Page 38
But because then, it would squash all of this romantic tension we can’t seem to avoid. If I kissed her sister, there would be no more maybes with Sunny. There would be the work in this pool house, and nothing else.
When it’s time to face the music, literally, I walk out there, lingering around the door while she works. She won’t look at me. She thinks I won’t notice, but even though I’ve been hanging around for at least fifteen minutes, she’s been keeping her head down, working quietly without acknowledging me.
She turns her music up as she works. It’s something moody and depressing. She loves that shit. Normally, I’d hate it, but I’ve started to equate it to her presence, and it’s growing on me.
There’s nothing for me to work on in the pool house, but I’m not leaving. She’s the sun, and I am caught in her orbit. There’s not a goddamn place in the house I could go that wouldn’t feel like a hundred miles away from where I need to be.
She’s in a long skirt today, and she keeps it draped over her legs while she sits on the scaffolding, using one bent knee to steady her hand while she works.
She thinks she’s painting a work of art—she is the work of art.
“It’s coming along nicely,” I say as her playlist comes to an end, bathing the room in silence.
She doesn’t respond.
Snatching my phone out of my pocket, I kick her device off the speaker’s connection and replace it with my own. Her shoulders stiffen, but she doesn’t do anything when I put on the Stones.
A couple songs play while she works, and I start growing restless. I didn’t realize how badly I needed her attention until she stopped giving it to me. It’s like I’m suddenly the teenager, and she’s the adult. I’d stomp and scream for her to look at me if it worked.
What the fuck did I do wrong?
“Satisfaction” starts playing, and I watch her head tilt. And I watch with the precise attention of a scientist as she tugs her bottom lip between her teeth and bites it enough to hold it in place. My fingers itch to reach forward and release it.
“Dance with me, rain cloud.”
“Don’t call me that,” she mutters.
I grin at the sound of her voice. “I’ll call you what I want.”
She shakes her head but keeps it down, her eyes glued to the paint on the tray. Then, I spot a twitch in her cheek, the stifle of a smile.
For what it’s worth, I know I should stay away from Sunny. I know that I am no good for her. I know that keeping her safe is counterintuitive to inserting myself into her life, but with every moment of blazing eye contact, every hint of a smile, every brief second of sobering clarity with her, I realize that she is changing me. Rewriting my DNA. Making me a part of her—a living, breathing organ separate from her body.
“Dance with me,” I plead, my voice weak and desperate.
When she doesn’t move, I approach the scaffolding and lean against it, letting my head rest against the metal bars like a lovestruck fool.
She freezes and glances back at me. “What is wrong with you?” she asks with a sigh.
“You’re mad at me.”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“I didn’t kiss her,” I mumble.
“Why would I care if you did?”
“Sunny.”
We are tiptoeing around something, and I just need to know she’s as consumed by it as I am.
When she doesn’t respond, I snake my hand around her waist and pull her off the scaffolding. I expect her to fight, but she doesn’t. She lets me pull her to her feet and, once I have her in front of me, she stares at me with a blank expression. It’s my favorite expression of hers.
Her body brushes against mine, and I realize how dangerous this is if I want to keep things the way they should be between us.
Still silence. “Just dance with me,” I whisper.
My hands glide down to her hips, hovering delicately. Then, with very little force, I guide them to sway to the music.
