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But now, I’m about to explode.
Clara and I sit in the little reading nook under the window while she slowly pages through my sketches, her touch on the paper almost tender. A small smile curls her lips.
It almost seems like she approves.
My heart is so messed up right now.
As if August hasn’t already got me popping like crazy, now Clara Marshall has me breathless.
I suddenly wish I hadn’t ever put Kiki and her sunny smiles away.
Why did I stop thinking about her? Why did I give up?
Why did you start smiling even when you didn’t mean it? And why didn’t you realize it until August noticed?
Clara reaches the last page and lets out a satisfied sigh.
“So much personality in these lines,” she says. “Kiki nearly leaps off the page with this sweet joy. Kids would love her. Have you ever pitched her to a publisher?”
I shake my head. “No, ma’am. I ...” I shrug. “A few of my art instructors tried to push me toward modern art. They said I had a better eye for it, and I should try to develop a passion there instead. I tried—I even had an exhibit once—but ...”
“It wasn’t where your heart is,” Clara finishes with an understanding that nearly breaks me. I can tell her heart is still with Inky. So why is she giving up? “Your heart is in these drawings. I can tell.”
I smile weakly. “I think so. I—”
I stop and scream.
Because the door to the studio slams open, banging off the wall so hard it rattles the framed pictures.
My heart stops like I’ve been shot in the chest as I whip around.
August stands in the door, looming and dark with the light from outside cast against his back. He glowers into the room, hot fury simmering off him like smoke.
“Clara Marshall,” he growls, his voice deeper than I’ve ever heard it. “We need to talk.”
Oh shit.
Did something happen?
Even if August scares me out of my skin, Clara doesn’t react with more than a thinning of her lips as she carefully closes my sketchbook and sets it on the table between us.
“Not in that tone, young man,” she bites off with a coolness that’s as much of a warning as a rattlesnake’s shaking tail. “You will calm down this instant and lower your voice. You will not ruin the pleasant tea we were just having.”
“Tea? Tea?” August snarls. “I don’t care about tea, Aunt Clara. I care that I just met with Marissa Sullivan, and she showed me Lester’s fu—”
“Finish that foul word, August Tristan Marshall,” Clara lilts calmly, standing and fetching another tea mug, “and it will be your last. Sit down and get your dastardly temper under control. Have some tea and apologize to Elle. Then you can tell me what’s wrong.”
August bares his teeth, clearly seething.
Whatever’s wrong, it must be bad.
My heart remembers how to beat again, but it’s sluggish with worry.
If being chastised like a moody teenager by the aunt he loves so much can’t defuse him ...
Oh, this is going to suck.
I shake my head, smiling and standing hastily, then gather my sketchbook and portfolio. “I don’t need an apology. You guys clearly need some privacy. I’ll make tracks.”
