Page 120 of None Of Your Business

Nobody has given me a blank wall and permission to make a mess since I was a kid.

Morning light stretches across the floorboards, warming my bare feet.

For the first time in months, there is nothing attached to this. I’d almost forgotten what making something feels like when I don’t need it to prove anything.

The reviews don’t make me love this.

They can’t.

Painting lives somewhere deeper than a headline can reach, in the part of me that kept doing it when nobody was watching and when I was convinced nobody ever would.

But God, it’s nice.

Just for this morning, the voice that has spent months whispering that I’m not good enough to stand in rooms like the one I stood in last night has finally shut the hell up.

Hudson opens the tins of paint and hands me a brush, but he doesn’t leave. He stands against the wall, watching me.

I glance over. “You don’t have to stay. Watching paint dry isn’t exactly thrilling entertainment.”

“Watching is the best part.” He folds his arms. “Who else gets to say they’ve watched Rowan Callahan work?”

Nobody can say that because I never let anyone watch until Hudson. With him, I don’t want to hide away.

“Besides.” He tips his head, taking in the shirt still hanging off one shoulder, the bare legs, the whole picture of me standing barefoot in his empty room about to make a mess of his floor. He blows out a slow breath. “Fuck me.”

I burst out laughing. “Pervert. Always watching me, Shrink Wrap.”

I pick up a brush, already reaching for the first tin. “Fine. Stay. But don’t say a single word about my process, or I’ll make you model for the next one.”

“I’ll behave.”

He doesn’t behave. Not one bit.

Thirty-Five

Hudson

I’m halfway through a set on the bench press when I feel her standing in the doorway, watching me.

Her hands are a little red from scrubbing the paint off.

I finish the rep, rack the steel bar, and sit up. Grabbing the towel from the bench, I wipe the sweat from my face.

“Now who’s the pervert?” I ask.

“Me,” she says, not bothering to hide it. “Totally me.”

I toss the towel away. “Come here.”

She smiles, pushes away from the frame, and walks across the room. I catch her by the hip and guide her into the space between my knees.

“How are you feeling?”

“I came in here to do my stretches before Naomi senses a disturbance in the Force and murders me,” she says, placing her hands on my shoulders. “But I’m a little sore. I don’t want to push it.”

Rowan doesn’t hand over physical concessions without a fight.

“How sore?” I ask, keeping my hands gentle on her skin.