There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(34)

“Do I look like I need to bribe women for sex?”

“No,” I admit.

Half my roommates would fuck Cole in a heartbeat. Actually, all of them would, except maybe Peter.

I bite the edge of my thumbnail, considering.

“Don’t bite your nails,” Cole snaps. “It’s disgusting.”

I bite my nail harder, scowling at him.

He’s going to be bossy and controlling, I can already tell. Is that what he wants? A puppet dancing on his strings?

“Can I come see your studio?” I ask.

This is an audacious request. Cole Blackwell doesn’t show his studio to anyone. Especially not when he’s in the middle of a series. I have no right to ask—but I have the strangest sense that he just might agree.

“Already making demands?” Cole says. He stirs his straw through his ice with a cold clicking sound.

“Surely a protégé gets to see the master at work,” I reply.

Cole smiles. He likes being called “master.”

“I’ll consider it,” he says. “Now . . .” he leans forward on the table, steepling his slim, pale hands in front of him. “We’re going to talk about you.”

Fuck. That happens to be my least favorite topic.

“What do you want to know?”

He looks at me hungrily. “Everything.”

I swallow hard. “Alright. I’ve lived here my whole life. Always wanted to be an artist. Now I am—sort of.”

“What about your family?”

Come to think of it, that’s my least favorite topic.

I put my hands down on my lap so I won’t start chewing my nails again.

“I don’t have any family,” I say.

“Everyone has family.”

“Not me.” I glare at him, lips pressed together, stubborn.

“Where’s the alcoholic mother?” Cole says.

To me, our conversation at the studio was a blur of shouted accusations and utter confusion. Cole apparently remembers every word, including the part I blurted out and now fervently regret.

“She’s in Bakersville,” I mutter.

“What about the stepfather?”

“As far as I know, he lives in New Mexico. I haven’t talked to either of them in years.”

“Why?”

My heart is hammering and I feel that sick, squirming sensation in my stomach that always arises when I’m forced to think about my mother. I like to keep her trapped behind a locked door in my brain. She’s emotional cancer—if I let her out, she’ll infect every part of me.

“She’s the worst person I’ve ever met,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “And that includes my stepfather. I ran away the day I turned eighteen.”

“Where’s your actual father?”

“Dead.”

“So is mine,” Cole says. “I find it’s better that way.”

I look at him sharply, wondering if that’s supposed to be a joke.

“I loved my father,” I say coldly. “The day I lost him was the worst day of my life.”

Cole smiles. “The worst day so far.”

What. The. Fuck.

“So Daddy died, leaving you alone with Mommy dearest and not a penny between you,” Cole prods me, wrinkling his nose like he can still smell those awful years on my skin.

“There’s worse things than being poor,” I inform him. “There was a period of time when I had my hair brushed, a clean uniform, I went to a private school with a lunch packed every day. It was hell.”

“Enlighten me,” Cole says, one dark eyebrow raised.

“No,” I say flatly. “I’m not a sideshow for your amusement.”

“Why are you so combative?” he says. “Have you ever tried cooperating?”

“In my experience, when men say ‘cooperative,’ they mean ‘obedient.’ ”

He grins. “Then have you ever tried being obedient?”

“Never.”

That’s a lie. I have tried it. All I learned is that no amount of submission is good enough for a man. You can roll over, show your belly, beg for mercy, and they’ll just keep hitting you. Because the very act of breathing is rebellious in the eyes of an angry male.

Cole’s dark eyes rove over my face, giving me the uncomfortable sensation that he can see every thought I’d prefer to keep hidden.

Thankfully, I’m saved by Arthur depositing several platters of steaming food in front of us.

“All the greatest hits,” he says, grinning broadly.

“Looks phenomenal,” Cole says, turning on the charm with the flick of a switch.

Only after Arthur leaves us does Cole examine the food with his usual critical glare.

“What is this?” he demands.

“That’s the bacon sampler platter,” I say, nodding toward four marinated strips of premium pork belly labeled with fancy script like each is a guest at a wedding.

Cole frowns. “It looks . . . intense.”

“It’s the best thing you’ll ever put in your mouth. Look,” I cut off a bite of the rosemary balsamic bacon. “Try this one first.”

Cole takes a bite. He chews slowly, his expression melting from skepticism into genuine surprise.