Vipers and Virtuosos (Monsters & Muses, #2)(69)

I’m indignant on Caleb’s behalf. “He can cook. I’ve had his apple crumble, and he makes scones and empanadas all the time.”

“Okay, so he can bake.” Aiden pushes the bowl back on the counter, turning to face me. “That’s not the same as cooking, though, and people who can’t cook shouldn’t try to make arepa boyacense unsupervised.”

I blink. “What the hell is that?”

“A Colombian breakfast dish. My mom used to make it every weekend when I was a kid, and let me tell you, it was heaven.” He points at the fried dough sitting on the plate. “Those taste like ass.”

“Familiar with that, are we?” I try not to let my surprise show over the fact that he’s talking about his past, so candid as he stands here in my kitchen.

Like we’re old friends and not, at best, star-crossed wannabe lovers.

A slow burning smile spreads over his lips, and he lets his eyes fall down over me. “Don’t worry. I’ll be familiar with yours in no time.”

He reaches into the bowl for a measuring cup, funneling the batter from there into the pan

I frown. “What are you doing?”

“My mother would disown me if I didn’t correct the golden boy’s mistake, so apparently I’m making you breakfast.” Glancing at me over his shoulder, he lifts an eyebrow. “Be a good girl and help out, hm?”





33





My thumb flicks against the lid of my Zippo lighter, my legs outstretched as I lounge on the bench in front of the Pruitt Art Gallery.

Caleb’s been back from break for half an hour, and while every light inside has been turned on, and the open sign flipped back, he hasn’t actually unlocked the door.

My dick is getting frostbite just sitting here.

There’s about three feet of snow on the ground, and the entire boardwalk is decked out in Santas and beautiful, twinkling lights, each store overhang having their own specific color of bulbs; red at the diner, yellow at the souvenir shop, blue at the art gallery, and so on.

Christmas back home stopped being much of an event when I was young; even before my career took off, and my parents decided cultivating the Aiden James brand was more important than cultivating me, things in our household were strained.

Not unloving, necessarily. Just awkward. A severe disconnect existed between the three of us that kept happiness on the outskirts of our lives.

My mother buried her sadness in pills, becoming the caricature of a once-great singer.

My father tried to alleviate his with material things. Business ventures, vacations, jewelry, models, and cars. Anything money could buy, Sonny James wanted it delivered to our home.

Me, well. I didn’t know what the fuck to do with my sadness. No one wanted to acknowledge it, because doing so was like admitting something inside of us was broken.

So I kept it close.

Bottled it up, then tucked it behind my rib cage like hidden treasure.

Leave something buried long enough, and eventually it’ll wash back up, waterlogged and sandy and worse off than if you’d just dealt with it in the first place.

I toss a peppermint candy at the glass door again, and this time Caleb’s face appears from behind a covered canvas. He frowns, pursing his lips when he sees me, like he isn’t sure if he wants to answer or not.

After a minute, he finally trudges over like the good little boy he is. Flipping the lock on the door, he yanks it open, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What do you want?”

Pushing to my feet, I close the lighter and stuff it in my pocket. “Can’t a guy come visit his favorite artist?”

“I’m not an artist. And I’m not your favorite anything.” He moves back as I walk inside, taking in the rows of displays in the little room.

Six individual glass cases line the middle of the floor, with the covered canvas standing at the back. Others hang on the wall, a macabre representation of still life here in the Rockies, and a spinning display showcases different native artifacts.

“That’s not entirely true,” I say, walking over to inspect a landscape of the lake just outside. “You’re my favorite nuisance.”

Rolling his eyes, Caleb walks to the back corner, slipping behind a tall receptionist desk. He’s folding pamphlets, fingers moving with ease, and I’m once again overtaken by jealousy at the thought of those being anywhere near Riley.

“If you’re not an artist, why do you own an art gallery?”

“Do you have to create art in order to appreciate it?” He pauses, glancing up at me. “Wouldn’t that defeat the entire purpose of your career, if the only people who could own music were also the ones who play it?”

“Well, enjoying music and owning a recording studio are vastly different things.”

I shake a peppermint from my jeans pocket, popping it out of the wrapper and into my mouth. He watches the movement with cold, calculating eyes—so different from when he’s around her, that I have no doubt about his feelings.

“It belonged to my grandfather years ago. He left it to me in his will.”

“Seems an odd thing to leave a man who doesn’t care about art.”

“Again, I care about it. I’m just not an artist.”

The covered canvas in the back catches my attention for a second, and I cock my head to one side, letting my gaze slide to his.