Sweet Love - Mia Kayla Page 0,35

wouldn’t feel so utterly worthless.

And then … without warning, Connor pulled me into his arms.

Chapter 11

Connor

I hadn’t planned on it. I hadn’t planned on pulling her into my arms and holding her through her shakes and her tears and her sobs. But it felt like the right thing to do. I wasn’t used to consoling people. There were very few instances where I’d ever had to console anyone. But having Charlie in my arms felt oddly natural.

“I’m sorry. Parents can be shitty people sometimes.”

And wasn’t that the truth? Didn’t I know that more than anyone?

She sobbed into my shirt, which was already wet from the rain but now more so with her tears. I didn’t know how long I held her, but I squeezed her tighter, and when I did, her sobs heightened.

I felt her pain. The pain caused by parents.

How many times had I cried myself to sleep in my younger years? How many times had my parents said they’d come home for my Christmas concert and then I’d wait and wait and they wouldn’t be there in the audience?

But then there was always Nana. Nana always made everything okay. Making me her signature chocolate cookies that she seriously thought saved the world and made any situation better.

When Charlie’s shakes stopped and her tears dried out, she took a step away from me and wiped at her eyes, not meeting my stare. I sensed she was embarrassed. It was in the way her shoulders cowered into her frame and how she held her stomach and mostly how she couldn’t meet my gaze.

Only then did I survey the room. The paintings were everywhere, and they were absolutely stunning. Abstract paintings. Naked paintings of the human form. Splashes of paint against colors everywhere.

“This is what you’re gonna showcase?” I walked around the room, picking up various canvases.

One of the paintings stood out. Darker shades of gray and black blended with whites. It was a solemn painting, an abstract one. I didn’t know much about art. Just what was pleasing to the eye. But this signified something deeper.

But it was beautiful nonetheless, like you could get lost into the colors as though, looking at it long enough, you could feel the pain of the painter who had painted it.

“I painted that right after my father died.”

My gaze moved back to hers. Her hair was matted to her face. And without thinking, I reached over and pushed her hair out of her eyes. She was freezing. No doubt from the rain. I took her hand and pulled her close, overstepping all boundaries and the little voice in my head saying that I shouldn’t.

“Charlie … you’re freezing.” I rubbed her shoulders.

“Chilled to the bone.” Her teeth chattered against me. “The painting … I was so mad when he died. At him mostly. Didn’t even make any sense. He died of cancer, and yet I blamed him for dying. How ridiculous is that?” Her hands were on my waist, and it seemed as though we were both using each other for warmth now.

“But he’d told me he’d never leave me. When he left, I felt so hopeless. No one supported me like he did. No one ever loved me like he did. His whole life was to ensure that I did whatever made me happy.”

A shiver ran through her, and I pulled her closer against me.

“He said he would never leave. And he did.” Her voice was filled with melancholy emotion.

“I’m sorry.” That was all I could say.

Her losing her father would be like me losing Nana. They were the ones who had pushed us to greatness, the ones who had made us who we were today. I couldn’t even fathom it.

“You’re freezing too.” She pushed herself up against me and met my gaze, rubbing my arms.

And shit, I wasn’t that cold anymore.

“There is a dryer in here. And I’ll go see if there is a robe somewhere.” She moved across the room and into the bathroom at the far end of the hallway.

The pool house was huge, and they could rent out the space. A couch was in the main area, and the double doors made me believe there was a bedroom here.

“Is this your studio?” I walked around the area, taking everything in—the floral couch in the living room, the full kitchen, the flat screen TV against the wall, and paintings and canvases half-finished everywhere.

“Yep. My makeshift studio, but construction is being done to make the back room a bedroom, so I can