Page 105 of None Of Your Business

Her wineglass rests loosely between her fingers, but I’m pretty sure it’s filled with water.

“I don’t know. Emergency consult. Psychological crisis. Stanley the Stapler having abandonment issues.”

“Stanley is stable.”

She brightens as I nod toward the red dots behind us. “You’re selling.”

She pulls a face. “Yeah.”

“You don’t sound happy.”

“I am. I’m happy people are buying them.”

“But?”

She turns her head toward the underwater painting. “That one sold online an hour before the doors opened.”

“And that bothers you?”

She sighs. “I was going to steal it back. I think there’s a piece of my soul in that paint. But Alistair said the buyer paid a lot of money for it, so if I steal it now, it’s a crime.”

I glance past her shoulder toward the bar. “Your family is watching us.”

“They’ve been watching since you walked in.” She grimaces. “Piper and Madison still think we’re sleeping together.”

“Still?”

“Long story.” She leans in and drops her voice. “And they definitely told Noah, so brace yourself if he comes over.”

“Too late. He already gave the speech.”

Her eyes widen. “He did?”

“Very direct. I respect it.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He cares about you.”

Her expression softens before she hooks her arm through mine. “Come on. Let me walk you through the rest before Alistair makes me talk to another collector.”

She leads me toward a quieter wall, past several smaller pieces. She explains them as we go, pointing out details in the brushwork and sharing quick observations from those Tuesdays in the observation room.

Then we stop in front of a canvas tucked near the back corner.

Unlike the dark blues and heavy grays of the other pieces, this one is warmer. Two figures stand close together in a small, shadowed room, her back nearly to the wall, his hand curved at her hip like he’s been holding her there a while. It isn’t a painting of two people together. It’s a painting of the second right before.

I don’t know why it stops me the way it does. Nothing like that has ever happened between us, but something about the tilt of her chin and the set of his shoulders feels unnervingly specific.

“You painted us,” I say.

“I painted people.” Her chin lifts. “Not us.”

“Really.”

“Yes. Really.”

The blush creeping up her throat calls her a liar before I can.