A knot tightens in my chest. I shut my eyes, and there she is, vivid, breathtaking. Rooney. This is all her fault—not the house, but those blank and half-finished canvases back in my studio. It’s her fault that I’ve been fighting a losing creative battle for months. And it’s that fucking charades kiss that was the death blow. Now, every time I pick up a brush, it’s not abstract lines and bold colors. It’s peaches and pinks, ocean blue-greens and spun honey-gold. I paint something—someone—I shouldn’t. That has to end. I need so much money, and fast. I haven’t painted anything I can sell in over
...more
