“I’m proud of you, sweetheart. You’ve doneincrediblework.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He studies my face. “You seem happier.”
“I am,” I tell him.
“Because of Cross?” he asks, and I almost forget about the lie.
“Yeah,” I say with a grin, not confirming which Cross, and I escape before he can ask more questions.
When I make it back to my apartment, I set up a fresh canvas.
This one is his mouth pressed against my throat. I don’t plan it out, and I allow my hand to move. Suddenly, I’m mixing the exact shade of his lips, the shadow of his jaw, the way my head tilts back to give him access. I paint until the light fades and my shoulders ache, and when I step back, I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
That’s two explicit paintings I’ve created that have made me blush. It’s raw and real.
I should stop and paint something else.Anythingelse. But … I can’t.
On Saturday, I wake up reaching for a body that isn’t there. My hand finds cold sheets, and for a moment, I forget where I am, forget that he’s in Detroit, and I’m alone in my apartment, surrounded by evidence of how far gone I actually am.
The third painting comes before coffee.
I don’t even fight it this time. I set up the canvas in my underwear and his gray T-shirt and let my hands do what they want. Two figures tangled in sheets with limbs overlapping inways that look desperate, needy, like neither one can get close enough. I know exactly which night this is from. I remember the way he whispered my name against my shoulder, how his hands wouldn’t stop moving across my skin. I wanted to fall asleep with his heartbeat under my ear.
By noon, there’s a fourth canvas drying by the window. They’re rushed, raw, but complete. I glance at the abstract painting of my thighs wrapped around his waist, ankles crossed at the small of his back. More faceless paintings, but so unmistakablyus.
By late afternoon, there’s one of his hands pinning my wrists above my head. I’ve perfected the arch of my spine.
I step back and look at what I’ve created. A series is scattered around my living room like a confession I didn’t mean to make. It’s art.
These intense emotions should be locked away until Patterson has secured his contract renewal. Instead, I sit on my couch, surrounded by the evidence of my obsession, wondering what I’d name this if it were in a gallery.
Secret Lover.
The thought makes me smile. Patterson’s always been a good subject.
Saturday night, I turn on the Angels game while I eat cold leftover pizza. The canvases watch me from every corner of my place while I watch him skate across the screen.
Detroit’s defenseman checks Patterson into the boards, and I’m on my feet before I realize I even moved. My heart slams hard as I watch him shake it off. My hands are clenched into fists. Two minutes later, he scores on a breakaway, and I’m screaming at my television like I’ve lost my mind. The camera catches his face as his teammates pile on him, and I can see the cockiness radiating through the screen. He blows kisses to the audience.
After an intense game, the Angels win, and I sit through the postgame interviews to see him. He’s sweaty and grinning and gives the usual answers about team effort and staying focused. When the reporter asks about his plans for his off day tomorrow, he smirks and says he’s got something to take care of back in New York.
“Your girlfriend?” she asks.
He chuckles. “Yeah, something like that. Miss you,” he says into the camera.
And my heart actually stops.
I cannot believe he said that on national television. To know he’s thinking about me while he’s hundreds of miles away affects me more than I want to admit. More proof that I’m falling for Patterson Cross. I’m losing control.
I turn off the TV, set my plate on the coffee table, and then mindlessly watch recap videos.
An hour later, my phone rings, and I smile when I seeChefpop up.
“Hey, babe.” Patterson’s voice is smug.
“Ahh, calling your girlfriend? How is she?”
