“What about payment?” I asked as bravely as I dared.

“You’ll get cash at the end.”

“But what about taxes?”

“What about them?”

“Um, death and taxes? The two terrors you can always rely on.”

“You’re saying you’re flush with coin and happy to give some away?”

I shook my head. “I’m saying, I have no choice.”

Just like I have no choice how I feel about you.

He gave me a weighty look. A look that spoke of history and hardships but remained professional and distant. “Cash in hand. That’s the deal.”

“Ah, so it’s you who doesn’t want to pay taxes.” I smiled, doing my best to earn a reaction.

He scowled. “I pay my way.” A flicker of regret before he clipped callously, “But you’re temporary, and I can’t be assed with the paperwork.”

Ouch.

It seemed he was better at this game than me.

My energy deflated, accepting today wasn’t going to be easy.

It’s probably going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

I nodded. “Cash works.”

“Course cash works.” He dropped his voice like he used to while discussing his shitty living situation when he was a kid. “Least cash will pay your rent.”

My heart hiccupped.

He was a master at making me want to hate him, but beneath that stony façade was a gentle, giving soul.

I know it.

I know he can’t have changed so much.

I didn’t know if my prior history with Gil was a blessing or a curse. If we’d been complete strangers, I would’ve chalked his attitude up to being a surly boss with temper issues. But because he’d shared his secrets with me, because he’d trusted me over anyone, because he’d let me see him vulnerable and sweet, I knew homelessness was a very real threat to the younger Gil and most likely tainted the older one’s outlook as well.

He might be a famous body painter, but apart from the tools of his trade, he had no luxury within his warehouse. No expensive art or designer furniture. The space was barren and untended.

Yet another by-product of living in a condemned building with a father into illegal practices? Or a personal choice by staying sterile and alone?

My shoulders rounded, weighed down by questions I couldn’t ask.

He sighed heavily.

I caught his eye and suffered a racing heart.

His lips twisted in the smallest of smiles. A smile I barely caught before it was smothered beneath grim frostbite.

Could he read me as well as he could read me in our youth? Could he see my struggle not to demand answers and the very real threat of launching myself into his arms and kissing him?

If he could read me, he didn’t show it.

And I definitely couldn’t read him anymore.

He sighed again as if he second-guessed everything about us.

Us.

Could there still be...us?

“Come. I’ll show you where the bathroom is. I need to work.”

I crossed my arms over my pink top and followed him. His long legs chewed up the distance far quicker than my shorter ones.

His back rippled beneath the paint-splattered grey T-shirt. His body tense and untouchable. Even though I would treat this arrangement with professionalism and the appropriate employee submission to her boss, I couldn’t stop my insides waking up from its self-imposed hibernation.

I’d had other boyfriends since Justin. I’d been with one guy for a year before my accident. I’d had a couple of flings, doing my best to patch up a ruined heart, but Gilbert Clark had always been the one who got away.

The boy I’d never forgotten.

God, please stop.

Stop making me hurt.

Slowing to a halt, Gil waved at a small room next to his office. “In there. Don’t be long.” He wiped his mouth, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Strip, put on a bathrobe, and return.”

Not waiting around, he stalked back to his workstation before I could agree.

I watched him.

I missed him.

Get a grip.

Tearing my eyes away, I entered the bathroom and found a much larger space than I’d anticipated. The shower held streaks of paint from others washing off Gil’s artwork. The double vanity held an array of cotton swabs and towelettes to do the same. To erase hours’ worth of detail and perfectionism.

After watching his YouTube videos, it seemed wrong that this was the place where his creations went to die. A miserable death for so many outstanding pieces.

One of my favourites he’d done—black-hooded and face-obscured—had been on two women pressed together into one, their arms folded in such a way that their human forms became a hummingbird.

Thanks to Gil’s technique with metallic and shadow, their skin transformed into iridescent feathers, shimmering with precision.

How did he stand it?

How did he spend so long making something come to life only to take a few photos then flush it down the drain?

My reflection mocked me as I moved toward the vanity and grabbed my shoulder-length dark blonde hair. Twisting it into a rope, I made a bun at the base of my neck and secured it with an elastic from around my wrist.

Once my hair was tamed, I searched the walls for a bathrobe.

No hooks. No robes.

Where is it?

My eyes danced around the white-tiled space until they came to rest on a pile of plastic-wrapped garments in the corner. I’d expected a bathrobe—as in singular. Something hanging on the bathroom door.

I should’ve guessed Gil had multiple canvases to paint. Therefore, he’d need multiple bathrobes. Judging by the pile of them, he ordered in bulk.

Sighing heavily, hurting all over again, I grabbed the top package, ripped open the plastic, and shook out a mothball smelling garment.

I stripped from my leggings and top, leaving my black G-string and sports bra on.

Slipping into the robe, I gave my reflection a shrug, then headed back out to the warehouse where scents of fresh paint, thinner, and citrus danced in the air. The smell grew stronger as I moved toward Gil.

He had his back to me as he mixed something, his head tilted to study what his hands were doing. His left arm looked no different than his right today, even though a bruise still marked his jaw.

Stopping by his side, I asked gently, “Who hurt you yesterday?”

He stiffened. “No one.”

“It was someone.”

Placing the paint bottles onto the mixing table, he turned to face me. For the first time, he studied me. Truly studied me.

And I wanted to run back to the bathroom and slip into three more robes for protection. His harsh eyes stripped me as if he had full access to my depressing, unaspiring life. As if he could see my mistakes, my hiccups, my failures.

Deep in his gaze lurked remnants of the boy I’d loved. A silent apology. A wish for more. That damn connection that refused to be ignored.

But he cleared his throat and shoved such softness away. Cupping his jaw, he cocked his head and moved around me with meticulous slowness.

Somehow, I knew he’d abandoned the realm of humanity and became as brutal and as beautiful as a weapon. A weapon that slashed with paint, murdered with colour, and no longer saw me as a person.

I was just a blank canvas.

A colourless piece of paper, ready for his art. “Take off the robe.”

I shivered.

My muscles seized. My belly flopped. I struggled with prim propriety and the curse of starving lust.

His presence seemed to magnify. His citrusy scent drugged me.

He groaned under his breath when I didn’t obey, sounding as confused and as hungry as I felt. Clearing his throat, he grumbled in a strictly controlled voice. “Off, Olin.”

Commands a lover would make.

Instructions delivered with hail.

I shivered again from the use of my name.

It drenched me in memories of adolescent moments. Of simpler times. Of excruciating times. Where a crush had the power to erase the world and forsake all others. Where affection had the magic to make you believe in fairy-tales.