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I haven't seen him since that mind-blowing, panty-melting kiss in the elevator, a week ago. He’s been sending short messages like this one at least twice a day, and OMG, each time I read them my entire body lights up.
Husband: You are so talented, baby!
He promised to show me how much he loved me, and clearly, this is his way of honoring my need for a little space.
Husband: You are the most beautiful woman in the entire world.
He surprised me again. I miss him, of course, but I’m equally happy to have this time to focus on my craft.
Also, he uses punctuation in his message. OMG, how cute is that?
Husband: Not a moment goes by when I don’t think about you. I can’t wait to see you again!
Gosh, I had no idea the man could be so romantic. I am swooning.
His housekeeper continues to cook for me. Only now, she insists on knocking on my door to get my attention. As I get deeper into the flow, as I feel my muse take over, I begin to ignore the knocks. There've been times when I've skipped meals until hunger forces me to open the door and retrieve one of the trays. Painting day and night without any disturbance is a luxury I’ve never had before.
And he gave me that.
He gave me the mind-space to create. And ensured I have all the materials I need for it. He ensured I could use this room as a studio. I don’t have to worry about my sister or my father. I check in with both most days, but the last time I called, my sister told me she was going on another European tour with her troupe. Q had arranged to have my father, and his carer—who was now also his girlfriend—flown to Johns Hopkins for the medical trials he got on. When I called him, he sounded happy and excited. He’d responded better than expected to the medication and said he felt so much better already.
It means I can continue to focus on my craft. I have Quentin to thank for that. I am grateful to him. But a part of me is uncomfortable with it. That, with his money, he can change my life in the space of a month, is something I’m still coming to terms with.
And then, that kiss in the elevator. It was different from the way he kissed me before. The way he looked at me when he said his actions are going to show me how much he loves me—it was that look in his eyes that made me realize how serious he is about us.
And his texts are proving it. Is that why I miss him?
He no longer sleeps here; I know that because the pillow next to me remains undented every night. So, he's sleeping in his office, or he's moved into a hotel.
After a few days, I started sleeping on the couch in my studio. It's big enough to double as a bed, and it means I don’t have to waste time walking up the corridor to our bedroom. It also means, I’m not distracted by thoughts of Q and his scent, which surrounds me in the bed we shared. Now, I have less than a week to go, and the tension within me is building.
I can feel it in the way I’ve been painting nonstop for the last god-knows-how-many hours. In the way the colors leap from my brush and take a life of their own on my canvas.
There’s a knock on the door; I ignore it. It’s probably the housekeeper.
A few minutes... Or is it hours later? There’s another knock.
“Go away,” I yell. My head spins, and my fingers cramp with fatigue. I shake them out, roll my shoulders, and push through the exhaustion. I’m on a roll, and nothing can stop me. I must keep going until I finish.
I dip my brush into the paint and continue to splash the colors on the canvas. Keep going. Don’t stop. This is the last canvas, and my most important one. I have to complete this in time for the showing. My phone buzzes from somewhere in the room. I ignore it. It stops, then starts again.
I growl, then march to where I’ve left it face down on the couch and shove it aside. It hits the floor, then bounces once before sliding away.
I head back to my canvas and continue painting.
There’s another knock on the door. I don’t answer it. One more knock. I block out all noises, focus on my painting. My stomach growls; I ignore the hunger pangs. My throat is parched, and my head hurts. My eyelids flutter down; I shake myself awake. Dip the brush in the paint, press it down on the canvas. And again. And again. A few more strokes, just a few more.
The door bursts open. The brush slips from my fingers, and my knees give way. I don’t have the strength to turn my head. The floor comes up to meet me. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for impact, which never comes. Instead, something hard and ungiving bands around me. I’m lifted up, and when I open my eyes, I see him.
"Q"—I swallow—"what are you doing here?"
He says something, but the words fade away, then darkness overwhelms me.
When I come to, I’m in my room, in my bed, under the covers. I try to sit up, but a firm grip on my shoulder stops me.
"Rest," a hard voice rumbles from above me.
I look up into those piercing blue eyes of his. Anger smolders in them. I flinch, and a shutter lowers over them.
