Chapter 4 Knox
KNOX
The next week was awkward, but it was also too much fun to be a job.
It was like Lucy couldn’t decide if he wanted me close or far away. He would spend most of his day at his easel, creating beautiful brush strokes but looking angrier than I thought he should be, wearing what was starting to become a permanent scowl.
I was on the hook to feed him four times a day, according to his father and sister—breakfast, lunch, dinner, and a snack.
A balanced meal, I was instructed, as I was given a platinum credit card to shop for groceries with.
I’d never held so much money in the palm of my hand, and I’d never been so infuriated with a decision I’d made in my life.
I promised myself never to deal with rich people like this, yet here I was, fraternizing with the enemy.
Worse yet, I enjoyed being around Lucy, even when he was sleepy or grumpy—honestly, the grumpy sleepy version of him might have been the most adorable, looking like all he wanted was to be gathered close and snuggled.
Duke was already mocking me for my treacherous thoughts. Saying I wasn’t just fraternizing with the enemy, I was falling for him, which was ridiculous. Lucy might be cute, but that didn’t mean anything more than his just having a pretty face.
Fuck, Duke should be upset I’d broken that promise we made each other after more snobby rich guys hosted a banquet to raise money for our local Providence Hospital when Nana was in hospice for her cancer care.
They weren’t making donations to help Nana and the other patients.
No, they were making donations so they could get a photo of themselves shaking hands with the hospital’s board of directors and the five-year-old cancer patient named Molly, then wake up to their photo in the newspaper and all over the online forums for everyone to see.
That’s when we promised each other to never become like those people who threw their money around for their own notoriety.
And yet…
“You know, if you keep glaring at that canvas, your face is going to stick like that,” I drawled, peeking over Lucy’s shoulder to spy on his painting as I set a plate with his lunch on it next to him on the small table splattered with paint.
Lucy jumped, his shoulder nearly slamming into my jaw as I dodged it and stood in front of him instead, raising my arm to rest it against the frame of his easel.
He made a jerky motion to cover the canvas, but stopped himself, probably realizing the inevitability.
“I-what?” Lucy frowned, fingers twitching over the handle of his paintbrush.
I chuckled. “Just an old saying. It’s like you go into a different world when you’re painting. But doesn’t seem like a pleasant one.”
Lucy averted his gaze. His hair was pale blonde, half a layer shorter, tied at the top of his head, with loose strands framing delicate cheekbones and dark eyes.
It called to me. I wanted to brush it back over his shoulder, maybe just for the excuse to trace my fingertips over the expanse of skin above his collarbone.
Maybe he would shiver. Maybe his breath would hitch.
Then I could pepper tiny bites over the skin and feel him writhe beneath me.
“It can be,” he muttered, glancing at the painting like it had offended him. His knuckles turned white against his brush.
“Can?” I asked. “Meaning it isn’t now?”
Lucy twirled his brush handle between delicate fingers. “Not in the same way. I love painting. My omma always said it transported me into another world. Like I’d go away into space and appear in my body hours later.”
I frowned. “That’s not exactly what it’s looked like to me.”
No. It looked like Lucy wanted to glare a hole in the canvas. Or maybe to just melt into the floor and become invisible. Like he could burn the canvas to ashes by mere will.
“It wouldn’t.” Lucy sighed and dropped his paintbrush into a mason jar of murky water.
I glanced at the painting again, pivoting and stepping just a bit closer to Lucy to get a good look at the painting, as if I hadn’t been seeing it all week.
It was vibrant, yet murky, with brushstrokes like water across the canvas. There were splotches of darkness in it—water, maybe, or a boat—and sparks of lighter colors that suggested other shapes but that weren’t fully realized yet.
It was beautiful, even in its half-done form, but it felt wrong somehow.
Bubble gum pink didn’t suit Lucy. Maybe that was it.
I’d seen him all week in these white loose shirts that belonged in the Renaissance, with intricate sleeves and a hem tucked in at his narrow waist. He’d worn slacks most days, despite being in his studio—well, not his studio.
My bed stood in what had been his studio, the bedding more luxurious than I’d felt in the best three-star hotel I’d slept in.
But Lucy’s shoulders were tense, his arms and wrists locked where they braced a large wooden tray where he mixed his paint.
His forehead was tight, with hard lines across his pale skin.
“Care to elaborate?” I prodded, nudging his plate of veggies and dip closer to him.
Lucy frowned at it, then stepped forward and plucked up a carrot stick before lifting it to his lips and snapping it between his teeth.
“It’s just different,” is all Lucy said.
Silence settled between us. Uncomfortable. Heavy. Tense.
Lucy didn’t want to talk to me.
But why would he? I was just some common chef his dad had bought for him.
“Sure.” I felt my eyes roll at his silent dismissal as I turned on my heel and stalked out of the room.