The Finished Masterpiece Boxed Set - Pepper Winters Page 0,12

T-shirt. His body tense and untouchable. Even though I would treat this arrangement with professionalism and the appropriate employee submission to her boss, I couldn’t stop my insides waking up from its self-imposed hibernation.

I’d had other boyfriends since Justin. I’d been with one guy for a year before my accident. I’d had a couple of flings, doing my best to patch up a ruined heart, but Gilbert Clark had always been the one who got away.

The boy I’d never forgotten.

God, please stop.

Stop making me hurt.

Slowing to a halt, Gil waved at a small room next to his office. “In there. Don’t be long.” He wiped his mouth, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Strip, put on a bathrobe, and return.”

Not waiting around, he stalked back to his workstation before I could agree.

I watched him.

I missed him.

Get a grip.

Tearing my eyes away, I entered the bathroom and found a much larger space than I’d anticipated. The shower held streaks of paint from others washing off Gil’s artwork. The double vanity held an array of cotton swabs and towelettes to do the same. To erase hours’ worth of detail and perfectionism.

After watching his YouTube videos, it seemed wrong that this was the place where his creations went to die. A miserable death for so many outstanding pieces.

One of my favourites he’d done—black-hooded and face-obscured—had been on two women pressed together into one, their arms folded in such a way that their human forms became a hummingbird.

Thanks to Gil’s technique with metallic and shadow, their skin transformed into iridescent feathers, shimmering with precision.

How did he stand it?

How did he spend so long making something come to life only to take a few photos then flush it down the drain?

My reflection mocked me as I moved toward the vanity and grabbed my shoulder-length dark blonde hair. Twisting it into a rope, I made a bun at the base of my neck and secured it with an elastic from around my wrist.

Once my hair was tamed, I searched the walls for a bathrobe.

No hooks. No robes.

Where is it?

My eyes danced around the white-tiled space until they came to rest on a pile of plastic-wrapped garments in the corner. I’d expected a bathrobe—as in singular. Something hanging on the bathroom door.

I should’ve guessed Gil had multiple canvases to paint. Therefore, he’d need multiple bathrobes. Judging by the pile of them, he ordered in bulk.

Sighing heavily, hurting all over again, I grabbed the top package, ripped open the plastic, and shook out a mothball smelling garment.

I stripped from my leggings and top, leaving my black G-string and sports bra on.

Slipping into the robe, I gave my reflection a shrug, then headed back out to the warehouse where scents of fresh paint, thinner, and citrus danced in the air. The smell grew stronger as I moved toward Gil.

He had his back to me as he mixed something, his head tilted to study what his hands were doing. His left arm looked no different than his right today, even though a bruise still marked his jaw.

Stopping by his side, I asked gently, “Who hurt you yesterday?”

He stiffened. “No one.”

“It was someone.”

Placing the paint bottles onto the mixing table, he turned to face me. For the first time, he studied me. Truly studied me.

And I wanted to run back to the bathroom and slip into three more robes for protection. His harsh eyes stripped me as if he had full access to my depressing, unaspiring life. As if he could see my mistakes, my hiccups, my failures.

Deep in his gaze lurked remnants of the boy I’d loved. A silent apology. A wish for more. That damn connection that refused to be ignored.

But he cleared his throat and shoved such softness away. Cupping his jaw, he cocked his head and moved around me with meticulous slowness.

Somehow, I knew he’d abandoned the realm of humanity and became as brutal and as beautiful as a weapon. A weapon that slashed with paint, murdered with colour, and no longer saw me as a person.

I was just a blank canvas.

A colourless piece of paper, ready for his art. “Take off the robe.”

I shivered.

My muscles seized. My belly flopped. I struggled with prim propriety and the curse of starving lust.

His presence seemed to magnify. His citrusy scent drugged me.

He groaned under his breath when I didn’t obey, sounding as confused and as hungry as I felt. Clearing his throat, he grumbled in a strictly controlled voice. “Off, Olin.”

Commands a lover would make.

Instructions delivered with hail.

I shivered