Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
I smiled.
“I got lucky with her,” I acknowledged. “When my own mom bailed, she took me in, just like she took in Jessica. She’s been a grandma to Izzy, a mother to me . . . but I’ll never understand why Mom left. I look at Isabella and can’t wrap my head around it, because I’d die before disappearing on her.”
Like you did in prison.
“Are you ever going to forgive me?” he asked softly, catching my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Sometimes it feels like you hate me out of habit. It’s still between us—that chemistry. Sex isn’t the problem. And I’m a good dad to Isabella. I help you out as much as you’ll let me. I fuckin’ hate your job at the ER, but I’m not telling you to stop doing it because I know it’s important to you. So why does it always have to be a fight, Mel?”
Shaking my head, I leaned forward into his chest. His arms came around me, rubbing my back. It felt good. Safe.
“It scares me,” I confessed.
“What?”
“That I can care about you this much. You’re a mystery to me—you play with our daughter, you paint her pink motorcycles. You even let her dress you up like a fairy that one time and had a tea party with her.”
He groaned.
“How did you find out about that?”
“She told me,” I said, biting back a smile. “And she drew a picture. I took it to work and showed everyone. But I think you should be thanking me, because I seriously considered giving it to Reese.”
He groaned again, his hand running up my spine to the back of my neck. The muscles there were tight from a long night of work, and as he dug his knuckles in deep, I sighed with pleasure.
“So what’s the problem?”
“You beat Aaron up,” I said softly. “You really hurt him.”
“You could’ve gone to jail as his accomplice. He deserved it.”
“You didn’t know that when you attacked him—that was about you being jealous. That’s fucked up, Painter.”
“Probably,” he admitted. “And I was pissed at you last night, too, but I got over it. It’s true I lost my shit, but it’s also true that I don’t do it very often.”
“You could go back to jail.”
“You could get stabbed by a crazy guy in the ER.”
Pulling away, I frowned up at him. “That’s different. I’m doing something that helps people, remember? You’re . . . running drugs or something. I don’t even know what you do—you won’t tell me.”
His face grew serious.
“Mel, I’m not going to lie to you about who I am,” he said slowly. “I don’t always follow the law, and when my brothers need me, I’m gonna take their backs. But I’m an artist—that’s what I do for a living. I’m not running guns, I’m not selling drugs. I paint fucking pictures, and then I sell them to rich assholes so they can brag about my ‘primitive art’ at their cocktail parties. I’ll take their money with a smile, pay my club dues, and then I’ll always come home to you and Izzy. I love you.”
I closed my eyes, tasting the words. We’d known each other so long, been through so much. He’d always been there, even when he wasn’t. My life had revolved around Painter for six years, from little girl crush to need to hatred to . . . this.
“I love you, too,” I admitted slowly, opening my eyes to take him in.
He cocked his head, studying my face.
“Usually people don’t look so unhappy when they say that for the first time,” he said.
“Usually people get to sleep at some point, but it’s been twenty-four hours,” I replied quietly. “Like I said, I’m too tired to fight, so might as well lay it all out there.”
“Does that mean you’ll tell me this was all some kind of sleep-deprived hallucination at some point?”
I considered the question, then shook my head.
“No, I’ve loved you for a long time. I tried to move on, but I can’t. Still kind of pisses me off, because there’s all kinds of things I don’t like about you . . . but it is what it is.”
“Some guys would be offended by a declaration like that,” Painter said. “But I think I’m gonna count this as a win.”
I gave him a smile, then pulled away, looking around the room. There were cans of paint everywhere, big and small. All different colors.
“Where did this all come from?” I asked, waving my hand toward the mess.
“Oh, I picked them up here and there,” he said, shrugging. “Been planning the mural for a while. Last night I was pissed off, and when I get pissed I usually fight or paint. I already did enough fighting this week.”
“How did you figure out that I was working?”