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"No. I don't want to hang it there. Sunny, I want you to paint it there." He steps away from me, standing in front of the blank wall and staring at it like he's picturing it. "Paint this girl on my wall."

What? He wants me to repaint the whole portrait on his wall?

"Are you serious?"

"Do you know how to do a mural?" he asks. I let out a heavy breath.

I nod.

"Good. Will you paint her on this wall? As a mural?"

I've wanted to do a mural for as long as I can remember. I used to try to paint my bedroom walls when I was little, thinking that if I just worked one square at a time, I could cover the whole thing without anyone really noticing. My mother nearly broke my backside when she found it.

Of course, I want to paint a fucking mural in the most famous guy in Pineridge's pool house, but this wasn't a good idea. What would my mother say? Would she think I was getting in Cadence's way?

Then, I realize something—he would pay me. How much, I don’t know, but probably enough to finally get out. Quickly, in my head, I do the math. I think most artists work for forty to fifty dollars per square foot. This is probably a twelve-by-fifteen-foot wall. I can’t add it up fast enough, but it definitely feels like enough to start up in my own place.

Then, there’s the exposure. If he shared it with his friends, I could do murals all over town.

"Say something, Sunny.”

I blink up at him. "I've never done one before."

"So just paint this…bigger." He motions toward the wall. "I'll give you the keys to the pool house. I won't bug you. You can come and go as you please. Get it done in your own time."

Questions swirl around in my mind. Mostly it's doubt. I can't do this. What if I royally fuck it up? Am I even good enough to paint a mural that big?

I'm biting my lip furiously, staring at the painting and the wall like they'll give me answers. Permission to say no.

Then a hand lands on my shoulder. "Hey there, little rain cloud."

When I look up at him, he has a crooked smile, but his eyes bore into me with a fierceness. "Breathe," he says quietly, so quiet his voice doesn't travel anywhere but straight into my ears. Straight into my heart.

So, I do. I take a deep breath and look at the wall again.

Reasons I should take the job: I deserve this. I need the money. He wants me to.

Reasons I should not take the job: none.

"Okay," I say finally. "I'll do it."

He steps back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Now wait a minute. Never accept a job without asking questions first, understand?"

"What questions?"

He walks over to the fridge in the corner of the room and pulls out two sodas. "Anything, but least of all, you should always ask how much you'll be getting paid."

"But I don't care how much," I lie. I actually care very much but I don’t feel brave enough to admit that.

"How does ten sound?"

"Ten." My mouth repeats his words without registering in my mind. Ten…thousand?

Suddenly, my heart is picking up speed, but I try to maintain my composure like it means nothing to me. He hands me one of the sodas, and I stare at him—unmoving, unaffected…unalive.

What does he want me to say? Does he want me to accept it?

"Fifteen," I blurt before I can stop myself.