I startled out of my daydream—or nightmare, more like. Dad disappointed in me, Cordelia rolling her eyes, and even the distant possibility of Omma’s face if she saw the painting I’d finished for Mr. Vender’s exhibit.
“This isn’t you, Lucy,” she told me, sadness in her eyes. “Why would you do this?”
I cleared my throat and shook my head, trying to rid myself of all three of them, and of what the news outlets would say if I bombed this exhibit.
I found Knox standing beside me, two plates in hand. Each one had a grilled cheese sandwich, cut in half, with some type of meat sticking out between the slices.
“Knox?” I frowned. “I thought you had to go?”
Knox raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a pitiful smile. “I did. And I’m back now, but you’re still at your easel.”
He nodded to the window behind my easel, and I gasped.
It was dark, the sun gone, the moon risen, and the lights of the city illuminating the streets.
“What time is it?”
Knox chuckled. “Almost ten. Have you been staring at your painting this whole time?”
I dropped my gaze to the painting, with shades that were sickeningly pastel, shapes that were clunky and wrong, and a feeling of death behind its visage.
“Uh,” I swallowed.
Knox took pity on me. “Alright. Hey, I brought you some food. You don’t have to leave your painting, but you have to take a break, okay? You’ve been at this all day. Take a breather. You’ll feel better.”
I bit my lip, trying to force away the smile that was trying to break free.
“You made me a grilled cheese?” And damn it, I was smiling.
I couldn’t help it, though. Since when does an attractive guy make me food? Or check on me when I’ve apparently dissociated my entire day away?
Knox chuckled. “I did, yeah. Seeing as your cat took it upon himself to eat your breakfast for you.”
He nodded to Jackson, still perched on the small table between us, then back to the kitchen island, where there was an abandoned plate of French toast and eggs with the tiniest bites taken out of it.
I felt my face heat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to forget about breakfast. I’m sure it was delicious.”
Knox shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, really. It was just breakfast basics.”
I shrugged. “I’ve never made French toast.”
Knox’s eyebrows skyrocketed. “Seriously? Lucy!”
I blushed harder, my heart skipping a beat at the way he said my name, all rough and full of something I wouldn’t dare label as affection. “What? No one ever taught me!”
“Well, we have to fix that. You can’t just go on not knowing how to cook yourself breakfast.”
I huffed. “I can make myself breakfast just fine.”
“Let me guess.” Knox put our plates down so he could cross his arms against his chest and give me the most effective disapproving look I think I’ve ever gotten, complete with the pushed-up pecs and everything. “You can fry an egg and cook some bacon?”
“Uh,” I swallowed. “I can scramble an egg.”
Knox closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “You can’t fry an egg?”
I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. I wrung my hands together in front of me, a part of me panicking at the thought of Knox disapproving of me now, too. It’s not like he’s necessarily liked me very much until now, but I wanted him to.
He opened his eyes again and studied me.
