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He gives me a patronizing look, that makes me want to punch him again. “I know this doesn’t seem ideal, but you two need to learn how to get along.” When I open my mouth to retort, he tugs the tiniest amount on my hair. It doesn’t hurt, not at all. But it does work to shut me up. “Think about it, Honey. Without appearances to keep her in-check, Aspen would throw a righteous fit at seeing you. And you,” he smirks, “well, you’d eventually get fed up and probably throw a statue at her.”
“I would not,” I grumble.
He leans in closer. “I don’t believe you.”
“King, it’s not just her.” I try to get him to understand with my eyes, but his harden instead.
“If you’re about to tell me that you still love him, we’re going to have a problem.”
“Love him!?” I splutter, then swing out with my free hand, aiming for where I hope his nipple is. King doesn’t so much as grunt at the contact. “That’s not what… The jerk bought––”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt,” one of the husband’s, not the designer, appears in the hallway.
Oh, goodie.
Of course, King just grins. Pretending this isn’t a super awkward position to be caught in. “You know how it is.”
I swear the older man blushes as he chuckles. “It’s been a bit since the missus and I were newlyweds, but maybe that honeymoon ain’t such a bad idea.”
King finally releases my ponytail, smoothing his hand down the back of my head until it’s on my neck. “Not a bad idea at all.”
Accepting that as our cue to go, we move to the side of the hall and let the man pass, before heading back to the dining room.
I was trying to tell King about the painting, but now it seems like maybe the best course of action is denial. Pure, complete denial.
Love him?
What a ridiculous question.
But even so, why did the idea bother King so much?
Aspen shoots a glare our way as we enter, but I look away before I can be burned by it.
Sliding back into my seat, I focus my attention on slicing the now cold chicken into little bits.
“Brother?”
I glance up at Aspen’s question, to find King still standing. Standing in front of his chair, like he was about to sit. And he’s staring straight ahead, at the painting hanging on the opposite wall, right at his eye-level.
Oh, fuck me.
“That’s quite the work of art.”
At his comment, all eyes in the room turn to look. And my soul withers and dies.
I was so proud of that piece. I loved it so damn much.
But now… I don’t love it anymore. And it breaks my heart.
“Thank you,” Aspen’s tone is wary. “Leland bought me that for our anniversary last month. It’s what inspired the remodel.”
I dare a glance at King, but not a scrap of humor is visible. All that’s left is the terrifying coldness of a killer.
But maybe I’m the only one who notices it, because the rest of the table starts discussing the painting,my painting, paying King’s behavior no mind.
“Where is that husband of yours, anyway?” someone asks.
And my ears are ringing so loudly, I almost miss Aspen’s answer. “Oh, he’s out of town for work. Couldn’t drag him home if I tried.”