“And now you command rooms.”
She glances up at me, surprised. “No, I don’t.”
“When you walk into a room, every head turns. When you speak, people listen. You’ve been bossing me around since you got here.” I hold her gaze. “That shy girl is gone.”
“No. I’mverygood at pretending in public.” Addison looks back at the canvas. “One-on-one isn’t so bad. But I don’t think I could ever do what you do. I’d crumple. It’s admirable.”
The admission hangs in the air between us. I want to tell her I understand and that I’ve been performing a version of myself for so long that I sometimes forget which parts are real. But I keep it to myself.
“It takes practice, like anything else. To be honest, you could handle this,” I admit. “You aren’t afraid to take risks, you assess your options, and you’re willing to make sacrifices for the greater good.”
“How do you know that?”
I catch the small smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth before she hides it behind her canvas.
“Your chess skills. It’s not different from real life.”
“Ah. Speaking of, I noticed you moved the chessboard back in the hallway this morning. I made my move and left you a note.” Her brush pauses for half a second before resuming. “No getting pissy when I beat you again.”
“I’m winning. And when I do, I want a favor,” I say, enjoying the conversation.
She shifts her weight onto one hip. “You can’t ask me to leave, Louis.”
“I won’t. I’ve decided to let whatever happens, happen. I’m going with the flow,” I tell her.
A smile touches her lips.
“Tell me why that made you grin.”
She points her paintbrush at me. “I am too.”
“Going with the flow?”
“Mm-hmm.” She turns back to the canvas. “I’m a planner. I like control. I make lists and schedules, and backup plans for my backup plans. But I’m also a mood painter, so I’m constantly chasing inspiration, searching for that spark so I can paint. This year, I decided to stop white-knuckling everything and see what happens.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
“Currently, I’m in a palace in Montclaire, painting a prince I met a little over two weeks ago. I’d say it’s going well.” She loads her brush with a deep blue. “So far.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Meeting you has been complicated.” She doesn’t look up. “I can’t explain it.”
The word sits between us.Complicated. It’s the most honest thing either of us has said about whatever this is.
“I know what you mean,” I say.
She looks up from the canvas.
“I wasn’t expecting you either.”
Her brush freezes. The afternoon light has shifted, casting long shadows through the leaves of my mother’s plants. I’m suddenly aware of how quiet the conservatory is. It’s the two of us, enclosed by the glass walls.
“You’re staring,” she whispers.
“So are you,” I quip.
“I’m working.” She loads more paint onto her brush, her movements quicker than before. “It’s a requirement.”
