Page 99 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

I spend the rest of my day off holed up in the sunroom, working away at what might just be the darkest painting I’ve ever done.

It’s a little after midnight when I realize that I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast, so engrossed in my painting that I didn’t notice the hunger pangs gnawing at my stomach.

It’s a good thing Mom was having dinner at the club, or she would’ve dragged me downstairs by my hair and forced-fed me whatever meal Sue whipped up for dinner.

I almost wish she would’ve.

My body definitely didn’t appreciate being ignored because it skipped the growling stomach and jumped straight to the hunger headache and shaky hands.

I take a step back for a broader shot of the raging storm on my canvas.

Thick clouds are rolling in above an empty field at nighttime and a flash of lighting is striking a tree that’s shaped like a heart right down the middle.

I didn’t plan on creating something this depressing, but there was a sale on dark colors at the nearest store, and I wasn’t trying to max out my credit card, so I grabbed whatever I could afford and headed home.

I set up my easel near the grand piano in the center of the sunroom and, after looking for a tall enough seat, grabbed a stool from the upstairs bar.

I’ve been at this for over eleven hours, and while I do like where the painting’s heading, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s missing something.

In all fairness, that’s how I’ve felt ever since I started painting again. I’m never satisfied with my work. Probably because, deep down, I think my skills should be further along by now.

I could’ve been good.

With practice, time, and effort, I might’ve even had a shot at this. I might’ve been able to actually sell my paintings and make a reasonable living from them.

Now, I know being a full-time artist is not the most realistic goal, but I like to think I would’ve beat the odds if I hadn’t stopped painting.

Maybe then I would be doing what I love now instead of trying to major in communications. Maybe I would’ve had the guts to make it a double major and study art as well.

Maybe.

The hunger tremors in my hands spread to my arms, and I figure I should call it a night.

I begin gathering my brushes to wash them.

“Anyone ever tell you the human body needs food to survive?” His voice makes my pulse accelerate.

I whisk my head back and see Kane leaning against the doorway, one of his arms propped up against the frame. His all-black outfit, intimidating presence, and the cunning smirk on his lips send confusing signals to my brain.

He’s talking to me again?

Because this morning at breakfast, he couldn’t have been more eager to get me out of his sight.

I’m also surprised he noticed that I didn’t eat. I figured he’d be too busy trying to clean up his PR disaster to pay attention to what anyone else is doing.

“I wasn’t hungry,” I say flatly.

Because my stomach’s timing is the worst, it makes an extra-loud growling sound the next second.

He raises a brow at me.

I think it best to specify, “I am now.”

Kane gives a nod, pushing off the doorway and venturing into the sunroom. He stops three steps in, taking in his surroundings as though he’s never been here before.

“Shit,” he breathes, memories swirling around his demon-ridden eyes. “I haven’t been in this room since…”

We exchange a look packed with shared trauma.