Knox nodded. “Let’s start over.”
I frowned, hands pausing on the way to pick up the first piece of grilled cheese. “What?”
Knox snorted, the first hint at what his laugh sounded like.
My gaze flicked back to him, though it had never strayed far away, if I was honest. I saw a flash of what could be a smile, too, though this one was more of a smirk.
“Look,” his voice was blunt, and he gestured to me loosely, “your dad clearly caught you off guard with me. You didn’t expect someone in your space, and here I am for the month. Yeah, I am staying because this is my job, but I don’t want to invade your space. I don’t want to freak you out—more than you already are, that is. I want to cook for a month and get paid. I won’t snoop through your stuff or tattle on you if you have people over. I don’t know what’s up with this painting thing, but it’s not my business, so who the fuck cares? The rest is between you and your dad.”
I stared at him. I knew my jaw was dropped, my mouth agape, but I couldn’t help it. It’s like he was pulling the words out of my brain.
“So, is it a deal?” Knox held his hand out between us. “We can be a reluctant team.”
I knew I was probably wearing all my emotions on my face, but I was too ecstatic to care. So he wasn’t a spy, and he was at least respectful of my space, even if he would be sleeping in what should be my studio.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Knox.” I grinned and shook his hand.
4
KNOX
The next week was awkward, but it was also too much fun to be a job.
It was like Lucy couldn’t decide if he wanted me close or far away. He would spend most of his day at his easel, creating beautiful brush strokes but looking angrier than I thought he should be, wearing what was starting to become a permanent scowl.
I was on the hook to feed him four times a day, according to his father and sister—breakfast, lunch, dinner, and a snack. A balanced meal, I was instructed, as I was given a platinum credit card to shop for groceries with. I’d never held so much money in the palm of my hand, and I’d never been so infuriated with a decision I’d made in my life.
I promised myself never to deal with rich people like this, yet here I was, fraternizing with the enemy. Worse yet, I enjoyed being around Lucy, even when he was sleepy or grumpy—honestly, the grumpy sleepy version of him might have been the most adorable, looking like all he wanted was to be gathered close and snuggled.
Duke was already mocking me for my treacherous thoughts. Saying I wasn’t just fraternizing with the enemy, I was falling for him, which was ridiculous. Lucy might be cute, but that didn’t mean anything more than his just having a pretty face.
Fuck, Duke should be upset I’d broken that promise we made each other after more snobby rich guys hosted a banquet to raise money for our local Providence Hospital when Nana was in hospice for her cancer care. They weren’t making donations to help Nana and the other patients. No, they were making donations so they could get a photo of themselves shaking hands with the hospital’s board of directors and the five-year-old cancer patient named Molly, then wake up to their photo in the newspaper and all over the online forums for everyone to see.
That’s when we promised each other to never become like those people who threw their money around for their own notoriety.
And yet…
“You know, if you keep glaring at that canvas, your face is going to stick like that,” I drawled, peeking over Lucy’s shoulder to spy on his painting as I set a plate with his lunch on it next to him on the small table splattered with paint.
Lucy jumped, his shoulder nearly slamming into my jaw as I dodged it and stood in front of him instead, raising my arm to rest it against the frame of his easel.
He made a jerky motion to cover the canvas, but stopped himself, probably realizing the inevitability.
“I-what?” Lucy frowned, fingers twitching over the handle of his paintbrush.
I chuckled. “Just an old saying. It’s like you go into a different world when you’re painting. But doesn’t seem like a pleasant one.”
Lucy averted his gaze. His hair was pale blonde, half a layer shorter, tied at the top of his head, with loose strandsframing delicate cheekbones and dark eyes. It called to me. I wanted to brush it back over his shoulder, maybe just for the excuse to trace my fingertips over the expanse of skin above his collarbone. Maybe he would shiver. Maybe his breath would hitch. Then I could pepper tiny bites over the skin and feel him writhe beneath me.
“It can be,” he muttered, glancing at the painting like it had offended him. His knuckles turned white against his brush.
“Can?” I asked. “Meaning it isn’t now?”
Lucy twirled his brush handle between delicate fingers. “Not in the same way. I love painting. My omma always said it transported me into another world. Like I’d go away into space and appear in my body hours later.”
I frowned. “That’s not exactly what it’s looked like to me.”
No. It looked like Lucy wanted to glare a hole in the canvas. Or maybe to just melt into the floor and become invisible. Like he could burn the canvas to ashes by mere will.
