Sweet Love - Mia Kayla Page 0,34

I simply wanted to see how he tasted.

“Okay.” My voice was more confident this time.

“Stay put.”

The rain pitter-pattered harder against the windows, but before I could tell him that I’d give him his umbrella back at work, he stepped out of the car, taking the umbrella with him and moving to the passenger side to get me.

When he came to my side, I opened the passenger door, and his arm went around me to bring me underneath the umbrella. The scent of him, the masculine smell of this man, hit me directly in the nostrils, and all my lady parts were awakened. He smelled divine. I wanted to sniff his shirt, take it off, and sleep on it later. What was his aftershave?

“This is crazy. We’ll have flooding if this doesn’t stop soon.” He walked up the driveway, but just then something by the garbage can made me pause, mid-step.

My heart stopped beating in my chest, and it felt like I had been punched in the gut because my breath literally got knocked out of me, and I couldn’t breathe.

I didn’t think. I reacted. I ran, chest heaving, heart pumping, arms swinging.

“Charlie!” Connor yelled, but I ignored him.

I ran down the driveway, leaving Connor under the umbrella and getting sopping wet.

My worst fears were confirmed. I lifted some of my canvases into my arms that were by the garbage can. Six or seven paintings, all ruined. My arms were full because the canvases were too large to carry on my own.

Tears flowed down my face, like a dam that had burst, coming faster down my cheeks than the endless rain.

How could my mother do this? How could she treat my artwork literally like trash and throw everything out?

I’d worked on these for weeks. And it would take me weeks to work on more. I wanted to showcase at least thirty paintings at the art exhibit.

All those wasted hours. All that wasted time.

Tears blended with the rain and flew down my cheeks effortlessly.

“Why? Why? Why did she do this?” That was all I uttered to myself like a damn broken record.

“Charlie … you’re getting soaked.”

I ignored him and felt this unbearable rage bubbling under the surface. “She hates my paintings that much? She knew this would hurt me, so why would she do this?” I tried to lift more paintings into my hands, but they slipped and fell, the reds, blues, and oranges blending into one massive mess of color down the driveway.

“Let me help you.” Connor abandoned his umbrella, tossing it on the ground.

He reached for the remaining four paintings, and I led us back past the house to the backyard, past the massive pool, and to where my studio was—the pool house. I stepped in and turned on the lights. The rest of my paintings were everywhere. Stacked on the floor, some stacked on the couch. I had a painting mat at the far end of the room. Brushes, my watercolors, my acrylic paints were all on the side table by a blank white canvas, ready to be drawn and painted on. I sighed with relief.

These paintings—the ones ruined—had been in the garage, but when and, for the love of God, why had she thrown them out?

I swiped at my eyes, staring at the soaked canvases and the paintings ruined. This was ridiculous. I couldn’t help how she felt, but I couldn’t help my feelings either.

Why couldn’t she just respect me and my art? Why couldn’t she just be the mom who encouraged me instead of trying to change me? Why couldn’t she be like my dad?

The tears were hot and heavy as they ran down my face, and although I tried to suck it in and stop crying, the tears wouldn’t stop falling.

“Hey,” Connor called out.

I turned to face him. “Why would she do this?”

I blinked up at the lights above me, but the tears wouldn’t stop falling, heavy like a waterfall.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was soft, sincere. His clothes were soaking wet, his hair flat.

But it was as though I didn’t see him or hear him. All that filtered through me was this overwhelming anger that threatened to take me under. I wanted to scream and yell for all the wasted effort in my ruined paintings. I wanted to call Gene, the person that owned the studio, and tell her I was no longer going to lease the storefront to showcase my work. Most of all, I wanted to cry because if my father were here, I