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"He said that?" I ask, contemplating the fact that he hasn't attempted to contact me, even though I specifically told him not to, and have no legitimate reason to harbor resentment about it.

"Yes, then," I say hastily, because...

Well, I need the work. I'm going stir crazy without something to channel my energy into. It's hardly my fault Gianna's friend couldn't make it, and this is the next best alternative. I promised that one night was all it would be. He's honoring that.

I should be grateful.

Oh, the stories we tell ourselves.

"I'll arrange a car like last time," Gianna says.

"Thank you. Will they text me when they arrive? There's been some... stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Nothing crazy. Just people loitering, dealing, blasting music, intimidating passersby."

"Ah, I understand, that sort of trouble. Yes, they'll text. Thank you for being so accommodating."

I prepare my supplies, meticulously checking everything to ensure I'm ready for the painting session. Am I thrilled to be painting Nico despite my resolution to sever all connections with him?

Absolutely not.

Or perhaps that's a big fat lie.

I concentrate on the immediate task. Paint tubes are organized into a sealed tin, sorted by hue for easy access later. Brushes – immaculately clean and dry – slide into a canvas roll I secure tightly. Palette wrapped in wax paper, nestled flat between sketch pads. I pour a measured amount of solvent into a screw-top jar, double-checking the seal. Rags, pristine and precisely folded, go into a side pouch.

Anticipation ripples through me as I contemplate seeing Nico. My body still aches with the aftermath of our encounter.

My cell phone rings. A call, not a text. An attentive driver, evidently.

It's Nico. My breath catches. Catches what, exactly? A severe case ofholy heck, I can’t wait to see him again.

Attempting to regain composure, I answer, "Hi, Nico. I'm waiting for the driver."

"And he’s arrived."

"How would you know?"

I'm convinced I can detect his smirk through his tone. "Because I'm your chariot, Cinderella."

"You're giving me a ride?"

He hesitates. Perhaps he's contemplating my wording too, the implication of the word 'ride,' the tantalizing prospect of straddling his lap, feeling his desire pressing through his clothing, rather than traveling to his mother's home for a painting session.

"When Mother called and requested this, I figured I might as well commit completely. Is that a problem?"

I remember my promise. One night. That night is over, so now it’s time to be good.

"No. Why would it?"

He chuckles softly.

I carry my bag of art supplies over my shoulder, clutching my easel against my side. Nico approaches from the opposite end of the street. A group of men at the corner, perched on their car hood with music blaring, watch us as Nico advances toward me.

"Let me help," he says.

Dashing? Undoubtedly. Striking? Without question.