Bringing Home the Bad Boy (Second Chance #1)(39)

Sadly, the answer was no.

She didn’t love portraits. She didn’t love weddings. She didn’t love newspaper photography or shooting landscapes. What she loved was people—capturing that rare moment where they were themselves and didn’t know it.

She wished she had her camera now. Because she’d never seen Evan more himself than she did in this moment. It was a rare, cherished glimpse, an honor to witness. And almost enough to make her forget he was upset with her. Until he caught her in his peripheral and lowered his brush.

In a blink, he yanked his earbuds out of his ears and crossed the room, his eyebrows a pair of angry slashes over blue, blue eyes reminding her of the cartoon cow looming behind him.

“What’s wrong?” He lifted a baby monitor standing on a nearby stool, studied the video screen, and frowned at her again. “Is he okay? What time is it?”

He looked so worried, she raised the plate in her hand to assure him everything was dandy by showing him the pile of homemade proof. “Nothing’s wrong. I couldn’t sleep, so I baked. Your door was open and I came in. That’s it.”

“Lyon didn’t get up? Call you? Come get you?” Perplexed, his eyes returned to the screen on the monitor again. Lyon was sprawled on top of his sheets, looking like he was—and had been for some time—fast asleep.

“No. He looks wiped.”

“Yeah, we swam.” He watched the monitor for another long, silent minute and for some reason it bothered her.

“He’d come get you first,” she told him. “You know that.”

“Not if I didn’t hear him.”

“He’d come in and slap your arm if you didn’t hear him.”

He nodded but looked unconvinced. “Be back,” he said, leaving her and her muffins to check in on Lyon.

Charlie rested the plate on the desk, her eyes tracking to the stack of canvases leaning against the wall behind the easel.

Shades of deep blue, black, brown, gray, and green covered the canvases. Clouds of billowing smoke on some, smudges on the other. As she flipped through them, she noticed there was another stack wedged between the shelf and wall to her left. These were nothing like the colorful, fun paintings of cartoon characters Evan painted for a living. These were dark. Unhappy. These made her heart squeeze, made her feel. And the feeling was not a good one.

Before Evan caught her snooping, she left the paintings alone, but when she went back to studying his most recent artwork, the feeling from before hadn’t left her.

Sad.

Those paintings were sad.

And it saddened her those emotions lived inside of him.

Evan stepped back into the room a minute later.

“Yep. Out,” he said, talking about Lyon.

“The monitor does not lie.” When he came closer, she loosened the cellophane covering the plate on the desk and handed him a muffin.

He accepted, taking a huge bite. “Mmph. Good.”

She smiled. At least that was something. His eyes went to the painting he’d been working on. Hers followed. It was also good. So very good.

“Mad Cow has your eyes,” she told him when he joined her.

“Lyon’s,” he corrected, polishing off the muffin in one big bite.

She studied the surly expression on the cow, the human way he stood on his hindquarters. Facing Evan, she said, “Lyon has your eyes, too.”

Turquoise blue. Stunning, honest eyes.

“Probably why everyone can relate to Mad Cow,” she told him. “He’s a bad cow with a big heart.”

“And four stomachs,” he quipped.

She laughed, but she laughed alone. When she turned he was frowning again, staring not at his painting but more through it.

“Been a while since I’ve painted anything good.”

Briefly, her eyes went to the paintings leaning against the wall.

“Thought if I went back to what I knew,” he said, and she turned her attention back to him, “the rest of the book would flow from there.”

“Is it working?”

“Dunno.”

Okay, enough small talk. She had to get the real reason for her being here off her conscience. “I came over to apologize.”

Turquoise eyes moved to her. Arms crossed over his paint-dotted black tee. She focused on a smudge of red on his bare arm rather than look at him.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Why?”

She’d asked herself this question over and over again tonight. And had arrived at only one conclusion. A conclusion she didn’t look forward to sharing with him. Not at all.

“I’m sorry I kissed you,” she said.

“I kissed you.”

“I’m sorry you did.”

He uncrossed his arms and stepped close, tipping her chin upward. When she met the ferocity of his expression, every last part of her wanted to cower. “Why?” It was a demand.

She swallowed. Girded her loins. She could do this. “It’s not fair to Rae. Or Lyon. Or you.”

“Rae,” he growled.

She pulled in a breath, keeping her eyes locked on his. “Yeah.”

“What about you?”

Not understanding, she shook her head, her chin brushing where his fingers rested. “What about me, what?”

He clenched his jaw and his brows lowered over his eyes. Anger radiated off him like a kerosene furnace. She could feel it. She could practically hear it. His fingers left her chin, slid along the sensitive skin of her neck, and into her hair, sending a drove of gooseflesh down both arms. The palm on the back of her neck tightened, forcing her to tilt her head in order to meet his gaze.