Bringing Home the Bad Boy (Second Chance #1)(38)

Undeterred, and confusing her further, he not only kept hold of her hand but tugged her to his side and wrapped an arm around her waist. “You think we should ask Charlie to lunch?”

He leaned a hip against the railing, his fingers rubbing the material on her dress like he hadn’t accused her of not being his friend or being judgmental five seconds ago. And that question…

You think we should ask Charlie to lunch?

Wasn’t that like a king casually asking if he should pardon a criminal or hang him? And here she waited, on tenterhooks, for the younger Downey to accuse her.

Lyon took in the two of them, her standing in his father’s arms, and quirked his mouth. “You look like Aunt Sadie and Uncle Aiden.”

Evan’s brother and his wife. Married. Very much in love. She wanted badly to force a laugh and make this situation okay, but she couldn’t shake what Evan had said to her. How had she failed him?

Maybe it was the kiss. She knew she shouldn’t kiss him. That was a rule she’d made with herself. Then again, he’d kissed her, so how much of the kiss was her fault anyway?

“Bud?”

“Yeah! Lunch!”

At least she had Lyon on her side, who was smiling and clearly not “pissed” at her. This little boy had no doubts they were still friends.

She pulled away from Evan and hugged Lyon. “Where to?” She’d go anywhere for this kid. So when he exclaimed “Reggie’s Subs!” and his father agreed, she went. Despite sharing a meal with a man who was angry with her for reasons she’d yet to figure out.





CHAPTER TWELVE




Charlie pulled out the pan of blueberry muffins, turned off the oven, and tossed her potholder aside. Lunch had been agonizing and involved the impossible task of sitting across from Evan and attempting to ignore him completely. She’d taken her seat next to Lyon, feigned interest in his iPad game, and laughed too often, too loudly, her discomfort showcased in every awkward gesture.

Meanwhile, Evan had silently glowered at her nearly the entire time he ate. He’d kept silent on the ride home, too—they’d opted not to walk downtown since dark clouds had been pooling in the sky since midday. Once again, she’d filled the air with too many questions to Lyon so she could avoid conversation with his father.

Now it was nearly midnight, and not being able to sleep, or stop turning the conversation from earlier over and over in her head, she’d resorted to baking. She’d started with apple-cinnamon muffins, moved to peach cobbler, and lastly, blueberry muffins. Evan liked baked anything, so it wasn’t a picky palate she was trying to please, but more the need to delay the not-so-long walk across the beach to his house.

She peeked out her kitchen window hoping to see his windows dark, but as her luck would have it, his studio lights burned bright. He was still awake, painting.

Bummer.

Carrying a plate piled high with muffins, she took her time walking across her yard, past her neighbor’s yard. On Evan’s deck, she hesitated yet again, peering into the dark kitchen before finally walking to the side of the deck and trying the door.

Unlocked.

Bummer, again.

She clucked her tongue. An unlocked door was slightly dangerous. Yes, they were in the Cove, but anyone could walk in. Anyone at all. Like his guilt-ridden neighbor who had wandered over way too late.

Though, she could flick the lock and shut the door and walk back home. Or flick the lock, leave the baked goods inside, shut the door, and walk back home.

But then what?

She hadn’t been able to work, hadn’t been able to sleep, hadn’t been able to do anything but worry and wonder why he was angry with her. Instead she had baked an entire plate of “sucking up” as an apology for what, she had no idea. Her neurosis was such that she knew turning around and going back would only result in more baking and pacing.

Facing Evan, as much as she didn’t want to, was better.

Inside, she followed the dim light through the hallway, through the laundry room, and to his studio door. The entire wall to her right was made up of windows, framing a nighttime sky dotted with stars. The moon hid behind clouds, barely visible through the fuzzy sheen of mist. She sort of felt like that now. Fuzzy. Barely visible.

At the doorway, she lifted a fist to the door, but dropped her arm without knocking. Evan, one earbud in, one out, stood in front of his easel shaking his fine ass to music she couldn’t hear.

On the canvas before him, he painted a patch of color, halting his smooth moves long enough to dip the brush into a smear of color and carefully paint again. Bright cyan made up the background color for a portrait of the comically badass Mad Cow: pierced, tatted-up, gauged, and by the look of his overly thick, frowning brows, indeed very mad.

Evan’s creation graced the pages of Asher Knight’s debut novel, launching the friends into semi-stardom, and bringing him to her. Proof that once a passion was embraced, success was inevitable. She wanted to believe that.

She could see it. Passion poured from his brush, echoed in the sway of his hips, confirmed in the bob of his head, lost in the music as well as the art. He was in the zone—a zone she’d admired, had yearned for, but had never quite captured for herself.

Watching him do what he was best at doing, seeing the brilliance on the canvas before him, filled her with longing. Had she ever done work that imbibed her very being with that kind of passion?