Kiss Me Forever - M.J. O'Shea Page 0,34

it was a Basquiat—an artist whose original works were worth millions. Millions. While the painting was obviously Basquiat, Avery had never seen it before. Not even when he was writing a paper for art history on his favorite painter, poring over slides and examples to use in his oral presentation. Avery knew every Basquiat. And this one was... new.

What the hell?

He stood there staring at the painting, wondering if he’d honestly lost his mind. He’d been so thorough with that research, he thought he knew every piece backward and forward. But not this one. He wished desperately that his phone wasn’t plugged in upstairs or he’d sneak a picture of it. Avery was shaken and very confused. Tyson was obviously rich, and his family before him. But that rich? Rich enough to have an unknown painting like that? He supposed someone in Tyson’s family could have been friends with the artist, but what were the chances? And how did literally nobody know?

He tiptoed the rest of the way down to the kitchen to get water, since he couldn’t think of anything else to do other than stand there and stare at a painting that would be worth tens of millions easily, hung unceremoniously in a back stairwell, only to run into Mrs. Peggs. She was bouncy as always, dark hair in a high ponytail, and dressed in track pants and a pair of sneakers. She was brewing the tea he’d seen her drinking the few mornings he’d been there and up

early enough. It didn’t smell very good. Avery wondered what was wrong with a good bag of English Breakfast.

“Morning, Mrs. Peggs.”

She jumped. “Oh, you frightened me, dear. Where’s Tyson?”

“Still asleep. I was thirsty, and I thought I’d bring our leftovers upstairs for breakfast.”

Mrs. Peggs’s forehead wrinkled for just a moment at the mention of food, but then she gave him one of her signature sunny smiles. “That’s good, dear. I’m sure Tyson will love that.”

Avery was dying to ask her about the art, but he knew it would be seriously out of line. She might not know anyway, so there was no point. He’d ask Tyson. Mrs. Peggs smiled one more time and then bounded out of the room with her odd-smelling tea and left Avery to stare contemplatively at the somewhat dated refrigerator.

The painting, the tea, this enormous monster of a house, the lack of eating until Avery made a point of watching. What was going on? He wanted so desperately not to notice; he didn’t want there to be a problem with Tyson. Tyson was so amazing in so many ways. But there were red flags, and he’d be an idiot if he kept ignoring them. Even if he desperately wanted to.

Avery heated up their leftovers and poured two glasses of water. A quick search found a tray that he could pile the food and water on. He decided against going by the Basquiat painting again. It would be too tempting to stare, and he’d probably end up standing there for far too long. Instead he went up the grand staircase in the main area of the house and found Tyson sitting up and scratching his head.

“Morning,” he said in that rough morning voice Avery loved.

“Morning. I heated up our food from last night.”

Tyson smiled warily. “How long have you been awake?”

Just long enough to see your priceless original art and have an odd exchange with your housekeeper, who never seems to actually clean.

“Not long.”

“Well, come get back in bed. Let’s eat. Pasta is always so good the next day.”

Avery couldn’t agree more. So he pushed down the weird feelings once again and handed Tyson the tray so he could clamber onto the high bed, and he settled into a slow morning of leftovers and kisses and instinct avoidance.

By the time he left for campus, though, he couldn’t get it out of his head. He didn’t know where to start looking. He knew there was something off, but what? What questions would he even ask?

Avery had some time before his first lecture, time he usually used to prepare his notes, but that day found him in his office frantically googling Basquiat paintings, hoping he was bad at research when he’d been back in school. He knew that wasn’t the case, he’d always been meticulous, but there was hope.

Then he looked up symptoms—gorgeous, pale skin, no eating, moods can run hot and a little cold, which Tyson tried to hide but Avery had definitely noticed. He knew what he