The Finished Masterpiece Boxed Set - Pepper Winters Page 0,65

unbelievably special—the reality of it would’ve been our undoing.

Hurry.

I lay down on the ground and scooted under the door, dragging my handbag with me. The heavy metal clanged and banged as I let it fall to the floor, effectively announcing to every turpentine bottle and air compressor that a stranger had entered uninvited.

Find him.

Leaving my handbag by the door, I stood and brushed off dust and grime. “Gil?”

My voice echoed in the unfurnished area.

No response.

“Gil, are you okay?” I kicked off my high heels and jogged in my stockings toward his office. The air hung heavy and still as if trying to convince me no one was there. But something tugged me forward. The silence was a pretender because my skin prickled the way it did whenever I was in Gil’s company.

He’s here.

Somewhere.

His office was empty, the door slightly open as I pushed through and kept my shoulders braced. Even though I’d been in his home before, I couldn’t shed the sensation I wasn’t welcome.

“Hello?” My voice fell to a whisper as I entered his apartment.

Nothing.

No sounds, no smells, no Gil.

I stood by the couch, noticing the bottle of painkillers and the glass of water we’d shared.

The clutter hadn’t been moved.

Surely, he would’ve cleaned up after himself. His place seemed tidy. His warehouse was paint-speckled, but his equipment was clean and put away after use.

“Are you here, Gil?” I strode toward the bathroom. The longer I stayed, the more uncomfortable I became. What was I thinking breaking into his place? Why did I think I’d have better luck finding him over Justin who’d been part of his life for the past year?

Ego.

That’s what this is.

I thought I’d find him because there was something unexplainable between us. Because every word he gave me, no matter how harsh, begged me to keep coming back.

The rainforest mural glittered in the glow of a single lamp, this time I spied an owl on fern branches, a symbol of me—just like my tattoo was a symbol of him.

He’d never forgotten me. Never stopped wanting me.

“Gil?” My chest hurt as I turned, taking in the space.

A soft snick of a door opening behind me made me spin around at super speed.

My hand flew to my throat as Gil tripped out of one of the rooms hidden in the graffiti rainforest I’d just admired.

No lights illuminated behind him. I couldn’t see into the space he’d just vacated, but the faint whiff of strawberry followed him.

My insides tangled.

Strawberry.

Like in his bathroom yesterday.

I backed up as Gil turned around and closed the door. He locked it with a key that vanished into his pocket a moment later. He didn’t turn to face me; he didn’t show any sign of realising I was there.

Pressing his forehead against the door, his hand stayed glued to the handle as if he couldn’t face life outside the room.

My heart physically ached to touch him. To do something, anything, to eradicate the sorrow cloaking his shoulders.

I was trapped.

I’d found him, but I wasn’t meant to see this.

I wanted to vanish, but if I moved, he’d notice me.

I had no idea what to do, so I just stood there, blushing and afraid as he inhaled a shaky breath and turned slowly.

It took him longer to move than normal, his senses dulled and reactions compromised. His gaze fixated on a mostly empty vodka bottle on the kitchen countertop. He made to move toward it, his eyes hazy and body loose from drinking.

But then, he froze.

His head whipped to me, his lips pulling back in a snarl. “Olin.”

His eyes shot to the door behind him as if afraid of what I’d seen. “How shlong have you been standing...there?” His voice dripped with alcohol.

He swayed; his face shadowed with fury.

Out of everything that could’ve happened tonight, seeing Gil drunk was the hardest.

Not because I feared he’d be violent and a threat to my safety but because of the many moonlight conversations we’d had about his father’s drinking.

He’d been fiercely adamant he would never drink like him. The smell and taste of liquor repulsed him. He never wanted to ruin his life with a bottle.

Yet seven years later, he was slurring and swaying before me.

“Gil...what happened?”

He stumbled to the side, shaking his head as if trying to eradicate the drunkenness he swam in. “You’re not meant to be here.”

“You told me to come, remember? You were going to paint me.”

“Ah...” His eyes unfocused as something brutal and damaging cast over his features. His breath hitched in such a helpless