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A painter. I wonder what inspires her. Does she paint haunting images or is she more abstract? I’m determined to find out.
A couple of days later, I steer my path to “accidentally” cross with Alexis’s in the hallway. Her black hair is clipped back, with a few errant curls dangling enticingly by her ears. Even though cutting and dying her hair was a good idea, I miss her long, gorgeous curls.
“Alexis,” I greet her. “I understand you’re quite the talented artist.”
She blinks owlishly at me, clearly not expecting me to know such a personal detail about her. “I… well, sort of, I suppose. I’m not very good. It’s just a hobby, really.”
“But you like to paint, right?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. I find it very soothing.”
I nod. “I’ve had paints, canvases, and other materials brought over for your use. They’re in the sunroom downstairs. Consider them yours.”
Alexis’s eyes widen in surprise and delight. “You didn’t have to do that, I?—”
“I insist,” I cut her off firmly, but not unkindly. “If you’re going to stay with us, you should be able to do the things you enjoy.”
Her grateful smile in that moment sparks something warm and dangerous in my chest that I swiftly stamp down. This is merely a pragmatic gesture. Nothing more.
“Thank you, Damian. This means more than you know,” Alexis says sincerely, looking at me with an unsettlingly gentle expression.
“Maybe you could show me how to paint, too?” I ask, my heart thudding traitorously in my chest. “Fair warning, I can barely draw a stick figure.”
Alexis laughs, the sound a soothing balm to my soul. “I think it will be the blind leading the blind, but sure. I would be happy to teach you some basic skills.”
“How about this weekend?” I ask.
“It’s a date—uh, I mean, yes, of course. The weekend works perfectly.” Alexis worries her bottom lip as if berating herself for the slip.
I give one last nod of acknowledgment before turning on my heel, fighting to maintain my unaffected façade. I can’t help but replay the phrase in my mind, feeling startlingly thrilled at the inadvertent implication.
The weekend can’t come soon enough.
The mansion feels eerily quiet with my staff, Nat, and Edo dismissed for the rest of the day. Edo had to drag Nat out of the house as she made kissy noises toward me. Sister or not, I’m going to fucking murder her.
I stand in the empty sunroom, the jarring silence only highlighting the thrum of nervous energy coursing through me.
This seemed like an innocuous enough idea when I asked Alexis to show me how to paint, a simple creative reprieve from the weight of my responsibilities. But now, faced with the reality of the situation—just Alexis and me, alone—doubts start creeping in. When was the last time I allowed myself to be so utterly unguarded with someone outside my inner circle?
The sound of approaching footsteps stills my pacing. Alexis appears at the doorway, all loose, dark curls and soft smiles. My breath hitches at the simple vision she makes in leggings and a form-fitting V-necked shirt.
“Hi,” she says shyly.
“Hi,” I say stupidly, barely managing to maintain my veneer of unshakeable composure. Biscotti trots in after Alexis, racing to me and jumping at my legs.
Alexis smiles widely, my stomach flip-flopping at the sight. “I have to admit, when I ever thought of a Mob Boss owning a dog, I always thought it would be a great, scary dog—like a pit bull or a German shepherd. I really wasn’t expecting a wiener dog.”
“Dachshund,” I correct, lifting Biscotti into my arms to pet her. “Don’t let her small size fool you. She’s vicious when she wants to be. She’s taken a bite out of Edo before.”
Alexis smiles softly. “I don’t doubt that.”
I make a sweeping gesture toward the arranged canvases and brushes on a gleaming table. “Shall we begin while we still have the light?”
She situates herself at the table, deft fingers sorting through paints and tools. My eyes trail appreciatively over her lithe figure. It’s dangerous territory to allow myself such an indulgence.
“We should start with the basics, like color theory, brush techniques, that sort of thing,” Alexis says as she dips bristles into rich pigments. “But since you claim you can barely draw a stick figure, maybe we should stick with finger painting.”
The teasing lilt to her voice, combined with the playful grin she flashes over one shoulder, immediately heats my blood. My thoughts stray to those delicate fingers trailing through more than just oil paints…
