Trouble

|Chapter Twenty-Four| Nasturtium

[Nasturtium]: Victory in battle

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I pull back when Connor doesn't reply for a brief second, and the moment I do, he throws his head back and chuckles humorlessly, his eyes on the high ceiling.

"Fucking hell. You're so desperate sometimes, it's funny to watch."

I look away, to act unaffected as if I don't feel like he'd just punched me on the face, when suddenly my eyes land on the pocket sketchbook open before him, and widen.

My whole body freezes for a second, and even when he shuts it and covers it with his huge hand, I still stare at the black leather on the front.

The corner of my mouth starts to slowly turn up into a small smirk, because my God, I'm not the only desperate party in this.

I recover from the shock, and slide my eyes up to Connor's face again. He's staring ahead of him, the sarcasm and humor all gone from his features. He even looks pale, if I'm being honest. And he should, because I'm never ever letting him live this down.

A hypocrite, that's who he is!

"Am I?" I say with a low voice, getting braver and braver because of what he does in secret, when he knows I'm not watching him. "Am I really, when you're the one still dreaming about last night so much, you are painting it?"

Slowly he turns his sculptured face to me and narrows his eyes, but I don't back down even when he gives me a threatening and empty stare.

I'm certain about what I just saw in his pocket sketchbook. There's no mistaking it.

It was a messy, unfinished quick sketch of the upper part of me in the nightgown, with its undid bow, my neck, bare shoulders, my chest and even the small birthmark on the inner inside of my breast.

It looked so insanely realistic, there is not a chance for me to confuse it even if he hasn't given that sketch a face - my face.

"Show me," I whisper trying not to make too much noise. "Did you draw me on the rest of the pages as well?"

"You think it was you? Stop being delusional."

"Oh, it was me!"

"Fuck off," he mumbles without a decent comeback, which makes me think he's really flustered. He starts to hide the sketchbook in the pocket of his sweatpants to pretend it never happened, but I'll be a stupid, stupid girl if I let him do it.

"Come on. I want to see what you saw." I smile proudly, fighting him off under the table, as I keep trying to reach for his sketchbook.

"A mistake. That's what I saw that day. A mistake I made under the influence."