Page 15 of Knot a Bad Idea

Well,this is pretty embarrassing.

After having a phone session with my therapist Sandy, I’m a vulnerable mess.

I haven’t even told her about the daydreams, or how I still visit that safe space in my mind.

No, I confessed it to Hunter, who probably thinks I’m delusional.

Sandy still insists that I take baby steps.

What kind of step was it when I told Hunter that if I had never been kidnapped, maybe Donovan would have liked me?

Stupid, I think to myself.He doesn’t want to hear about your insecurities.

But when his golden eyes burn and his spicy scent swirls around me, part of me thinks he genuinely does.

Now, I stand in front of a blank canvas with a paintbrush while he sits on top of a table to my left, a sketchbook on his lap with a pencil in his hand.

“It’s weird if you draw me,” I say, blue pigment dripping down the canvas.

I don’t know what I’m doing, but according to Hunter, watercolor is a great paint for beginners.

I’ll take his word for it.

“Who says I’m drawing you?” he smirks. “Maybe I’m drawing Liam from memory.”

I snort. “Sure.”

It’s hard to stay insecure with Hunter around. Dressed in worn jeans with a brown hoodie and combat boots, he looks the part of a rebellious artist, not a billionaire tech guy.

He catches me staring, and he winks at me. “See something you like, sweetheart?”

I laugh and shake my head, returning to the canvas.

How am I supposed to paint what I feel?

“Art therapy is a real thing,” he adds, as if reading my mind. “There’s no right or wrong answer. This isn’t like baking. It won’t explode in the oven if you get the measurements wrong.”

I huff, moving the brush along. I create cerulean lines that mean nothing to me and look uneven, as if done by a child.

But still, I continue to do it, and I think.

I think about my time in that room.

I think about Donovan’s eyes and how every emotion he has is concealed behind them.

I dip the brush in a jar of water to swirl the pigment off, then switch colors.

Like Liam’s eyes.

I know nothing about color theory, but the mess on the canvas doesn’t do my artistry any favors.

Still, I’m lost in shapes and strokes, swirling the brush around as quickly as my mind does.

That room.

The fear that I’m still there and don’t realize it.

That instead of coming back wrong…