My head was spinning, and not in a good way. The kind of dizzying mess where the guilt slaps you across the face—because I know he knows I lied. And now I have to stand here, pretending like it's all fine. Perfectly fine.
"Well, did you see some of the paintings already?" I asked, attempting to sound casual, while I continued pulling groceries out of the bag. My hands were moving, but my mind was a thousand miles away, scrambling.
Harry, of course, was watching me. Attentively. I could feel his eyes on me, like he was trying to read through my soul. "Yeah, I did. They look really good. Dangerously different," he said with a calmness that made my skin tingle.
Dangerously different? What does that even mean? And since when was he an art critic?
Tux chimed in, oblivious as ever, munching on the crisps I'd bought for myself. "Told you, she's really good. No bias at all," he said, popping another crisp into his mouth.
Harry nodded, still staring at me like I was an unsolved puzzle. "Yeah, it's something else. The details... perfect," he said, his voice smooth, almost too confident.
Perfect, is it? Now he's an art expert and a master of understatement.
"Right, let's go then," I said, impatiently tossing the last of the groceries onto the kitchen island. I needed to break the tension—fast—so I headed toward my painting room. "You can see the rest," I muttered, already walking ahead, feeling their footsteps trailing behind me.
My apartment, thankfully, was spacious—a luxury in New York. Three rooms: a master, a guest room, and the third? Well, the third was something of a mystery when I moved in. A glorified storage room at best. But it had excellent lighting, so I claimed it as my painting studio. My little haven. And now I had to let them him in.
"Yeah, let's go," Harry mumbled, following close, his voice low, almost as if he were contemplating something deep. What now? Was he going to psychoanalyze my paint strokes next?
"Come on, then," Tux followed behind, ever the cheerful one, as though nothing about this situation was completely awkward.Just before we entered the room, Roger, who had been silently hovering in the background, spoke up. "Miss, don't forget about the dinner later. I'll have a car arranged for both of you. I have to leave now," he said, his usual professional tone making it sound like this was just another day.
Dinner. Right. Because meeting my mother right after this wasn't already enough of a headache. "Sure, thank you, Roger," I replied, my tone perhaps a bit sharper than intended. "Thanks, mate, be safe," Tux added, ever polite, as he shoved more crisps into his mouth. Typical.
The door to the painting room creaked open, and I couldn't help but feel a rush of nerves. Here I was, Ophelia, the not-so-honest painter, standing next to Harry, the man whose touch I couldn't forget. In my private space. My sanctuary. I wondered if he could sense the weight of everything, the mess of emotions tangled between us. And I had no idea where this was going to lead.
I stepped into my loft, the familiar creak of the old hardwood floors underfoot as I pushed the door open. Sunlight was streaming through the tall industrial windows, casting long shadows across the room. My place was a mixture of chaos and calm—unfinished paintings scattered about, brushes still dipped in yesterday's colours, and the faint scent of turpentine lingering in the air. A typical day. But this... this wasn't going to be typical, not with him here.
The second I entered, Tux's phone rang. Of course. He gestured at me while answering, "Yes, yes, just give me a sec—let me step out for this." He moved towards the door, mouthing an apologetic sorry as he slipped outside.
