“Well, you can be not tired in bed. That way, I can get some sleep.”
“You slept without me in that bed for three months just fine.” I forced myself not to look at the painting on the wall, to give in to this strange feeling of insecurity. I assumed this guy was ordinary and forgettable. But perhaps my assumption had been wrong.
“What?” she blurted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I drank from the glass.
As the anger pumped through her system, her eyes opened wider as she became more awake. “Did I miss something? What’s going on?”
“I’m not tired,” I said simply. “I’ll come to bed when I’m ready.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, her rage growing with every passing second. “I don’t want to sleep another night without you beside me. I need to know you’re there. The sheets get cold without you. I don’t feel safe without you. So don’t make me ask you again.” She turned around and stormed off, her small feet stomping against the hardwood floor.
My anger hadn’t abated, but I was even more amused. If that painting weren’t on the wall at that moment, I would probably grin as my ego inflated. Nothing made me happier than watching my baby want me, watching her get angry when she didn’t get enough of me.
I left my scotch behind and got into bed beside her.
The second my weight hit the mattress, she moved into my side and tucked her leg in between mine. She embraced me like a body pillow, her face resting against my shoulder while she hugged my waist. Like the previous conversation never happened, she went to sleep instantly.
I watched her sleep for a few minutes before my lips pressed against her forehead. That painting haunted me, but I had to remember the piece of artwork right beside me. She was mine to stare at forever. She was mine to treasure.
She was never his, not when she was always mine.
I woke up the next morning and did my daily one-armed push-ups and sit-ups. I usually hit the weights every day, but without my equipment, I had to exercise on my own. I made coffee afterward then sat on the couch.
I usually fucked Vanessa the second my eyes were open. I didn’t give a damn if she was awake or not. My cock was rock-hard first thing in the morning, so I pushed myself between her legs and made us both come quickly before I started my day.
But today, I didn’t do that.
The painting stayed on the wall, silently haunting me. In the morning light, the colors were more distinguishable. The brush strokes were visible. I didn’t know shit about art until I started studying Vanessa’s paintings. I could read her moods and emotions. When I looked at his work, I felt like I knew him in some way.
I didn’t like that.
I needed to let this go. I was better than this. I shouldn’t feel threatened by him, not when she dumped him.
But that painting constantly reminded me of him, played with my fear and imagination. I never asked about their relationship because I knew it didn’t matter, but now I wondered about the specifics. That painting kept playing with my mind, turning me into a jealous psychopath.
I hated it.
Fucking hated it.
She woke up thirty minutes later, wearing one of my t-shirts that fit her like a poncho. Her feet struck the ground heavily as she stormed into the living room. With those angry green eyes burning into mine, she put her hands on her hips and exploded. “What the hell is wrong? We just got back together, and you’re being an ass.”
I stared at her blankly, surprised by her inaccurate statement. “How am I being an ass?”
“You disappeared last night, and then this morning, we didn’t make love. We always do that.”
“You mean, I fuck you when you’re still asleep then leave?” I asked. “I didn’t realize you found that so romantic.”
Her eyes looked like two grenades about to explode. She stormed to me then smacked her hand across my shoulder. “See? You’re being an ass. I know something is wrong. Tell me what it is.”
I didn’t react to her hit. She was small, but she could pack a serious punch. To me, the hit meant nothing. I rose to my feet and stepped away from her, unsure if I should come clean or not. If I kept it inside, I would keep pushing her away because it bothered me so much. The second that painting was gone, I could stop thinking about the man who tried to make my baby his baby.
Vanessa watched me, her arms crossing over her chest. Her eyes were still potent with rage. “Griffin.”
I was too stubborn to admit the truth, to admit another man bothered me. But my rage was winning the battle, especially when the painting was on the wall right behind her. I could see both of them in my line of sight. I wondered if he’d given that painting to her as a gift, knowing she would love it after she told him about her childhood over coffee. Both of my hands tightened into fists.